43
Three hours passed.
Three. Hours.
And there I was, parked on the couch like a forgotten knick-knack, plaid over my knees, with a movie on in the background that halfway through I could no longer remember if it was a thriller, a comedy, or a documentary about Montana beavers.
Meanwhile, from the next room, Bernie was producing a repertoire of nocturnal noises that ranged from “truck engine downshifting” to “stag in rut”—a symphony that would have made Beethoven blush.
Every now and then, I checked the clock above the fireplace, just to make sure the hands hadn’t stopped out of solidarity with my boredom.
Three hours since Tess had gone out with Ryder.
Three hours in which anything could have happened: a shotgun wedding in Vegas, a runaway escape to Mexico, or simply a two-thousand-dollar bill slapped onto our tab .
I was about to resign myself to a sleepless night when suddenly the door opened. Heels on parquet. The scent of expensive perfume. And there she was—my roommate—sweeping back in as though she’d just shot a lipstick commercial, ready to ruin the movie’s plot and, most likely, my digestion.
“What are you doing here?” I said. “I thought you’d be in bed with him.”
Tess slammed the door behind her like a gong strike and planted herself in front of me with the look of someone about to announce the end of the world. “Bea, you could never guess what happened to me tonight. Not in a million years. Not even if you sat here for a million years trying. Never.”
“He stuck you with the check?”
“I would’ve paid it gladly, trust me.”
“Mh-hm… well, are you going to tell me or do I need to hold a vigil till dawn?”
Naturally, Tess never got to the point. Never. First, she had to drag you onto a panoramic hot-air balloon ride, narration ticket included.
“So,” she began, “I arrived at the restaurant exactly forty-seven minutes late. Not forty-six, not forty-eight. Forty-seven. And at that instant, time stopped: forks suspended midair, waiters frozen, even a couple in mid-argument hit the pause button. I was Halley’s Comet, and Ryder was the farmer staring up at me through a pair of binoculars. ”
“That’s… your version of events, of course.”
“No, Bea. That’s the objective version of events. For a moment, I was no longer the Contessa’s favorite protégé—”
“You’re the one who says you’re the favorite.”
“For Christ’s sake, can you let me finish?”
“Fine, fine. Go on.”
“I wasn’t her exceptional pupil anymore.
I was the Contessa. élo?se de Saint-Rouge herself, in flesh, bone, and stilettos.
She must have possessed me, Bea, because I was simply flawless.
Actually—flawless is an understatement. I don’t want to disrespect anyone, least of all my dear mentor, but I think I may have surpassed her tonight.
And you know I never, ever use the word ‘surpassed’ lightly.
The shades I brought out… well… hey, why are you making that face? ”
“Not to disrespect anyone either,” I shot back, “but by now your dear mentor would be in the master bedroom, smoking a cigarette while Ryder sleeps peacefully on her chest.”
“Bea, I’m telling you… not in a million years would you guess.”
“Okay, okay. Go ahead, I won’t interrupt again.”
“At that table tonight, Ryder and I generated so much electricity I literally saw a waiter’s hair stand on end… I’ll keep going, Bea. I’ll keep going despite your facial expressions…”
“I can’t help it, sorry.”
“A lady at the next table had a fainting spell. And a boy a few tables over—sudden nosebleed.”
“Because of you?”
“Of course. There was too much sexual energy in the air. Those poor people only wanted a quiet dinner, and instead they found themselves teleported to Los Alamos during an atomic test. They should have piled sandbags around the tables and handed out hazmat suits. Because I was on fire, Bea. Absolutely on fire. I showed up at that dinner like a heavyweight world champion, I felt unstoppable. And I proved it. Oh, did I prove it. Every adjective, adverb, and predicate; every eyelash flicker, wrist bend, and lip curl would have made Casanova, Don Juan, and Rudolph Valentino drop their jaws in unison. At one point, a Ryder fan even came up to the table… and asked for a photo with me .”
“Somehow I still get the feeling things didn’t go quite according to plan…”
“Do you want to know why, Bea?”
“Please. Otherwise, I’ll have to write a novel longer than War and Peace just to tell this story.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Go on.”
“Are you ready? Really sure you can handle the blast?”
“Luckily, I’m already lying down.”
“So here’s what happened. At one point, when out of the corner of my eye I see the spirit of the Contessa floating away, leaving behind a faint trace of Chanel and whispering, ‘My work here is done.’ Just when I’m expecting Ryder to collapse to the mat and the referee to raise my arm as the undisputed champion…
that’s when he says to me: ‘Tell me something… what’s going on between you and that Bernie guy? ’ ”
My eyebrow climbed, slow and deliberate.
Tess shifted dramatically on the rug, all proud of her reconstruction.
“At first I didn’t think much of it. Actually, I told myself: perfect.
Exactly according to plan. Ryder’s jealous, he feels the competition.
Proof that I’m winning. So I keep it vague: I tell him Bernie’s a friend …
a word which, with the right tone, can open entire parallel universes of interpretation.
But he stays stone-faced. He stares at me for a few seconds, then looks left and right like a Cold War spy, lowers his head and…
in a conspiratorial whisper… asks: ‘Do you think he likes me?’ ”
My eyebrow arched so high it threatened to emigrate from my forehead.
“And I answer: Zane… my dear Zane… you’re a little too commercial for Bernie’s taste. He belongs to another school. The school of Lev Mirov. I know you long for that same vein of inspiration, but forgive me—we’re talking two very different leagues. ”
“He didn’t mean—” I tried to cut in, but Tess nodded with episcopal gravity.
“Ryder interrupts me, stares straight at me, and says: ‘Bernie’s gay, isn’t he?’ ”
“Oh. My. God.”
“Dun-dun-duuun!” Tess sang, waving her hands like a conductor leading an apocalyptic orchestra.
“Zane Ryder is gay ?!” I screamed so loudly that from the next room Bernie doubled the volume of his snoring, as if ordering me to shut up.
“Sssshhhh…” Tess raised a finger to her lips. “For God’s sake, don’t let anyone hear!”
“Zane Ryder is gay?!” I repeated, this time in full-on hysterical whisper mode.
Tess nodded with the solemnity of someone announcing the fall of the Roman Empire.
“But why confess it to you ? Isn’t he afraid you’ll go sell the story to the tabloids?”
Tess shook her head with a hieratic air. “He threatened me. With a smile, of course. In his usual adorable, gentle, charming way. But it was still a lawsuit threat.”
“But that doesn’t matter, Bea…” she added, in her most solemn tone.
“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?! It can’t end like this! Not after all this build-up! It’s like writing three hundred pages of sexual tension and then closing with a postcard of the sunset!”
“Nothing is lost, Bea… nothing at all. On the co ntrary.” Tess raised one finger like Moses about to part the Red Sea. “This twist might actually play in my favor.”
“And that means…?” I asked, already knowing I was going to regret it.
“Don’t you remember my original plan?”
“To make Chad jealous?”
“Exactly! And how?” She stared at me as if the answer was tattooed on my forehead.
“By getting photographed with Ryder.”
“Bingo.” Tess clapped her hands once, a sharp crack like the starting gun at the Olympics.
“The main objective was never to get Ryder. Do I look like I want to date a singer who wears more makeup than me? I’ve said it a thousand times: I never actually liked Ryder.
The real goal has always been one and only one: to get photographed with him. ”
“Except that, to get photographed with Ryder, first you need Ryder to fall for you.”
“Not necessarily, Bea. Not necessarily.” Her eyes sparkled as if she’d just found a diamond in a bag of potato chips. “Because I already have the perfect plan to make it work.”