Never Understand Part One ( Johnthen Trent Adult Romance 1) (6 page)

And he’s going where I’m going this very evening.

Chapter 7: Battery Park, New York City, Tuesday 9 May

Gaining agreement with Phoebe on what we should wear for an exhibition launch at the Saul Hankow Gallery is a work of art in itself. She agrees the artistic, bohemian East Village/Tribeca thing isn’t going to work. Andrea has picked this location because it’s far enough from the Village or anywhere half-lively, so the guests won’t start to trickle away after an hour; also because it’s close to Wall Street and all the folks with money can come straight from work. For that reason, we need to blend in with the suits and business wear.

Also, I have to show I’m an actress; an artist among the suited idolaters of Mammon. This calls for a conservative black pencil skirt, with fitted fuchsia blouse, set off with a wild abundance of accessories. Chunky rings, heavy necklaces doubled up and crazy high, shiny heels. Everything down to the wispy, super-sheer underwear is chosen with care.

I would be idle to deny I’ve made a big effort here to attract attention to myself; not to attract attention from Mr Deep and Dark. I’d rather not even speak to him. But when he sees me, for sure he has to know I’m not hiding. I also need to be different from that damn waitress outfit yesterday.

I’m determined to be a fun person, this evening at least. I must be getting depressing to live with. Although Phoebe likes it that she and Josh are an item and she can smugly lord it over her frustrated room-mate, she also wishes better for me, and is kind of frustrated for me. It wasn’t the first time she’s told me to ask my dad to pull some strings. She’s not just bitchy; she really thinks I should do that.

Phoebe and I split the cab fare and make our way south through the buzzy, jazzed up relaxation of Tribeca and onto the concrete and glass canyons of the Financial District. The streets are still throbbing with testosterone and money as we ride down to the sharp, hard tip of Manhattan, toward Battery Park and the Saul Hankow Gallery. It reminds me why I came to New York; to be part of this magnificent non-stop party. This city rocks, and I resolve to be part of it more often. At the moment I’m either going to work or I’m pounding the sidewalks in my running gear, flitting around the city in the quiet times, like a ghost at the feast – looking on but never taking part.

We’re not late but the gallery is full already. There is a fine, high atrium in which Andrea’s installations, sculptures and paintings are artfully set, and a mezzanine level above where one or two lovebirds have already strayed to escape the madding crowd below. I’m impressed that Andrea can rustle up this crowd. She’s even better connected than I thought.

It looks like a fabulous party. Phoebe and I catch the buzz early. There are gorgeous models, male and female, stalking around half-naked in outfits by up-and-coming designers. There are earnest journalists, artists, performance artists – Andrea’s tribe– combined with the big honchos of the money markets. Most of the minor celebs have actually turned up – and more besides. Andrea has also managed to shake down some money men to pay for the oversized bottles of Veuve Cliquot champagne, which about a dozen smart young men in bolero jackets are assiduously pressing onto the masses. A scene of Babylonian excess.

To those who have shall more be given,
as my father would be saying in his moralistic tone. My father may be in the Entertainment Industry, but he’s against anything that resembles fun. He’s against anyone having it too easy in life - except himself. But even I can see something obscene about these wealthy people, whose outfits alone cost more than a thousand bucks, not even paying for their own drinks.

But you won’t hear me complaining. After working at La Serenissima for the last year, waiting on all those rich folks, I have no problem whatever wasting some rich guy’s money for him.

One of the young champagne-carriers seems to be following me. Is it his private joke to get me drunk? Again, not complaining, and neither is Phoeb. If I give a wave to young sticketh-closer-than-a-brother who is tracking me in his Bolero jacket, he comes over with his enormous bottle of champagne right on cue, like a healing zephyr. This kind of thing makes a girl feel different; no longer penniless out-of-work actress, Jana Kidd. Champagne makes a woman richer, cooler, and cleverer. And a patron of the arts, to boot. That’s how it works, isn’t it?

The lightly bubbling nectar is going to my head. It tingles on my tongue, even slightly in my nose. Sweetly hedonistic. I don’t get to enjoy a party like this so often. After the first few minutes I am telling myself to calm down and resist the next refill of champagne – but mostly failing.

Phoebe too has gone into turbo-bouncy cheerful mode and she’s loving the male-female ratio, which is nicely in our favour. She adores having Josh as a boyfriend, but tonight she’s off the leash because he’s not here. I remember why she’s my best friend. She really is the best fun. I try to get her talking about the art, which, as the title “Icons of Resistance” suggests, is mostly about symbols of freedom and the struggle against repression – Nelson Mandela and The Dalai Lama of course. A giant, Roy Liechtenstein-like image of Aung San Suu Kyi fluttering her eyelashes at Obama. But there are also people I’ve never heard of - like Liu Shao Qi, who sounds like some kind of Chinese Jesus, and also a scruffy American professor called Noam Chomsky. What’s he doing there?

My thinking is to at least have some intelligent phrases to mouth when a handsome fellow tests me in conversation. ‘What do you know about Chomsky, Phoeb?’ I ask, gleefully, knowing the answer is zip. She doesn’t even see the joke. She’s fingering her champagne glass suggestively, while her eyes flick around the crowd of good-looking guys in suits.

‘Chomsky? All I know is, this place is full of hot guys,’ she says, distracted by the male eye-candy. She’s not listening to me at all. ‘This is a target-rich environment, Jana. You need to find a guy, and this could be your night. We usually stick together, but what do you say we give it an hour, then see who’s talking to the hottest guy at nine o’clock?’

‘What if they’re both hot and we can’t agree who’s won?’

‘Doh, then we’ll both have won. Let’s find each other at nine. And if the guy’s taken me up to that mezzanine, you’re not allowed to come looking!’

It’s a deal, and we go off in separate directions to force our attentions onto one group of guys after another. Now, in theory this shouldn’t be too difficult for two single girls with all those men and free champagne to ease the flow of wit and laughter, but actually, it’s not that easy. Most of the guys have had long days at work and are happy just to talk to their friends. They’re not that interested. And if they are interested, they’re finding it hard to lift their eyes above my breasts.

Thankfully, they are not interested in Chomsky either. Or even Mandela. I do get to talk to a couple of stunning male models, really lovely boys. Though they’re fun, they don’t really have much to say for themselves and despite they’re A++ looks airheads are not really my type. The wine waiter who’s following me with that bottle of champagne that holds about three gallons is looking cuter every time I look his way, and I’d swear he wants to pour that whole bottle into my glass.

Oh my.

Now a second guy has tried to explain the unfairness of Mark-to-Market in swaps derivatives. All very interesting, no doubt, but not the right thing to spring on a girl after a couple of glasses of fizz. I’d rather have Chomsky! Bolero boy with the champagne gives me a knowing smile, as if he too is tired of Mark-to-Market, and fills me up.

Still no theater directors on the prowl for undiscovered talent, which is probably just as well given that I’m a little off the top of my professional game here. I’ve settled in to enjoy a great evening, and to hell with the networking opportunity.

I decide to take a break from the “hot guy hunt” and glance around for some female company. There are three women with some guys in the next little knot of people. I go over to introduce myself. From behind, one of the guys looks a good prospect. Blond hair, good body and tight buns. I make a mental note to check him out and come back.

But as I pass behind him, I overhear him say, ‘So, Henry. Been getting some ass?’

I roll my eyes and walk on by. Jerk! Then I recognise the voice. It’s Josh. Josh Lake. That’s a surprise and not a welcome one. Still, hearing Josh make that juvenile remark will help me get over him once and for all. Low-life. I make a point of not looking round. It doesn’t look like Phoebe’s with him though. She must have seen him. Perhaps she’s with some other guy and found a corner where Josh won’t see her. Go Phoeb!

I join a couple of other women and start a conversation about Nelson Mandela. You can’t go wrong talking about Mandela.
Mandela’s a good guy, he’s a great guy. He’s sweet.
So long in prison, yet such dignity…
It’s so easy to talk about Mandela, say great things and mean it. If Josh sees me, he’ll at least see me being sensible. Female lore tells me I should be with another hot guy just to rub Josh’s nose in it, but right now the “hot guy hunt” doesn’t seem like such a fun game. It’s the last thing I need, what with Massimo locking me in a room with Mr Dark and Mysterious, and now Josh Lake showing his true colors.

The truth is, however antsy Dark and Mysterious made me feel, I’ve been knee-deep in alpha males recently, and what I really need is another champagne-loving gal. As far as male company goes, my faithful champagne bearer will do fine. I glance round to see if I can see Phoebe. Still no sign. Perhaps she really IS staying away from Josh and if so, she has my respect.

I’m still looking. There’s Andrea. And…
shit
. That is who I think it is: Johnthen Trent as Andrea calls him, and she’s looking up at him, facing him. I can only see his lean, muscular back draped in the suit, and the dark, thick hair playing over the collar of his shirt - I’d recognise it anywhere. His back is broad and virile, but unsettling too. His hair is dark and thick, and slightly long over his clean white collar. That’s him. Dark and Deep. John. No wonder Andrea’s waving her arms about nervously as she talks to him. Sculpted features, dreamily handsome, but a sexual predator if ever I saw one. I give myself a pat on the back for the way I dealt with him yesterday.

That look on his face in the video clip when he was seventeen said it all. He was dirt poor, no education, but he had innate style and a grace in the way he moved around. He’s made it to a position of wealth and power, and he didn’t do that with just his looks and a little style. He must have been ruthless. He’d be ruthless with a woman too, however tenderly he kisses her. I have to remember that. Which power-dressing female from corporate finance will he be performing due diligence on tonight?

I turn away so he won’t see me. My shoes are beginning to hurt already. It’s going to be a long night. In front of me are a charcoal-suited female lawyer and a male model whose outfit is so outlandish that I think at first he’s come as a pirate – I mean it’s one hundred percent Vegas, maybe a doorman at Treasure Island Hotel. Not surprisingly, conversation between them is strained. Some sadistic streak in me decides to strain it further.

‘So, what do you think of Chomsky,’ I say to Pirate Boy. It’s mean, I know. I look at him expectantly, but to his credit he opens his mouth to reply, like an ornamental goldfish racking its one-second memory. It’s a champagne moment, so I take another sip, looking enquiringly at him over the glass.

Sadly, we are interrupted. Josh Lake. Joshua-fucking-Lake, money and sex robot, screwing things up for me again.

‘Hey, Jana. So have you… reconsidered the handcuffs yet?’ Josh wears an arch smile, and a wolfish look in his eye. Like he’s sooo cool, and I’m sooo embarrassed, but attracted to him as well, of course. Another time it would be cute, or funny. Right now, he’s just a conceited jerk, and he’s come to deliberately embarrass me. Which, weirdly, means he still wants me – if I’m not mistaken?

My mind is still whirring with that odd thought when the reply escapes my mouth. ‘Handcuffs? To symbolize repression?’ I act like he’s made the crassest suggestion. In fact I’m amazed at my slick riposte. Must be the pain from my shoes, sobering me up. ‘Don’t you think that’s a bit facile, Josh? Even for you?’

Lawyer Girl smiles at me as if to say,
You go girl
.

‘Ha, yeah! It’s not like it’s a fancy dress contest,’ says Pirate Boy, glad to change subject from Chomsky. I practically wet myself trying not to laugh.
Fancy dress?
Did the guy in the pirate costume just say that? I catch the eye of Lawyer Girl and we both bite our lips to resist the snigger. Josh can think of nothing, which is just as it should be. He turns away slightly, as if he’s not with us, as if he never took part in the exchange, but I feel his tall presence by my side, and I determine not to look round. He’ll be back with some smart quip. He’ll get his own back, and I’d better be ready.

‘You were saying about Chomsky,’ says Lawyer Woman to me with a sparkle in her eye. OK, it was naughty of me to throw that one at Pirate Boy, but now she’s called my bluff, and it’s my turn to avoid the goldfish look and talk about Chomsky. I begin to laugh, which is all I can do, but help is at hand.

‘His politics, or his theories of linguistics?’ pipes up Jack Sparrow Jnr.

‘Err… linguistics,’ I say, and I burst out laughing, assuming Pirate Boy knows as little as me about Chomsky.

I’m still laughing, but then, ouch! OUCH! That bastard Josh just pinched my butt, hard. Asshole. I’m determined not to make a scene, because that’s exactly what he wants. He wants me to lose it, after who knows how many glasses of champagne, and he’ll deny he touched me, and I’ll make an idiot of myself.

I’m not going to rise to it. I’ve got to be cool, and I am an actress after all.

But I can’t do nothing. I calmly swap my champagne glass to the other hand, and take my time. My toes are killing me by now in these shoes, and I channel the anger. There’s a waft of Josh’s aftershave. My free hand finds Josh’s butt to my right and gives it a good hard pinch. Mmm... his butt feels so fine, I have to admit. Better than I remember. Tight and firm. Muscular. I feel a flipping sensation in my belly in spite of myself.