Hardly Working (23 page)

We both paused and looked up at the wraparound screen, the universe unfolding all around us in images that looked more like gems and precious stones than planets and suns.

“These pictures are outstanding,” said Jon. “This universe of ours is one great painter. Look at those colors.”

The rich marble swirls of coral, red, amber and brown of the Keyhole Nebula rose before us, then faded into another image, rosy pink cometary knots against turquoise blue in the Helix Nebula.

Jon looked at me. He was smiling at me so happily with those easy amber eyes, that when Penelope and Ian walked into the theater, I almost didn't notice them.

“I have an inspiration,” Jon said.

“Oh?”

“I'll pretend to be your new boyfriend.”

“Boy what?”

“Boyfriend,” he mouthed.

I stared at him. It was a classic situation. Good-looking intelligent gay man out to torture straight woman. A simple case of misogyny.

“Naw,” I laughed.

“Oh come on, Dinah. Don't let them get the upper hand.”

I had a long Einstein-like moment of contemplation then said, “Well, I'll put aside my religious beliefs if you put aside yours but it's just this once.”

“My religious beliefs? Uh…okay, sure. Good.”

He made a sporty limbering-up movement with both arms then put one arm around my shoulders. I thought that was going to be the end of it but when Ian and Penelope were looking our way, he took my chin in his hand and planted a long, sweet, exaggerated kiss on my lips. It seemed to go on forever and neither of us wanted to pull away. When we finally did, I sat there, just staring at him, immobile with surprise.

Penelope and Ian hadn't moved. They were both gawking in our direction.

Jon frowned and said, “Now you're going to tell me I shouldn't have done that.”

I whispered, “I…I wasn't. Really… It was…”

Fantastic.

“Yep?” He was waiting.

“I, uh…I guess I should be getting back to my job, mixing and mingling.”

Jon seemed unfazed. “Uh-huh.”

“I don't want to get fired for acting like Penelope and getting all sloppy while I'm supposed to be working….”

“No?”

“No. But that was a…”

“Yes?”

“That was a…”

“Yes, it was, wasn't it?”

“I think you shocked those two.” I flicked my head toward Penny and Ian.

He whispered, “No problem. These little things in life can sometimes make a big difference.”

“That sounds like one of my campaigns.”

“Any time I can be of service.”

“I really should be getting back to work.” But for some reason, my body didn't want to budge.

“Sure you should.”

“I'm the PR and communications associate.”

“And I'll bet you communicate really well.”

Jon ran his hand up the back of my neck and began to play with my hair.

It felt good.

Too good.

I wondered what Penelope was thinking now.

That the Man-eater had found herself some fresh game?

I hoped so. I hoped our little act served some purpose because it was futile and a bit risky to be flirting with Jonathan Ballam.

And most of all, it was a mean thing to do to Kevin.

Jake's voice from a distance cut into my little moment. And just in time. “Penelope,” he called out. “Oh, you're here, too, Dinah. I need you both in the reception area. The Russians want you.”

“Ooops. Duty calls,” I said to Jon.

“Sure.” He slowly moved his arm off my shoulders. “I'll be around if you need me again.” He smiled and breathed deeply.

As Penelope and I met up at the doorway, she said quietly, “It's so pathetic to see the way sad, desperate women behave,” then pushed ahead of me.

I did feel sad, but not for any of the reasons that Penel
ope might have expected. I felt sad, first of all, for the fate of GWI. And I felt sad for
her,
for Penelope, sad that she was such a smug little priss who had blown her chances by not being nice to most of us in the office and especially, to me, when she could have behaved like a normal girl and had lots and lots of friends at GWI and gone to lots and lots of parties with all of us, and sat around stuffing her face with lots and lots of pastries, again, like the rest of us and trying to save the world. And it was sad that if, one day,
she
happened to be attacked by a cougar, before Ian married her, the stuff that flashed before her eyes would lack a climax, so to speak.

Saturday

T
he telephone screamed at me. I put a hand to my pounding head and stumbled out to the hall to pick it up.

“You're the walnuts in my baklava,” hissed the voice.

“Oh, God, no I'm not, you silly pervert. Why don't you pick on somebody else. Listen, it's the
morning.
You bloody well woke me up. Get yourself some help and when you do, don't tell me about it, okay?” I slammed down the phone.

The room was reeling.

Black whirlies appeared in my peripheral vision.

I stumbled back into the bedroom, threw myself down on the bed, and closed my eyes.

How had I come home last night?

I'd worn my underwear to bed but I couldn't remember even getting into my bed.

And what about my car?

I lay there while my bed rocked and bucked like a fun fair ride.

It was slowly coming back to me.

The hangover wasn't my fault.

It was those Russians.

It was their fault. They were the ones who had produced the unlabelled bottles of vodka, finest product of their motherland, and begun to proudly pour it into everybody's wineglasses. Well, we couldn't say no, could we? They wanted us to drink with them, taste their national product. They were practically forcing it down our throats and we absolutely could not offend them by refusing their vodka. Refusing their vodka could have started an international incident. As it was, the event night was already a bit of an international incident in the eyes of the Space Centre people.

I had to hand it to them though.

The Moscow branch of Green World sure knew how to party. Not only were they good at making toasts and smashing glasses but they were also very good at delivering messages. Even though I don't speak a word of Russian, I recall each of them having a very animated, passionate even, conversation with me over the course of the evening. I swear we were communicating. Either they were speaking English or I was speaking Russian. I don't know which. They each said the same thing, that we needed to create a World Fund for developing alternative renewable energies, and that if a nation could find one hundred billion smackers overnight for going into war, surely they could find fifty billion smackers over the next ten years for researching and developing renewable energy sources. Olga, Vassily, and Dimitri really knew their business.

As for the rest of the evening…

Hmmm.

I'd gone to sleep in my bra and panties.

Where was my dress?

And how had I gotten home?

Had I driven?

I couldn't remember?

And if I hadn't driven, would I still find my car where I'd left it?

I crawled out of my bed again and navigated my way to the closet. The black dress was there, hung neatly in its garment bag. Had I done that? It didn't seem like the work of a drunken Dinah Nichols. Whenever I'd had a big night on the town, I usually found my clothes hung neatly on the floor the next morning.

So how had I come home? I staggered down to the kitchen and looked out through the window. No sign of my car in the little back alley space where I usually parked it.

I turned on the tap and filled a Nutella jar with cold water, then I stopped in the bathroom for two Tylenol and knocked them back with the water, then went back into the bedroom, lay down on the bed and tried to remember. A blurry tableau of last night's bacchanalia danced before me. It started to get clearer as I concentrated.

While we had still been at the Space Centre, we'd been relatively well behaved, with a sober Jake hovering like an expert but anxious diplomat making sure everything went off the way it was supposed to.

And then?

I badly needed a coffee.

I pulled my silk Chinese dressing gown around me, went into the kitchen, filled up the espresso maker, and put it on the gas.

So what had come after the Space Centre?

A great big bell pepper.

The dance floor at the Eldorado Hotel!

That's where we'd gone.

Olga and Dimitri had asked me if I knew of a club or night spot where they could let down their hair (the little that they had) and dance. They'd both spent a few years in Cuba on a professional exchange program and loved Latin music. That was when I'd suggested the Eldorado Hotel. I remembered a fleet of taxis arriving, and piling into one with the three Russians. And Penelope following along behind us and being petulant, because we'd all found out that we didn't really need her translation skills after all. We were doing just fine.

First I'd gone to leave a message at the front desk for Rupert Doyle to call me the minute he came back to town. Then we all went to the lounge with the dance floor. The tall blond younger Vassily had sat on the sidelines like a watchdog while Olga and Dimitri danced the mambo and the samba and the rumba and the Lambada and the Macarena, and I think I danced, too.

Was that possible?

Yes.

I went up to the orchestra and asked them to play a tango and then I danced with Dimitri. He was a very good dancer, just like an old
milonguero.

And then?

Somebody else asked me to dance and I did and I remember thinking that it was the greatest feeling, that we were perfectly synchronized with each other and I'm sure it wasn't just the vodka.

But his face wouldn't come to me.

Why was that?

By the time I had made my caffe latte with lots of sugar, and taken a few sips, I could remember every detail of the evening.

Except for my last tango partner.

And where I'd left my car.

 

I needed to talk to somebody. There was only one thing to do. I got dressed quickly, went down to my living room, out through the French doors, along the balcony, in through Joey's French doors and down to his bedroom. The door was ajar. I was about to go in, but pulled back quickly when I saw who was in the bed with Joey.

God, what a mistake.

I tiptoed out soundlessly and back to my place.

I needed to think.

I'd been so caught up in the vodka-sodden comings and goings of the night before that I hadn't bothered to think that Joey might not be alone.

What I'd just seen was none of my business.

Or was it?

I was up against that age-old problem of Finking Etiquette.

Are you supposed to tell the offended party, or does that make you sound like some bitter loser whose flash boyfriend has just dumped you for a younger, purer woman?

Or are you supposed to tell the offending parties that you know about it? And that they better not try it again?

I didn't want to act like the Sex Police.

It was a dilemma.

 

I had to find my car.

I put on a warm sweater and hurried out down the back steps, along the side path and up to Jon and Kevin's front door. I leaned on the doorbell and hoped Jon didn't have telepathic powers.

Jonathan opened up. He was wearing a dark green parka with a hood and carrying an overnight bag. “I was wondering when you'd get here. I have something of yours.”

“You do?”

Uh-oh. What had I done? I didn't remember doing a striptease but anything was possible. It was very high
quality vodka we'd been drinking. I tried to buy some time before Jon produced the mysterious and offensive object.

“I was just on my way out. If you hadn't dropped by, I would have brought them to you.”

“What would you have brought?”

He held up my car keys and dangled them in front of me. “These.”

I took them, ecstatic. “Thank you. Now. You wouldn't happen to know where my car is, would you?”

“Exactly where you left it. There was an exuberant moment last night when you thought you would drive so I relieved you of your keys.”

“That was very thoughtful of you. My Savior.”

“I've got to go, Dinah, I'm on my way out of town. There's a little longhorn cattle situation that I've been called in for.”

“Oh, okay. Well, you drive safely, too.”

“Come around tonight anyway. If you feel like it. When Kevin gets back. He'll be bringing back some decent California wine. I'm not sure if he's staying or going, but if he does stay, come over and have a drink with him. He's been upset lately. He shouldn't be alone.”

And you shouldn't be alone with me.

“Maybe. But I doubt if I can handle a single drop of wine for the next week. I sort of overdid it yesterday.”

Jonathan just smiled.

“So. I'll see you when you get back then, Jon.”

I was disappointed. It was Jon I wanted to drink wine with, not Kevin. I needed to give myself a good talking-to. I needed to repeat over and over, “Dinah, you shall not lust after your gay neighbor, Dinah, you shall not lust after your gay neighbor, Dinah, you shall not…”

 

One good thing that came from my evening out at the Eldorado was that I was inspired to go online and order my tango shoes. First they would send me their fitting device,
free of charge, I'd measure my foot, then send them the numbers which would then be sent to Buenos Aires, where they were made by hand by Argentine cobblers.

It was the Valentina model, eighty-nine dollars worth of slim high heel, red suede, black patent leather, and open toe. Money-back guarantee if they didn't fit. After that I turned on a tango video and practiced. It was just as well that nobody could see me.

Sunday

I should have known that it was going to be one of those days. It got off to a bad start with yet another phone call from the Telephone Pervert. I was much too blasé on the phone with him.

“So,” I said. “You seem to know what I look like. Now tell me what you look like.”

Where had my sense of self-preservation gone? Was I nuts? This guy could find me at the drop of a hat.

“I'm your perfect match,” he whispered. “We were made to drink retsina together.”

“Gag. I can't stand retsina. It tastes like turpentine.”

“Ouzo?” he tried.

I hung up.

As soon as I'd put down the receiver, the phone rang again. I picked up.

“Di?”

“Simon? What's up?”

“I've been feeling lately…”

“I know, I know. You need a smaller world.”

“No.”

“A larger world.”

“There's an ashram in Tibet…”

“And while you're there, you might get a little windsurfing done out of base camp Everest?”

Simon didn't find it funny. He let out a huge sigh.

“Have you said anything about this to Cleo?”

“No. Not yet. It's still early. Not the season for going there.” His voice was full of remorse. “Don't say anything to her, will you?”

“No, I won't, but you'd better tell her soon.”

“Yeah. Bye.”

I said goodbye and hung up.

My dear, beautiful, fickle, seed-in-the-wind childhood friend.

My nerves were all over the place. I badly needed to talk to somebody.

I couldn't talk to Joey. For obvious reasons.

I couldn't talk to Cleo. I might accidentally spill the beans.

I couldn't talk to Jon. Not only was he out of town but there was a serious kissing hazard there.

I couldn't talk to Kevin. I might accidentally slip up and tell him how much I liked kissing Jon.

I couldn't talk to Lisa. She was there but her mind was clearly on the Yellow Slicker Guy.

I couldn't talk to Thomas. He'd want me to make more appointments and then that would cost me the next few tango lessons.

And finally, I couldn't talk to my mother. Because what I really wanted to do was talk to her about Hector.

It was time to chill out and talk to myself. Try to sort things out between me and me. With the phone off the hook and the crisis skin treatment. It was a drastic measure for those very bad days when the only thing left to do was pamper yourself. When there was no one else left in your life to pamper you.

The treatment consists of taking a few pieces of the mushier fruit in the house and putting it in the food processor with a bit of olive oil. I like the less acidic fruits like peaches and bananas. Once whipped up you apply the mush
all over your body, not leaving out a single square inch. It's wonderful. It moisturizes brilliantly and you feel like you're swimming around on the inside of a gigantic fruit cocktail. And if you happen to accidentally lick any part of your body, it tastes good, too.

I whizzed up the fruit mush, climbed into the bathtub and slapped it on everywhere. Then I pulled an old towel around me and sat in the bathroom singing along to the bluest of Billie Holiday songs. That woman sure could croon. When the CD was over, I rinsed myself off and pulled on my bathrobe.

Then I went to the phone and called the Eldorado Hotel to leave a message for Rupert Doyle. If he ever decided to show his face in Vancouver again, he was to call me ASAP.

Monday

Jake came into my office. “Just took Dimitri, Olga and Vassily to the ferry. They want to hop over and see the island. Those folks sure can walk. Have you ever tried to see all of Vancouver in two days? Well that's what we did. They've got ten days here and, no kidding, they're going to see all of B.C. and I wouldn't put it past them to try to see the rest of Canada, too. I'm exhausted.”

“They seem like good people.”

“Great people. We understand each other perfectly in terms of common goals, Green World issues. They've asked me to take a trip to Moscow, see how they're handling the program from there. I'm thinking about it and I'm pretty excited about the idea. As for prevention of liver disease, we're coming from different places.”

“Don't remind me. Those people sure can drink.”

“They say it's the cold there, eh? In Moscow. If you don't drink, you die of hypothermia.”

“I've heard that, too. But you wouldn't let it be an excuse, would you now, Jake?”