Rachel's Holiday
Page 62
Then another part of me screamed No, wait a minute, he rejected me.
It was the Thursday night after our party and Brigit and I were as bad-tempered as a sackful of weasels.
I’d had a heavy session the night before and the comedown had been particularly severe because I was out of Valium to take the edge off it. And I hadn’t any money to restock until I got paid. I’d felt so depressed all day that I hadn’t been able to go to work. Lisdessly lying on the couch, vaguely in the horrors, feeling the slowness of my heart beating, wishing I had the energy to open my veins, was all I’d been able for.
Carlos had done another disappearing act on Brigit after he had somehow sussed at the party that Brigit had had carnal knowledge of Joey. (It might have had something to do with Gaz coming up to her with tearful respect, and saying in Carlos’s earshot ‘Jays, you’re some woman, Joey says you gave him the best blow-job of his life.’)
Brigit was distraught and I wasn’t much better. Darren or Daryl the publishing mogul, best friend of Jay Mclnerney, hadn’t rung me.
‘If I only knew where he was,’ Brigit whispered in agony. ‘If I just knew that he wasn’t with someone else I might at least get some sleep. I haven’t slept in three nights, you know.’
I made soothing noises along the lines of ‘You’re far too good for that despicable little gouger.’
‘Would you ring him,’ begged Brigit. ‘Please, just ring him and see if he answers, then quickly hang up.’
‘But how will I know? Him and his friends all sound exactly the same to me.’
‘OK, OK,’ she said, pacing up and down, breathing deeply. ‘Ask to speak to him and if it’s him, hang up.’
‘But he’ll recognize my voice.’
‘Disguise it, put on a Russian accent, breathe some helium or something. And if it’s not him, but they say he’s there, just hang up as well.’
So I rang, but all I got was the answering machine and its awful samba music.
‘Oh Jesus.’ She had her fingers in her mouth as she destroyed her good new nylon nails.’ He’s only doing this to punish me, you know.’
I suspected that Carlos wasn’t really put out by Brigit sleeping with Joey, but had just been looking for an excuse to ditch her yet again. But I murmured ‘Louser’ to let her know she had my support.
‘And it’s not like he hasn’t shagged other people,’ she anguished.
‘And pig-face Daryl hasn’t rung me either,’ I said, keen not to be outdone. ‘Please God, if you make him ring I’ll give all my money to the poor.’
I always said that because it was safe; I was the poor, so all I had to do was keep the few bob that I had and I was still keeping my bargain with God.
On into the night we fretted, doing all the usual things. Picking up the receiver to make sure the phone was working, ringing Ed and getting him to ring us back just to make sure we could get incoming calls, saying ‘I’m going to split this pack of cards and if the first one I see is a King, he’ll ring.’ (It was a seven.) Then saying ‘Best out of three, if the next one I pick is a King, he’ll ring.’ (It was another seven.) Then saying ‘OK, best out of five, if…’
‘SHUT UP !’ Brigit shouted.
‘Sorry’.’
Finally Brigit put her finger to her lips and said ‘Ssshhh, listen.’
‘What?’ I choked excitedly.
‘Can’t you hear it?’
‘Hear what?’
‘The sound of the phone not ringing.’ Then, to my surprise, she laughed, as if a cloud had just lifted from her.
‘Come on.’ She grinned. ‘I can’t bear it, this fecking vigil, let’s do something nice instead.’
The terrible depression that I’d been suffocating under all day stirred slightly.
‘Let’s get dressed up,’ I said eagerly. ‘Let’s go out.’ I hated being at home in the evening because of what I might be missing. That was the great thing about coke. Something glamorous always happened when you took some. You either met a man or went to someone’s party or something. Coke kickstarted my life. And the more I took, the more exciting the results.
‘You’re broke,’ Brigit reminded me.
She was right, I realized in disappointment. No chance of being able to afford to buy drugs that evening. I thought briefly about asking Brigit if I could borrow some more money from her, then thought again.
‘I’ve enough for a drink and a tip,’ I said instead.
‘When are you going to pay back that money you owe me?’
‘Soon,’ I said uncomfortably. Brigit had become strangely stingy of late.
‘That’s what you keep saying,’ she muttered.
‘Oh, please,’ I begged, ‘stop being such a miserable killjoy and let’s go out. I’ve had enough for one week of playing “Let’s pretend I’ve just met the man for me”.’ Usually when Brigit and I were poor and needed entertaining, she detailed a fantasy in which I met the man of my dreams, then I’d do the same for her. It was a game we rarely tired of.
‘What am I wearing?’ I’d ask.
‘That Donna Karan wrap-around dress that we saw.’
‘What colour, black?’
‘Dark green.’
‘Even better. Thank you, Brigit. Can I be really skinny?’
‘Oh, yes. Eight and a half stone do you?’
‘A bit lighter.’
‘Eight?’
‘Thanks,’ I’d say. ‘And how? Liposuction?’
‘No,’ she’d say. ‘You’ve had amoebic dysentery and the fat just fell off you without you having to do anything.’
‘But how did I get amoebic dysentery? Isn’t it an exotic kind of disease? You can’t get that over the counter.’
‘OK, you met this man who’d been on holiday in India… but, look it doesn’t matter how you caught it! This is a fantasy.’
‘OK, sorry. Do I look fragile and big-eyed and mysterious?’
‘Like a well-dressed gazelle.’
To counteract our low self-esteem, we both wore our good dresses. Brigit’s Joseph shift that she’d got in the thrift shop on Fifth Avenue that nice, rich people gave their old clothes to. And I wore my short, black Alaia dress, that came from the same thrift shop. Plus my fake Prada bag that I’d got in Canal Street for ten dollars.
It was the Thursday night after our party and Brigit and I were as bad-tempered as a sackful of weasels.
I’d had a heavy session the night before and the comedown had been particularly severe because I was out of Valium to take the edge off it. And I hadn’t any money to restock until I got paid. I’d felt so depressed all day that I hadn’t been able to go to work. Lisdessly lying on the couch, vaguely in the horrors, feeling the slowness of my heart beating, wishing I had the energy to open my veins, was all I’d been able for.
Carlos had done another disappearing act on Brigit after he had somehow sussed at the party that Brigit had had carnal knowledge of Joey. (It might have had something to do with Gaz coming up to her with tearful respect, and saying in Carlos’s earshot ‘Jays, you’re some woman, Joey says you gave him the best blow-job of his life.’)
Brigit was distraught and I wasn’t much better. Darren or Daryl the publishing mogul, best friend of Jay Mclnerney, hadn’t rung me.
‘If I only knew where he was,’ Brigit whispered in agony. ‘If I just knew that he wasn’t with someone else I might at least get some sleep. I haven’t slept in three nights, you know.’
I made soothing noises along the lines of ‘You’re far too good for that despicable little gouger.’
‘Would you ring him,’ begged Brigit. ‘Please, just ring him and see if he answers, then quickly hang up.’
‘But how will I know? Him and his friends all sound exactly the same to me.’
‘OK, OK,’ she said, pacing up and down, breathing deeply. ‘Ask to speak to him and if it’s him, hang up.’
‘But he’ll recognize my voice.’
‘Disguise it, put on a Russian accent, breathe some helium or something. And if it’s not him, but they say he’s there, just hang up as well.’
So I rang, but all I got was the answering machine and its awful samba music.
‘Oh Jesus.’ She had her fingers in her mouth as she destroyed her good new nylon nails.’ He’s only doing this to punish me, you know.’
I suspected that Carlos wasn’t really put out by Brigit sleeping with Joey, but had just been looking for an excuse to ditch her yet again. But I murmured ‘Louser’ to let her know she had my support.
‘And it’s not like he hasn’t shagged other people,’ she anguished.
‘And pig-face Daryl hasn’t rung me either,’ I said, keen not to be outdone. ‘Please God, if you make him ring I’ll give all my money to the poor.’
I always said that because it was safe; I was the poor, so all I had to do was keep the few bob that I had and I was still keeping my bargain with God.
On into the night we fretted, doing all the usual things. Picking up the receiver to make sure the phone was working, ringing Ed and getting him to ring us back just to make sure we could get incoming calls, saying ‘I’m going to split this pack of cards and if the first one I see is a King, he’ll ring.’ (It was a seven.) Then saying ‘Best out of three, if the next one I pick is a King, he’ll ring.’ (It was another seven.) Then saying ‘OK, best out of five, if…’
‘SHUT UP !’ Brigit shouted.
‘Sorry’.’
Finally Brigit put her finger to her lips and said ‘Ssshhh, listen.’
‘What?’ I choked excitedly.
‘Can’t you hear it?’
‘Hear what?’
‘The sound of the phone not ringing.’ Then, to my surprise, she laughed, as if a cloud had just lifted from her.
‘Come on.’ She grinned. ‘I can’t bear it, this fecking vigil, let’s do something nice instead.’
The terrible depression that I’d been suffocating under all day stirred slightly.
‘Let’s get dressed up,’ I said eagerly. ‘Let’s go out.’ I hated being at home in the evening because of what I might be missing. That was the great thing about coke. Something glamorous always happened when you took some. You either met a man or went to someone’s party or something. Coke kickstarted my life. And the more I took, the more exciting the results.
‘You’re broke,’ Brigit reminded me.
She was right, I realized in disappointment. No chance of being able to afford to buy drugs that evening. I thought briefly about asking Brigit if I could borrow some more money from her, then thought again.
‘I’ve enough for a drink and a tip,’ I said instead.
‘When are you going to pay back that money you owe me?’
‘Soon,’ I said uncomfortably. Brigit had become strangely stingy of late.
‘That’s what you keep saying,’ she muttered.
‘Oh, please,’ I begged, ‘stop being such a miserable killjoy and let’s go out. I’ve had enough for one week of playing “Let’s pretend I’ve just met the man for me”.’ Usually when Brigit and I were poor and needed entertaining, she detailed a fantasy in which I met the man of my dreams, then I’d do the same for her. It was a game we rarely tired of.
‘What am I wearing?’ I’d ask.
‘That Donna Karan wrap-around dress that we saw.’
‘What colour, black?’
‘Dark green.’
‘Even better. Thank you, Brigit. Can I be really skinny?’
‘Oh, yes. Eight and a half stone do you?’
‘A bit lighter.’
‘Eight?’
‘Thanks,’ I’d say. ‘And how? Liposuction?’
‘No,’ she’d say. ‘You’ve had amoebic dysentery and the fat just fell off you without you having to do anything.’
‘But how did I get amoebic dysentery? Isn’t it an exotic kind of disease? You can’t get that over the counter.’
‘OK, you met this man who’d been on holiday in India… but, look it doesn’t matter how you caught it! This is a fantasy.’
‘OK, sorry. Do I look fragile and big-eyed and mysterious?’
‘Like a well-dressed gazelle.’
To counteract our low self-esteem, we both wore our good dresses. Brigit’s Joseph shift that she’d got in the thrift shop on Fifth Avenue that nice, rich people gave their old clothes to. And I wore my short, black Alaia dress, that came from the same thrift shop. Plus my fake Prada bag that I’d got in Canal Street for ten dollars.
