“Good morning, sunshine.”
“Is there a problem with the file?” I ask, alarmed.
“Of course not, you’re a pro. I wanted to let you know how pleased I am - they’re great photos – just as I knew they would be. Forbes will be happy, and the CEOs should be, too.”
It was an ‘interesting’ shoot but I’m not about to go into that with her this early.
“I especially like your shots of Bryce Steede. You captured something special, I don’t know…something I can’t put my finger on. But it’s the reason I have to have you do the photos of him for our feature article. We really need the best, and that’s you.”
Oh, so that’s why she called so early. Putting a little pressure on me.
“Thanks for the compliment, but you know me: dedicated to my work. Up til 3 a.m. editing. Thought I would sleep in, then see the sights. Glad the file’s okay and you like it,” I yawn.
“Sorry I woke you. Hope you can go back to sleep. We’ll talk later.” I shake my head in frustration as I hang up. Now that I’m wide-awake, I might as well make the most of the day.
In the bustling cacophony of the street around me, people rush by as though they’re running late for very important appointments. What kind of work do all these people do? I buy a ticket for the hop-on, hop-off bus and set out to see as many landmarks as possible: the Empire State Building, 30 Rock, Battery Park, Times Square, Broadway, Greenwich Village, Central Park.
I end up at the Museum of Modern Art where I enjoy a delightful roasted mushroom tart and a glass of wine for lunch, while chatting with other hungry art lovers at our long communal table. Later, standing in jaw-dropping awe in front of Christopher Williams’ photography exhibit, “The Production Line of Happiness”, I begin to think of Jodi’s anxiety over our Forbes photo shoot and how everything went so well yesterday - if you don’t count my unexpected physical reaction to Bryce Steede, and how my mouth had a mind of its own while I was talking with him. I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling deep breaths and exhaling slowly.
I can’t believe I fell for Bryce Steede’s pick-up lines. I feel a flush rising to my face, then I begin to feel angry. Why did I let this hotshot playboy rattle my cage? I’ve worked for years to keep men who feel they’re god’s gift to women at arm’s length from me. Every time I’ve photographed Steede at a society event, he’s had a different woman hanging onto his arm. I’ve always felt a bit sorry for them, groveling and swooning over him like a wet noodle. I giggle at the image, in spite of myself. I almost fell for it. Almost. Thank goodness I’ve come to my senses in time.
I won’t call him and I’ll tell Jodi I can’t change my vacation plans, then there’ll be no event where Steede and I’ll have to cross paths again. He doesn’t have my contact information and we certainly don’t run in the same social circles, so it won’t be a problem to avoid him. I need to push that whole embarrassing hot/cold/tingly fiasco from yesterday out of my mind, and forget all about him.
It’s a sunny afternoon with not a cloud in sight. I decide to walk back to the hotel, but I don’t get far. I get an eerie feeling someone’s watching me. I sit down at a sidewalk café to survey the area while I have a cool drink. No one seems to be paying any attention to me, but I can’t shake the feeling of being watched. Although I feel a bit silly, I trust my intuition, and my training, and I hail a cab.
As I walk into the hotel, a man jumps up from a chair, throws up his fists and yells, “You bitch. Who do you think you are, giving me the number of a fucking escort service?”
Before he can move toward me, a hand grabs the back of his neck, and a tall, well dressed man, attached to the arm, looks at me and says, “Sorry, Ma’am. Don’t worry. He won’t bother you again,” all the while pushing the flailing man out onto the sidewalk and down the block.
Pretty impressive response. My reactions are good, but the security guy’s were excellent. He came out of nowhere. The people who had turned to see what was happening have lost interest – it was all over so quickly.
I lock the door, strip off my clothes down to my underwear, and plop down on the bed in the cool of my hotel room. As I lie here, I’m thinking about Bryce again. Damn it. Why is he invading my thoughts? Being around him brought up feelings of want and desire, feelings foreign to me and out of reach. Granted, I chose to build what I thought was an impenetrable wall, keeping my guard up and making myself emotionally unavailable. He’s good looking, I’ll give him that, and he knows how to use it to his advantage. Well, not this time Mr. Steede. Not this girl. It’s time to de-stress.
I ask the concierge to call for a taxi to the nearest ice rink. As I open my room door, I almost collide with the hotel’s head of security. He’s wearing a gold-colored name badge and he shows me his hotel ID.
“Ms. Quinn, on behalf of the hotel, I want to apologize for the incident in the lobby earlier. Are you doing okay?’
“I’m fine. I appreciate your coming to check on me, though. I was very impressed with how quickly your employee handled the situation.”
He paused, “Ms. Quinn, that man’s not our employee. In fact, we don’t know who he is.”
“It’s nice to know good Samaritans still exist,” I say, making my way to the elevator.
The cab drops me at Wollman Rink at Central Park. This is what I need. Turning my music on, I find what I’m looking for. When I really need to release tension on the rink, I prefer the music of Jean-Michel Jarre. Today I pick Equinoxe I and IV and Oxygene II and IV. With my earbuds in and my phone secured around my arm, I take off. The cold beneath me feels good as I glide along the ice.
This is the escape I’ve needed since my flight. Since Mr. Sex on legs got to you. As the music intensifies, so does my stroking and I pick up speed, flying around the corners, backwards, spinning, and jumping. I feel light as a feather.
#
Back at the hotel, I check in for my flight tomorrow and text Steven my arrival time. A quick shower before the food arrives is just what I need. Tonight’s agenda is room service food eaten in bed while I relax and watch mindless TV, which ends with me being stuffed to the point I can barely move and thankful that I packed earlier. Right now I couldn’t get up without the help of a crane.
My eyelids are so heavy I fall asleep immediately, but not before slate-blue eyes invade my thoughts.
A
n uneventful, but bumpy, cab ride delivers me to the airport by eleven, an hour before my flight. As I bounce against my seatbelt and the sun’s heat sears my skin, I think about all the lights in Times Square last night. I laugh aloud when I think of telling Steven and Sampson that I have finally found something that gives their million-dollar smiles a run for the money.
The line for my flight is so long and winding that it almost merges with passengers lined up for another airline. My phone dings, alerting that my flight is cancelled. Oh, great. Now you tell me. Because I’m flying first class, I’m lucky not to be bumped, and am quickly assigned a window seat on the next flight out.
I call Steven. “Hey, it’s me. They cancelled my flight and now I’m on the 2 p.m. non-stop flight,” I say in exasperation. I navigate my way to the first-class lounge where I’ll hang out for the next three hours.
“Well, that sucks ass. I’ll call the restaurant and change our reservations.” Wow, his mood is sour.
“Is everything okay? You sound . . . different.” I’m trying not to be alarmed by his tone.
“Yeah, everything’s fine. I’ve had a bad week, that’s all. How was New York?” he asks absentmindedly, like he’s trying to force a conversation.
“The photo shoot came out great, better than expected.”
“Oh, that’s good.” What’s wrong? I sense that he doesn’t want to talk about it, so I don’t press him.
“Hey, I’ll see you in a few hours then? I need to call my mom,- you know how she gets when I travel.”
“Yeah, just like me.”
“I’ll text right before take off so you’ll know we left on time.”
“See you soon,” he says, curtly.
As we hang up I think that is the most cryptic conversation I’ve ever had with Steven. He’s usually too talkative. I wonder if everything’s okay with Sampson. Lately, Steven’s been anxious about their relationship. Maybe he’ll be ready to talk when I get home.
In the lounge, I find an outlet to charge my phone. Wouldn’t want to be on the plane without my music and you never know if the plane’s outlets are working.
I call Mom. After six rings she finally answers. Why do I think she’s been running?
“Hi Mom. What took you so long to answer?”
“Hi, Button. Is everything okay?” She’s panting.
“Yes, I’m okay, but Mom, are you? You sound like you can’t breathe.”
“Yes, honey, I’m fine. I’ve just had a workout.” She giggles. Giggles? There’s silence, then I hear her muffled voice. Is she covering the speaker with her hand?
“Where are you? Is this a bad time?”
“I’m home. No, it’s not a bad time. Not now.”
A ding goes off in my head; she’s not alone. That’s not an image I want in my mind.
“I wanted to let you know I’m flying back to San Francisco today.”
“Okay, Button. I want to hear all about your trip. Have a safe flight and I’ll call you tomorrow, after you have rested. I know you’ll be exhausted after your flight, and I may be too exhausted, myself, to talk tonight.”
“Oh my god, Mother. I don’t want to know or think about that. I need to go. Love you Mom.” I can’t get off the phone fast enough.
She laughs loudly and I can’t help but laugh a little too. “I love you too, Ali.”
We hang up and I don’t know whether to be mortified or appalled. She could have let it go to voice mail. No child should have to have a visual of what her parents do. I shudder at the thought. My own Mother… The phrase “brain bleach” comes to mind.
#
An hour before my flight, I decide to freshen up a bit. Upon my return from the restroom I freeze in my tracks. Oh no, it’s him, Mr. Arrogance Personified, in the flesh. Please don’t let him be on my flight. He’s the last person I expected, or wanted, to see.
I look down to avoid eye contact and make my way back to my seat. I pick up a magazine and hold it up, covering my face. I don’t care what page I turn to, as long as I don’t have to see him.
“Ms. Quinn, I’m delighted to see you again. Are you on the two o’clock flight also?” He’s standing over me like a tower.
“Oh, hello Mr. Steede. I didn’t see you there.” I look up at him, trying to feign interest.
“Yes, that’s understandable, seeing that you’re totally engrossed in your reading.” His eyes are sparkling under raised brows and his parted lips are drawn back into a crooked grin, showing off perfect white teeth.
I tilt my head to one side, “I do like to keep up with the competition. It’s always good to see what I’m up against.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a Motor Trend type person.” His grin widens as he opens his mouth and lets out a laugh. What the hell is wrong with him?
My face begins to heat up. “It’s always good to keep up with all trends in photography, no matter the subject.” I’m trying to keep sarcasm out of my voice – after all he is a client.
Why can’t he go away and leave me alone?
“The article must really be a page turner.” He takes the magazine out of my hands, turns it right side up and hands it back to me.
“Good day, Ms. Quinn. I do hope you enjoy your reading.” He turns to walk to his seat. From the way his shoulders are shaking, I can imagine that it’s taking everything he has not to double over in laughter.
How embarrassing. I’m sure I’ve turned every shade of red known to man. Right now, I wish my seat were a monster and would swallow me alive. I plop the magazine down on the table, harder than I mean to. He turns the page of his newspaper and glances at me over the top of the page. His twinkling blue eyes tell me he’s smiling. At least his paper is right side up.
I gather my things and move to the opposite end of the lounge, away from his gaze and from that complacent look on his face. That’ll be the last time he laughs at my expense. Then it dawns on me. He’s on my flight. In first class. All the way to San Francisco. I inwardly groan and sink into a chair. An horrific thought crosses my mind: what seat is he in? I put my head in my hands and groan again, but this time it’s louder, not inward, and a couple of people look at me, puzzled.
When our flight is announced, a furtive glance tells me he’s already left. Maybe I could make someone who’s seated in economy happy by changing seats with them? I weigh the pros and cons of that long flight in economy and decide against it.
How dare he make fun of me? I feel like an idiot. I am so angry now, if I could scream bloody murder without the cops coming to drag me away, I would. Then, immediately I decide I’m not going to let him get to me. I don’t need to be wasting this energy on him.
When I reach the gate, first class has already boarded and general boarding is underway. I’m in no hurry, so I wait. First class has one empty seat – mine - waiting for me to claim it. And, who’s sitting next to me? It’s not my day. He’s wearing that smug look I now can’t stand – his lips pursed in a quiet smile. Not saying a word, he gets up to let me sit down. I hope he’s this quiet for the rest of the flight.
The plane’s full and the conversations all merge into one loud buzz. The flight attendant offers me a drink. As much as I want alcohol, any type of alcohol - hell, I’d down rubbing alcohol at this point to put me out of my misery - I opt for water. I scroll through my music to select my playlist so I’ll be ready to go the minute we can use them.
“Hello,” he answers his phone, which must have vibrated because there was no ring. He talks in a low, clipped, irritated tone, and I can hear him slightly over the other conversations going on around us. He tells the caller that he is not interested. Business call? Then, “I told you no. I’ve been telling you no for months now.” His hushed tone sounds increasingly irritated. “I don’t want that. I’ve never wanted that. You need to move on.”
I gaze out the window, pretending there’s something interesting out there, but right now the most interesting and intriguing thing going on is the conversation coming from the seat next to me. Besides, he’s too close not to listen.
“I don’t need or want you to pick me up. No, there’s nothing to talk about. We’ve gone over this several times. You need to move on. I’m hanging up now.”
Oh wow. Sounds like Mr. Sex on Legs has a woman problem. Who would have thought? Did one of his many flavors of the month decide she has singular taste and that he should, too? I mean, come on, how dumb are these women? His pictures have been plastered all over the magazines with his different arm-candy, and I’m sure they all run in the same social circles. Hell, they all probably know each other. I keep looking out the window, pretending to be oblivious to him and the conversation he’s just had, but I feel his eyes on me.
Don’t look at him.
I watch the ground crew scurry around, making sure everything’s closed and locked for take off. The flight attendants close the doors and the plane pushes back from the gate. While the attendants go over the safety procedures, I pick up the instructions card, totally disinterested, but feeling I need something to do. I make sure it’s upright before I open it to read.
The pilot says we’re next for take off and I instinctively grab the armrests and hold on for dear life. I hope he doesn’t notice. The engines roar and the plane moves slowly at first. My breathing increases with the speed of the plane. With my eyes scrunched closed, we hurdle down the runway like a bullet. I grab the armrests tighter and know my knuckles are turning white. Yep, I’m good to go.
Warmth spreads through me as his hand covers mine, but I’m too tense to jerk my hand away. Of all people to bear witness to one of my weaknesses, it would have to be him. For some odd reason, one I can’t explain, I feel a sense of calm with his hand there. Once we’re in the air, I loosen my grip and relax my hands. He keeps his hand on top of mine and I look over at him. He’s staring at me, concern written on his face.
“I take it you don’t like to fly.” His voice is smooth as silk.
“No, not really.”
“Are you okay now?”
“Yes, much better, thank you.” I wiggle my fingers and he removes his hand, reluctant to do so.
He leans over and asks, “If you hate flying so much, why do you choose a window seat?”
Why does he feel the need to talk to me?
“This way, I’ll be able to witness my own demise as we spiral toward the ground,” I say with as much irritation as I can possibly squeeze into my voice. I think he gets it, loud and clear, because he sits back and doesn’t say another word. Good. He puts his laptop on the tray table and begins doing whatever it is he does.
Why am I acting this way toward him? If I try to figure it out, that would be enough to send me to a padded room for the rest of my life. Who knew he of all people, would be the one to send me over the edge. I need to get a grip.
In that moment, the humiliation and anger from earlier returns. I hear the flight attendants say we’re free to use electronics again. If I could get up and high five them or do a chest bump for the save, I would. Since I can’t get lost anywhere on the plane, I’ll get lost in my music. My phone is still on shuffle, The Pet Shop Boys “Love Comes Quickly” blasts my eardrums. I simultaneously jump and jerk the earbuds out immediately. As I turn the sound down, I can see him out of the corner of my eye, sitting there with his fingers on his lips. He’s not looking at me, but has his head down, smiling, and it’s a good guess he’s laughing at me.
I’m so glad I’m able to provide the in-flight entertainment for him. I don’t look at him and I resume listening to my music.
A jerk of the plane wakes me and I notice Bryce is gone. Where’d he go? He’s not sitting beside me. Did I dream he was there? If only life was that simple.
Here he comes, sauntering down the aisle towards his seat. It’s not as though he could have walked off the plane. “Do you need to get up?” he asks politely.
“No, I don’t. Thanks for asking.” I rest my head against the window and close my eyes, letting the music do what it always does as I feel myself drift off again.