Easy to Like (20 page)

Making their way to his bed, shirts
were shed. It seemed imperative to Hazel that they be stripped naked, and once
they were on the sheets she slid her whole length over him, getting an urgent
fix of skin to skin, as much as she could at once. With her crooked arthritic
claws she hauled on his cock as if it were a rope.

She was full to bursting with desire.
This Elliot knew because Hazel said so. She was the most garrulous lover he
would ever know, only ceasing her shameless talk if her mouth was full of him.

“I soooo need a good fucking, Elliot,”
she said. She shoved his shoulders flat to mattress and climbed atop.

Not only did she demand her needs, she
narrated the act. “Now you've got your fucking cock right fucking inside me,
Elliot, now you're driving it. Hah, now you've got your hands on me, don't
you!”

This let Elliot take his pleasure
twice, having it and hearing it again. They were commands and congratulations at
once.

Her voice grew hoarser and more
tremulous as she drew closer and closer to coming. The language fell apart —
first into strands of words: “this like this, to me, yes, here in me here,” and
then to guttural dissociated animal sounds: “tumtum,” she said, and
“wasssawass,” then
grrrrs
and grunts and purrs
leading up to a swallowed scream that took all her air and dropped her, limp,
onto his chest. The cry finished him; he could wait no longer, and the rope went
over the side, racing over the gunnels as the anchor sank back to the bottom of
the sea.

She rested for no more than three
minutes and then began to vibrate like a motor. She pawed at him for more, but
he wasn't capable. She crawled off and walked to the kitchen, giving him a show
of exquisite ass on the way. He could hear the cupboards opening. She came back
with a teacup full to the brim with Cognac; with her mouth half full of it, she
kissed him. She pulled his hair and said, “You fuck me again.” That was enough
to bring Elliot around.

And once more after that, after which
she seemed to go into a faint and then a half-sleep of content and satiation.
She murmured and whispered, nothings, incomplete thoughts, licks of the
unconscious. “No wife? No family?”

“Divorced,” he said, and then, perhaps
because he knew Hazel was falling away into brandy-drenched dreamlessness and
would never recall, “And one kid. A son. Named Mark. You've probably seen him on
television. He played the adorable Little Ricky on
Family
Planning
. Unfortunately, with puberty . . . It
wasn't just him, the show was winding up, there were enough episodes for a
syndication package. That kind of thing, for a kid of that
age . . . and after that his life got sort of out of
control. He blamed television, the whole industry, and me for landing him the
gig. He's in Soledad Prison now on drug and robbery charges.”

Hazel was asleep. Her head was on his
chest, a good place for it. Elliot closed his eyes.

He woke a few hours later to
the sound of Hazel retching. She was curled around the toilet in the en suite.
She refused help. “Please, Elliot, I am so sorry, please leave me alone. I'm
allergic to booze. I can't, I can't.” He fetched her a glass of water and set it
on the bathroom floor. She shooed him away again and, showing considerable pain,
closed the door behind him as he left.

Elliot thought it best to leave her
alone but after twenty minutes or so got worried and knocked. The door opened
and Hazel brushed past him, making for her clothes on the floor.

“Hazel, please get into bed.”

“I can't, Elliot. I can't. I can't
believe what's happened. I am so sorry.” She already had her skirt on and was
looking around for her blouse. It was in the kitchen, Elliot knew.

“Sorry? No, that was wonderful,
Hazel . . . I mean making love. It's terrible you were sick
but . . .”

“No, Elliot, my behaviour was totally
inappropriate.”

“It was not. It
was . . . much appreciated.”

“This has happened
before . . .” Hazel was now in her bra. Another piece of the
night came back to her; she made for the kitchen to retrieve the shirt. Elliot
followed. “. . . I simply cannot drink because I become an instant slut. I'll
sleep with anyone.”

“Well, now . . .”

“I am your subordinate, Elliot. Even if
I wanted to have sex with you, which I don't —”

“You did.”

“Even if I did, it couldn't happen. I
feel terrible.”

“You're a little hungover maybe.”

“I'm still drunk.” Hazel fished through
her purse and found her cellphone. “What is the address here again?”

“Don't leave.”

“I can just go downstairs.”

“It's 272 Arrabal Avenue.”

Hazel called a taxi.

“Elliot, this was entirely my fault.
Don't feel bad about yourself.”

“I was feeling great about myself,
about you . . . about the both of us, together, until now.
Stay. I'll sleep on the couch. We'll get breakfast in the morning.”

Whether it was the thought of bacon or
sausage or spending another few hours with Elliot, Hazel choked something back.

“Breakfast? No. Not breakfast together.
Fucking you was bad enough.”

“Really.”

“Not like the sex was bad, just
that . . . we will have to talk about it in a few days. I'm
sorry.”

She left.

Elliot woke the next morning before
dawn, not emptied of desire, not satisfied and spent, but full, bloodily full,
of want. He considered what Hazel had said about the inappropriateness of their
having such relations and conceded to himself that she had a point. It probably
was wrong, and would surely be awkward at the office. But the apartment seemed,
in her absence, for the first time since Elliot had moved in, empty. Her
laughter, her bawdy talk, her growls of delight, even her tearful protests and
apologies had changed the place, seasoned it somehow, so that it needed her. He
walked to the living room and the window that looked down on Wellington Street.
He felt lonely. Sitting down to send an email to Stella to schedule a meeting
with Hazel, in his office, that afternoon, he detected signs of life in his
personal inbox.

From:
[email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Jerry

Do you know anything about Jerry
Borstein?

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re. Jerry

He's a dick?

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re. Re. Jerry

He's missing.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re. Re. Re. Jerry

WTF?

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Re. Re. Re. Re. Jerry

Drove to test screening in the valley
three days ago not seen since.

Hazel arrived at Elliot's office,
as scheduled, but with her assistant, Troy, in tow. She was doing her best not
to look hungover but moved with caution. Her outfit was layers of mourning
charcoal over middle grey. Troy wore canary yellow stretchy jeans and a brown
T-shirt with a picture of a man's flaccid pierced cock on the front. People were
taking this casual Fridays thing to an extreme.
Wait . . . it was Thursday.

The presence of Troy and the fact that
Hazel carried Elliot's programming document from the previous evening was a
clear announcement that she did not wish to discuss what had happened between
them. Elliot was prepared to talk about nothing else.

“Troy will take notes,” she said.

“I'm excited about the new season,
sir,” Troy offered.

“I'm glad to hear it. So, Hazel, do you
have . . .”

“Yes. While I'm not sure I fully
comprehend this ‘weather office' model of the audience, I think the shows you've
chosen to develop speak volumes.”

“Where should we start?”

“Before we get to specifics there is a
larger concern we should address. All of the projects you chose have been put
forward by Toronto producers.”

“Have they? I didn't notice, but I
suppose that's to be expected.”

“I know you've found some of our
discussions about the balkanized funding regime for Canadian film and television
less than interesting —”

“Yes. Much less than interesting.”

“We still have to face the fact that
some of the shows are going to have to be produced in the regions. And besides
the funding, there is the organization's national mandate.”

“Mandates are sort of wish lists,” said
Elliot, “don't you think?” And with the exception of
501
Pennsylvania
, I didn't see many of them as being set particularly
anywhere. Tell the producers they have to make the show in B.C. I know they were
forever shooting projects out of Los Angeles
up . . . er . . . over there.”

“We could do that.”

“Some establishing exteriors and b-roll
from Washington and the rest is shot in a studio outside
Vancouver . . . Jesus, it's a three-camera —”

“And at some level we will have to
reflect the country.”

“Okay, okay, like what?” Elliot didn't
want to talk about programming television, he wanted to discuss how he and Hazel
could find a way to continue having sex.

“In
The
Wonderfuls
, Winnipeg plays itself,” Hazel pitched.

“Why would it want to do that? Don't
write that down, Troy. And didn't you find . . . the family
name is ‘Wonderful'? Isn't that a bit cute, a bit ‘on'?”

“It seems the sort of show you are
looking for.”

“I liked parts. I loved the Amazing
Kreskin but had to ask . . . why would a guy who can see the
future move to Manitoba?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Yes, Troy.”

“Just a point of information? Kreskin
is not a psychic. He's a mentalist.”

“Thank you, Troy.”

“Another concern,” said Hazel. “Before
you put any of these shows into development, the producers should know that the
CBC is going to have a proactive role in casting.”

“Yes, I'd assumed we would be
consulted, have approval . . .”

“More than that. The shows are going to
have to reflect Canada's diversity.”

“Isn't that what you just said?”

“In terms of the cast, not the
locations. Ethnicity. The shows you picked are very white, and you've said
yourself that's a problem with the current season.”

“My mother's father was of Roma
descent,” said Troy. “And my father's grandfather was part Cree.”

“Look,” said Elliot. “And don't write
this down, Troy. I could give a damn about race, creed, colour, sexual
preference. It bores the shit out of me. I didn't particularly see any of these
characters as being white or black or brown. You're picking a fight. You're
writing, Troy. Stop that!”

“These are my own thoughts, Mr. Jonson.
Talking about my Cree ancestry just opened something in me.”

“All right.” Elliot turned to Hazel.
“We can take those concerns into account, but within reason. Obviously the
Wonderful kids can't be Chinese with a black mom and a Turkish dad.”

“I think we would get in trouble
assuming that,” said Hazel. “They could be adoptive, or they might be from
earlier unions . . .”

“Right.” Elliot thought of Ascencion:
his estranged son's stepmother was a Salvadoran lesbian.

“It's not just people of colour. We've
had complaints that there haven't been enough Ukrainians.”

“That's absurd,” said Elliot. “How
would you know?”

“You say that and you can expect the
Congress of Ukrainian Canadians to intervene at the next CRTC licence renewal,”
said Hazel.