Air Kisses (14 page)

Chapter Sixteen

‘Can you
believe
she was behind the whole thing? You brunette bitches sure do pull some nasty-ass tricks out of your devil’s weave.’

Dan was whispering into my left ear as we watched the plotline of
Black Dahlia
unfurl at an outdoor cinema. We were lying side by side under a clear, twinkling night sky, our glasses of champagne precariously lodged between dip containers at our feet, and our legs and arms wrapped around each other, the way lovers entwine even though they’re fiercely uncomfortable.

‘Don’t hate us because we’re pretty and clever and murderous,’ I whispered back.

‘Oh, I don’t hate you for it, sugar,’ he said, in a sleazy mobster voice, and started kissing my neck in a way that was appreciated by me, but probably not by the hundred or so people lying on the grass around us.

‘Stop it…DAN!
Stop it!
You’re being inappropriate… Dan, I said…I said…’ But his kisses made me melt. I took a deep breath in an attempt to keep control of where my mind and body were heading. He was always throwing curveballs, catching me off guard with a cheeky bum grab there, or a full-out neck lick here.

‘Let’s go, baby,’ he said in his new favourite accent. ‘Youw house, my house, the goddamn moon for all I care.’

‘We can’t just walk out mid-film; we’re lying on the grass…in front of lots of people who probably don’t want us moving about and cleaning up plates and rugs and—’

‘So we’ll leave it. I don’t want any of this stuff – do you? It’s all going in the bin anyway. Who cares about an old rug? Come on, sweet’art, waddya say? Let’s you and me live a little, huh?’

‘We can’t—’

‘Can’t is the town next to Cannes and nothin’ more. Stop your fussin’ and let’s go already.’

I couldn’t help laughing at his accent, and, taking that as a yes, he jumped up, grabbed my hand and darted to the left of the amphitheatre. I was stumbling behind him, whisper-screaming, ‘We can’t just do this, Dan! That’s littering! And I, I left my bottle-opener!’

We reached the gate and kept running, him tugging my hand, me laughing and trying to catch my breath.

‘You’re insane!’ I said, once we were far enough away.

He leant against a street pole and pulled me in for a kiss.
After we’d finished, he said, ‘That makes
you
a sucker, then, doesn’t it? Falling for the mentally unfit?’

I went to slap him but he ducked and belted off for his car, whooping and hollering like a schoolboy. Every now and then he’d leap onto a fence or wall and look back at me with a freakish Jim Carrey-like expression on his face. I had to stop and bend over I was laughing so much. I seriously couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so much fun with a guy.

When I finally reached the car, where he was propped against it smoking a fake cigar, looking me up and down like I were a hooker for sale, I crossed my arms and smiled.

‘You’re quite the piece of work, aren’t you, Daniel?’

‘That I am, Miss Atkins, that I am. And for the low, low price of a dollar ninety-free I can be all yours…’

My smile faded as I realised that, even if I wanted him to be, he wouldn’t be mine, because he was leaving in a few days.

‘Miss Atkins, what’s wrang? I’ve seen happier faces on death row.’

‘Nothing, nothing, I’m fine.’ I offered a weak smile and walked over to the passenger door.

He came over, swooped me up and sat me on the bonnet, so that I was looking directly into his eyes. I wondered if I had garlic breath from the hummus.

‘Don’t you go getting all serious on me now, Han. You know the rule: serious people have to eat dirt.’

‘I’m not. Promise.’ I kissed him to prove it. But, truth be told, I was. Of course I was. How could this man, the first man I’d actually felt something for since Jesse, be leaving! It was unfair and I hated it. I’d been on Iz’s back about Project Mansion in the vain hope we could move to LA, or at least
somewhere near there to be closer to Dan, but as her business and her relationship with Kyle were both going along so swimmingly she wasn’t so keen any more. Dammit.

‘What did we say about this?’ he said, brows raised.

‘That this was only an’ – he chorused in – ‘
entrée
; we’ve still got main and dessert to go.’ This was how we were getting around the ugly idea of him going back to LA. We were treating these two weeks as merely the start of a great meal.

Whether he was stringing me along with this line, I couldn’t be sure. It frustrated me that he never took off his jester’s hat. More worrying still was that I was looking at a relationship that was utterly Geographically Impossible. And I knew that a high GI relationship never, ever worked.

My feelings were too intense for a ‘fling’. This wasn’t my rebound; poor, sweet Trucker held that foul honour. I cursed myself for breaking all my rules at the start of this thing. This was what Iz didn’t understand: my rules existed for precisely this reason! You played hardball at first so you could figure out if they were worth your affections, so you
didn’t
become their emotional puppet, they
couldn’t
pull the heartstrings when they felt like it, and, most fricken importantly, you
didn’t – get – hurt!

Which was bound to happen. Because, if I was honest with myself – painfully, brutally honest – I was pretty sure I was falling for Dan. Only he was still perfectly balanced, and holding all the cards.

Chapter Seventeen

Today was going to be vile, I could smell it in the air.

I screamed into the Beckert foyer ten minutes late for the Monday morning production meeting. I was late because Dan was leaving this morning, and so he’d stayed over, and we hadn’t got to sleep till late, and then I’d pressed snooze a record six times. I was awful when I was late. I got cranky, and slammed things, and swore about everything, because when I was all rushed and really needed everything to work for me (clothes, cabs, cash) nothing did.

I was feeling very gloomy about Dan leaving. I tried not to think of the possibility that he would now be my benchmark for guys. Surely there were no boys as sharp and sexy as he in
this city. I resolved that, as per my rules, I wouldn’t contact him first; he could contact me, and I would take my cue from that. I was damned if I would be the lovesick loser left behind.

My ludicrous walking pace meant my coffee was frothing dangerously as I stepped into the lift. I began my usual intense scrutiny of the floor-numbers lighting up. At the seventh floor, I looked down to see that my coffee had started dribbling like a teething toddler onto my muted-mint frock. Then, in some sick choreography, my handbag handle slid…clicked…then snapped. There was a thud, and then there were lip glosses and coins and eyeshadow brushes and crusty cardboard nail files and empty chewing-gum packets and tampons,
of course
tampons, everywhere.

I scurried awkwardly to collect the hairy bobby pins and a half-eaten muesli bar that were wedged between the Italian loafers of two Important Men. I was jamming everything back into my bag with one hand, while holding my coffee with another. No one offered to hold it, or help.

When we finally reached the eighteenth floor, staggering while trying to carry everything – including a bag that was now on death row – I lost it and started swearing to myself. It was all too stereotypical cheesy Magazine Job Movie starring someone way too gorgeous and together for it ever to be very believable. If I were in that film, I’d be the mail girl.

Once I got to my desk, I dumped everything on it and started wiping my dress using a tissue dunked into my drinking water. I had my cranky pants on, and ooh-wee did they fit snugly.

Once settled, drinking what was left of my coffee, I turned my PC on. Immediately my Outlook chirped at me
cheerfully about a 10 a.m. presentation with Annick Taylor, an upmarket make-up-artistry brand that felt it entirely appropriate to charge 100-dollars-plus for foundation.

I swivelled my head with neck-crunching velocity to face the whiteboard. There was nothing written for today except an interview with a make-up artist who had apparently worked with Victoria Beckham. I couldn’t wait to ask which fake tan Posh bathed in daily.

But there was no Annick Taylor presentation. Nor was there an appointment to hotwire a car, which sat right next to Presenting to a Boardroom Full of People on my scale of expertise.

I exhaled and dialled Marley.

‘Marley, do I have to be at this Annick thing at ten?’

‘Of course. Is there a problem?’

‘Aside from the fact you know I’ve never done this before, and that I would rather drink my own vomit? No. Everything’s fine.’

‘Relaaaax, you’ll only have to speak for five minutes. If that. And you’re only speaking about your job, which I presume you know a little about?’

‘Please don’t make me do this.’ Jay was signalling I had to get my arse into the production meeting. ‘Oh, I’ve gotta go. See you at ten.’

‘You’ll be fine. And if you’re not we’ll laugh about it later. Kidding.’ Click.

I put down the phone and turned my attention to Jay, who stood by my desk with a mischievous glint in her eye.

‘How’s my little lovebird?’ she said, grinning. ‘Still high on Dancaine? Has he proposed yet? Decided to move here for good?’

‘No, no, no.’ I blushed. ‘Oh, Jay, it sucks so bad. He’s leaving this morning…’

‘Ohhhh, honey, I’m sorry. God, that came around quick. How about we have dinner tomorrow night, and you can tell me how mind-blowing the sex was, and then we’ll drink your blues away?’

‘I think I have a launch, but definitely after?’

‘Perfect. There’s new Japanese place I want to try in Barker Street.’ She pirouetted and pranced back to her desk.

Kate walked past and did the neck-chopping thing to indicate the meeting was off. ‘Karen’s too busy with finals. It’ll be later.’

Thank God.

Now I just had to work out how to impress a boardroom full of steely-eyed cosmetic people. It would be worse than a wisdom-tooth extraction, eating raw liver and nibbling my father’s toenails all at once. You had to excel in these situations, to be memorable to the clients, and thus end up scoring the biggest piece of their budget. My hair was being very ‘memorable’. I had lied to myself this morning that my hair wasn’t oily. But now my lie had betrayed me, and, just like an old rock star about to go on
60 Minutes
, it wouldn’t be styled. I teased it angrily then shoved it up into a quiff and ponytail. That would have to do.

I noticed that the coffee mark on my dress had barely shifted despite my scrubbing, and also that my red nail polish was chipped.

What a picture of good grooming I was.

I sat down to write some speech cards, and felt a princess tear starting to well. Princess tears are those you know you shouldn’t be shedding, because you’re all grown up and you don’t cry over insignificant, unchangeable or frustrating things any more. But I had a right to be petulant: I hadn’t
signed up for public speaking, I’d signed up for sitting at a desk and trying on lip gloss.

Ten o’clock came. I applied some gloss and walked to the Beckert boardroom. My gut was swarming with agitated moths. Butterflies could never be so wicked.

‘Hi, Hannah from
Gloss
. Nice to meet you.’

‘Hi, Hannah from
Gloss
. Nice to meet you.’

‘Hi, Hannah from
Gloss
. Nice to meet you.’

Small talk before presentations? That I could do. Weather, outfits, striking accessories, upcoming holidays; I knew the score and sang it well.

As we sat down – the Annick people in their suits and sensible flats, and us in our trendy dresses and heels – I noticed a sheet of paper highlighting the running order of the day. This served as a tender reminder that there were twelve other beauty editors from Beckert who were way,
way
better at talking in front of a live audience than me, and that I was pretty much going to choke.

I wondered how Fiona went in these things. And Yasmin – could Yasmin really not swear for a whole fifteen minutes?

‘…And now it’s over to our wonderful beauty editor, Hannah, who’ll fill you in on what
Gloss
’s beauty pages are all about. Hannah?’

Oh shit. My mouth was so dry. My hands were shaking. Shit, shit, shit. I smiled and looked around the table.

‘Um, thanks, Marley. Hi everyone. I’m Hannah.’ Insert lame wave. Cue polite chuckles.

‘Um, well, as you know,
Gloss
has over fifteen pages of beauty every month, and they’re just loaded with great products, because the
Gloss
reader only wants to know about great products. She can’t get enough of beauty. It’s like her
daily hit of caffeine. And she loves Annick Taylor – that’s exactly the kind of product she wants to read about. And see, you know, because they’re such lovely products, and they shoot so well, and, you know…’

A lady with brown hair pulled back tight and frameless glasses suddenly interrupted. Her voice was faux-friendly and her smile stopped at her mouth.

‘Hannah, we had our team do a quick tally before we came over here today, and it seems that we aren’t getting nearly as much editorial as Blush or Carmen Jo cosmetics.’

Oh. My. God.

‘Is there any reason why? I mean, is there anything more we can do to help you, Hannah?’

There was no correct answer. In fact, there was no answer at all as far as I was concerned. I looked to Marley for help. She opened her eyes wide, as if to say,
Go on, tell her, but do it in a way that will not jeopardise my ad spend.

I cleared my throat.

‘Um, well, there’s no, you know, reason. I mean, it’s probably just that those, uh, those particular stories, um, lent themselves, product-wise, to, um…’

‘What Hannah is trying to say,’ swooped in Marley, ‘is that it’s a very noisy market out there, and it’s hard to please everyone, but Hannah does her best, and as long as she’s kept abreast of all your launches… Hannah, is that ever a problem, is the PR always on top of everything?’

Ooh, she was good. Flipping it back onto them.

‘She’s great – oh, except last month I didn’t actually receive your 24-hour Fresh Foundation until I had already shot my stills, but I understand that was an international issue…’

‘Is that so? We weren’t aware of that.’ Glasses wrote something down.

Great. Now I’d got the poor PR fired. Jesus.

Time to grovel.

‘Did you catch your bronzer in the current make-up feature?’

I pushed the magazine open to a page featuring their SunKiss bronzer. Thank
God
I’d featured it. Glasses perused the page then turned it. Tough crowd.

‘Mm, it came up really well, looks great, such a fine texture, really nice stuff, staff are raving about it, It’s just lovely…’ I waffled on with what I hoped passed as conviction.

‘Going forward, Hannah is going to be doing some amazing things in the next issue. In fact, there’s an eye-make-up master class that you guys will simply
love
…’

As Marley tried to smooth the whole situation over, I attempted to relax. That had been full on. There was no way I could’ve prepared for that. Glasses was basically questioning my editorial right to choose the products I wanted to feature.

Suddenly, Marley threw back to me so I could continue my spiel. My mind was blank. I had completely forgotten what I did for a job.

‘Hannah, why don’t you tell us all about your role in relation to the reader?’

Jesus, now Marley was feeding me my lines.

‘I guess you could say I’m a kind of big sister to the reader. Or her best friend. But, like, a best friend with the most awesome cabinet full of cosmetics you’ve ever seen. And so I talk her through what’s the best, and why she should buy it. And she listens to me, because I am trying and testing
everything there is, so obviously I know what’s worth buying. And also because I speak to her as you speak to your friends. Without all the flowery waffle you see in other beauty pages.’

Oh, dissing the opposition. Nice one.

‘And, like the reader, I still get excited about beauty products, and want to be completely in the know about what’s hot. Because that’s her social currency. Knowing what’s hot. Just like me. I guess you could just say I’m obsessed with booty! I mean beauty. Beauty. I’m obsessed with beauty.’

It was an out-of-body experience. I felt like a stand-up comedian after his jokes had fallen flat, that at any moment someone would start heckling about how I should go back to funny school. I hoped this presentational train wreck would at least mean I would never be asked to speak again.

‘And, uh, what do you have coming up for next issue’s beauty pages, Hannah?’ Marley was now glaring at me.

‘Well, as we’re going into the colder months there’ll be a big focus on skin, but also on hair and make-up, too. Because we’ve realised that when it’s colder, girls are willing to experiment more with make-up. Maybe it’s because they’re all covered up and all that’s left to project their image is their face.’

Now I was just making shit up.

The MD was checking his BlackBerry. The Women’s Titles Advertising Director, Pauline Erica, who I’d thus far avoided meeting, was wearing an expression that was both terrifying and terrified.

She perversely kept nodding, I could only assume in agreement with how fired my arse was.

I have no idea. I have no idea. I have no idea.
Despite what was coming out of my mouth, this was what I was saying: I have an absolute dearth of knowledge. Spend with
another magazine, because at this rate I am more likely to be feeding pigeons in a park than writing intelligently about your products.

Marley finally realised that I was going to be as helpful as a poisonous jellyfish, and moved on to talk about tailored sponsorship opportunities. I fixed my hair and twiddled my thumbs and tried not to think about the appalling show I had just put on.

‘Thanks so much for your time, and, please, enjoy your
Gloss
hampers. Especially the pink-lemonade cupcakes – they were baked fresh today.’

I could not get out of there fast enough. A few nods and lovely-to-meet-yous and I pulled a sports guy that I knew Marley would go off her nut over later. Right now, I didn’t care. I went back to my desk, sat down, and told myself to take a few deep breaths to cleanse that awful memory from my mind forever.