Читать книгу Drowning in the Shallows - Dan Kaufman - Страница 7

5

It’s past 6:30pm, I’m running late, and yet I still tuck into the pub near the cinema to grab a pre-humiliation beer and check on my appearance.

I’m wearing my suit jacket, the one Tori picked out for me in an op shop because she thought I needed something decent, and as I stare at myself in the grime-ridden pub mirror I rumple my hair artistically, straighten my glasses, wipe my brow and take a deep breath.

My heart’s pounding.

It’s not that I want to see Tori, or that I want to get her back, but if you do happen to bump into your ex then … well, you know the score. You want to look smokin’. You want to look better than they remember, you want to take them by surprise, because the petty part of you wants them to doubt themselves, to wonder if they made a mistake … perhaps even ask you back, pleadingly, with tears in their eyes …

Ok, maybe that’s overdoing it. But any regret on Tori’s part, however slight, would be nice …

I force myself away from the mirror.

Is it possible Tori left me because she thought I was vain? I did notice the judgemental look in her eyes whenever she caught me looking in the mirror, or taking too long in the bathroom; I always imagined her bitching to her friends, saying, “He spends more time in there than I do …”

Who knows all the mistakes I may have made?

I do realise my vanity isn’t a good quality, same as I realise I’m making a mistake in going to the film premiere now, same as I realise that even though I don’t want to see Tori I … well, that I kinda do. I haven’t seen her since she dumped me, and it doesn’t feel over for me. I didn’t argue, I didn’t scream, I didn’t give her a piece of my mind. I just left and bought chicken.

The movie’s already started by the time I arrive, which makes the usher cranky. He takes me to the theatrette but, instead of leading me to an empty seat inside, he just shuts the door behind me.

The room’s pitch black, and as my eyes adjust I can see every seat’s taken – except one right down the front. I head down and inch into the aisle, whispering apologies, until I come across a man who won’t budge his legs to let me through.

“Sorry,” I whisper, trying to move forward only to bump into his legs again.

“Sorry,” I whisper again.

I look at the man’s face bathed in the cinema light and realise he’s … well, let’s just say he’s a well-known TV presenter, a man who always acts gentle and benign on screen: and yet whose face is now screwed up in anger – far more anger than any normal person should show in this situation.

“Who do you think you are?” he hisses. “Why can’t you arrive on time like everyone else?”

He’s still refusing to let me through, but by now I’m panicked and can’t go back. I clamber over his legs as he hisses in a way that would frighten even my cat, and I plunk myself down in the seat next to him.

He mutters something I will not repeat here and, mortified, I force myself to ignore him and fixate on the screen, where a larger-than-life version of my ex is fondling a bare-chested handsome hunk with a hard six-pack.

I put one hand over my soft belly, which has never seen a sit-up in its adult life, and consider putting my other hand over my eyes.

◆

The movie was awful.

I mean … holy shit.

The after-party’s crowded with people drinking fake champagne, no doubt to repress the past two hours, and as I queue for a glass I see the movie poster featuring Tori behind the drinks table.

She looks so damn innocent in it, so bloody sweet.

My mind’s sluggishly trying to process everything: that I used to date this girl dominating the wall, that I lost her, that …

Someone taps me on the shoulder, some guy who used to work with Tori at a café I no longer go to.

“It’s a great picture of her, isn’t it?” he says, a goofy expression on his face and a beer in his hand.

“Yeah,” I say.

“She’s like a young Brigitte Bardot, isn’t she? That’s what everyone’s sayin’. They reckon she’ll make it big – and to think I used to work with her.”

“I guess,” I say. “You know she broke up with me, right?”

“Oh!” he says, backing off as if I’m contagious. “Oh, man, no, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“That’s ok.”

I’m such a loser.

“So … you going well?” I ask.

“Yeah …” he says, still backing away. “Well, it’s good to see you.”

He stumbles off.

As I walk around the room it strikes me how almost everyone here is attractive, even for a Sydney party. They’re all striking, interesting, sexy (or at least a facsimile of sexy) and … well, I don’t belong with them. I don’t belong in my job, I don’t belong in Sydney, and I guess I never belonged with Tori. I mean, I look like a Muppet – a midget Muppet – in a city filled with big meat-eating men.

No wonder Tori broke up with me and my soft belly.

It was a huge mistake for me to come here.

Huge.

I head straight for the door and see another of Tori’s friends, who waves at me.

Fuck, even seeing someone associated with her gives me a jolt, what was I thinking coming here? I nod my head quickly without pausing my flight for the safety of the outside world.

Smokers cluster on the footpath outside, mobiles and cigarettes waving in the air to highlight conversational points, and I only manage to take a few steps when a peroxide blonde loudly calls my name. She looks familiar but I can’t place her, and as she puts her arms around me it clicks:

Fuck.

She’s Tori’s new best friend.

She’s the one Tori befriended three months before dumping me, she’s the one who told Tori one month before the break-up that she’d never date a guy who earned less than her. I still vividly recall how Tori earnestly relayed this weighty philosophical nugget to me, right after I’d been made redundant as the travel editor of a certain glossy magazine.

It’s hard not to make a connection.

When Jezebel un-suctions her tentacles off me I look beside her and there, sure enough, cigarette in her fingers, mobile in her other hand, is Tori the Movie Star. Before I can stop it happening she embraces me, her lips on my cheek, hand on my back. I want to throw her off, to get her and her scent far away from me.

She looks at me uncertainly.

“How are you?” Jezebel asks, as if speaking on Tori’s behalf.

I try to speak, but words won’t form on my lips.

“Wasn’t the movie fantastic?” Jezebel continues blithely, her voice squeaking with fake excitement. “Tori’s going to be a star. We’re going back inside – why don’t you join us? You should join us!”

Sure, and then I can take a razor to my testicles afterwards.

Tori nods her head like this is a good idea.

I suddenly feel like bawling.

I search her eyes in the hope of finding something, some clue, but my deductions fall short. All I can make out is what I don’t see, namely any regret, remorse or longing. I could be an old high school boyfriend she’d almost forgotten about, rather than someone she recently shared a bed and cat with.

I don’t want to make a scene, I just want to leave, and … I wish I could explain this better, but then the words come to my lips – the wrong words. They tumble and fall, soiling me, as I find myself possessed, telling them how attractive they look, how great the movie is, how talented Tori is (why am I complimenting her?) – all the while speaking at a hundred miles an hour, and then I say I can’t go in because I have some gutters to crawl through, I don’t know why I say this, am I after their pity? And if so, how sad is that! What’s wrong with me?

I rattle off how lovely it is to see them but that I’ve got to go, and I spot one of Tori’s muscle-bound co-stars in the background, dragging his knuckles on the ground as he lumbers up to us, and I race off without looking back.