The Juliette Society, Book III Page 6
I stride up to her and wait for a lull in the conversation. She turns toward me. “And you are?”
I hand her my card, unable to form words, afraid I’ll say something inane.
She nods. “Ah, yes. I remember something about the porn star you wrote about. Amanda Luna.”
“Inana Luna,” I correct her, a little more sharply than I intended to, but I’m tense over her mischaracterization and condescension. I clear my throat. “And she was an artist, a provocateur, not a porn star. She never did porn.”
Her smile is brittle, put on for those around us. “However you want to dress it up, dear. Anyways, what have you been working on since then?”
I can’t keep my mouth shut, so I add, “And if she had been a porn star, would that be a problem? This city bores and breeds them, it’s part of our culture and lure.”
One of the men beside her tries to soften my tone, breaking the tension. “Haven’t you heard? Catherine here did the Duncan piece. It was quite sensational. kudos, young lady.” He raises his glass to me.
I nod my thanks, hackles smoothed a little. He’s good, must work in PR to be able to pour it on like a tap.
Colleen grimaces, hiding it with a sip of champagne. “Ah, yes. Too bad you didn’t get Duncan’s side of the story before he was arrested. That would have made it truly fabulous.”
She’s right, that would have been an amazing addition to the interview, but there wasn’t time. Benny had left from our meeting and gone back to the police station to turn in more information.
“It would have, time permitting. The client wasn’t able to—”
She laughs. “It’s not about what they’re able to do. It’s about getting the story, the best story in every situation. Fiction, memoir, nonfiction, the narrative should always be as streamlined and fascinating and whole as we can make it. Maybe next time you’ll remember that.”
I nod, a little shell-shocked by her rudeness, but none of the people around her seem to notice. I guess this is how she always is.
I swallow hard. “Anyways, I was hoping for a moment of your time to ask your opinion on something?”
She arches a brow and turns to the young man standing next to her.
She’s bored and moves on before my lips can close around the taste of her dismissal.
The woman I’ve looked up to for so many years doesn’t even have a moment to spare for an actual meaningful conversation. Fair enough if she were busy, but she’s not. She just sized me up and instantly came to the conclusion that I am a person she is somehow required to hate and forget.
It’s like finding out Santa is real but he scornfully informs you that the letters you sent him were trite and inane with sloppy handwriting.
I’m so sick of female-on-female distain. This is so much more than an impartial rejection, and that’s what stings the most.
I head back to the bar, get a drink, and head for the balcony to get some air. I’d love to go grab a car home, but it would be unprofessional for me to leave this early. I should go pitch some more ideas, try to impress the right people with my stunning repartee, but at the moment I feel nothing but crushed. The fact I care so much about one person’s opinion also adds a tinge of the pathetic to my emotional cocktail, leaving a bitter taste on my tongue.
Diane’s going to be pissed at me squandering precious time on my phone here.
Mr. X: How’s your night going?
Me: Not amazing.
Mr. X: Why not?
I sigh. It seems stupid to tell him because he’s a stranger. But sometimes it’s easier to talk to strangers because of the emotional distance.
Me: I met Colleen Masterman. My idol since I was fifteen and one of the reasons I went into film school.
Mr. X: That’s amazing. But I’m sensing it didn’t go well?
Me: Not at all. She was not what I expected.
Mr. X: She didn’t want to hang out trading cute little anecdotes and dishing industry dirt?
Me: Exactly. I looked up to her so much. There aren’t many female directors and even though her movies weren’t always my favorite, she made me think I could be there too someday, before I settled with print.
Mr. X: At the risk of sounding crass, sometimes women are worse than men in the way they treat each other. They worry that they’ll show favoritism to other girls and so they overcompensate by being total cunts to others instead of helping them. Reaching back to bring others forward, as it were. It’s not right, but it is what it is. I bet she felt threatened by you.
Me: Threatened? Why?
Mr. X: You’re younger than her, smarter than her, and being talked about more than her right now. Add to that the fact you’re also more beautiful than her, it’s no wonder she was aloof.
Me: I doubt that, but thank you for trying to frame her rejection.
Mr. X: I’m serious. I could have told you that she’d be a bitch if you approached her. This one time, she had an intern fired for wearing the same dress as her to a premiere. She’s an ice queen through and through. Don’t worry about her. You want to get under her skin, send her a basket of flowers with a card that says, Happy Retirement.
That earns a smile. I relax and maybe that’s what allows the memory of Dominick’s pitch video to slither back into my mind. The thing is, it felt very Juliette Society and I’ve come to suspect Mr. X is also a part of it, but I can’t outright ask him. I can’t go back to Dominick and ask him that either as that’s not something you casually bring up in conversation. Besides, sometimes it’s best to have a secret in your pocket. So if Dominick is in TJS, then I’ll know that he is, but he won’t know that I know.
Instead, I text Mr. X: What do you know about Central America?
I hedge, gambling with the location. I could be wrong, but Dominick’s video looked like Belize or Honduras. My grade school teacher went on a trip to Belize once, and it looked close but I could be way off.
His reply takes a moment, a long time actually, as I realize my drink is empty, he finally responds.
Mr. X: I’m assuming you’re talking about Honduras. I can’t tell you but I can show you if you’re interested in learning more...
Honduras! Excellent confirmation from him.
Me: As much as I appreciate the offer, I don’t really have time for a vacation right now…especially with someone I’ve never met in person.
I want to add “no offense,” but his offer is coming off as strange and inappropriate. I’ve never even heard his voice on a call, never mind seen the man.
At least I’m assuming Mr. X is a man. Behind a text, anyone could be sending the words I’ve been reading. But Dominick and Benny both referred to Mr. X as “he,” so I think it’s safe to presume.
Mr. X: You misunderstand. This isn’t a vacation. There’s a conference there, that’s all, reminiscent of the G8 though not quite the same. But it could be a great follow-up to your last article. I know something that would make the last one seem as scandalous as a church picnic.
Me: I’ve heard about some pretty scandalous church picnics.
I don’t send a winky face but he knows I’m kidding.
Mr. X: I bet you have. But nothing like this. Are you interested?
My pulse kicks up again. Is this the part where he cashes in on the goodwill he’s given me so far? What’s the price of his favors?
Me: Show me how?
Mr. X: A business trip, of course. I have got a private jet, if you’re worried about the cost at this moment.
The cost is a factor, but it’s not my biggest reticence. The situation is still more than a little strange.
Me: Is there an expiration date to this? When is the conference?
Mr. X: Soon. So let me know if you want to participate ASAP.
It doesn’t escape my attention that he didn’t actually give me a date. Is he trying to keep me on my toes, unsettled, unsteady? I’m not going to be rushed into making a decision, and I’ve been the recipient of power plays more subtle and effective than this.
His offer is crossing a line into inappropriate territory. I also don’t want to burn a potentially important interview. I search online, and I find it. Honduras has been selected as the location for a yearly eco conference. Political and environmental leaders from around the world will be present, some who are quite controversial and profit-driven.
SEVEN
CERTAIN PLACES FEEL INNATELY WRONG when they’re empty. When everyone’s gone home and the lights go off, things change dramatically. Grocery stores, bars and clubs, schools. A lot of horror movies use this to their advantage, playing upon the jarring discord between our expectations of a place and the settings they choose. Places we expect to see bustling with people and life become unsettling when they’re suddenly emptied and quiet. The sound and activity fade out, leaving room for a more atmospheric opportunity for unease to creep in. Why are they empty? What happened?
Picture yourself walking into a stadium, waiting for a football game or a concert—and you’re the only one there.
Or maybe you rush through the departures entrance at an airport, too caught up in thoughts of missing your flight to notice there are no cars or other people, and you walk in the door only to be greeted with silence.
Maybe you walk inside a shopping mall and instead of the food court being filled with the sounds of hundreds of people and scents of different mall foods for sale, there’s nothing but the echoes of your footfalls on the floor, reverberating slightly in the still, cool air.
I don’t know about you, but I’d be creeped out, wondering what was wrong with the place, what had happened to all the people I expected to find.
What I didn’t know about that everyone else did that made them leave.
If you’re the only one headed in one direction and the other side of the road headed the other way is jammed with traffic, it kind of makes you question your decision—or wonder what is happening that you don’t know about. It’s usually something innocuous, but sometimes there’s a disaster you didn’t hear about because you were listening to your music—or silence—instead of the radio and missed an important alert.
There’s a name for this feeling, you know, but you probably haven’t heard of it. Kenopsia. It’s actually defined as follows: “n. the eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that’s usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet—a school hallway in the evening, an unlit office on a weekend, vacant fairgrounds—an emotional afterimage that makes it seem not just empty but hyper-empty, with a total population in the negative, who are so conspicuously absent they glow like neon signs.”
It’s one of those perfect words that capture a specific emotion so well it makes you want to grasp the meaning in both hands and never let it go because for that moment, you feel understood. Someone got how you were feeling so well they made a definition for it.
But the word is too niche, and you eventually forget it because other than displaying your pedantry at cocktail parties, your brain has no use for the word and lets it slip away with the song lyrics you learned for the school play back in kindergarten.
But the emotion doesn’t fade away the same way, particularly this specific one. I mean, we’ve all seen the horror movies that take place in malls, though that’s more of a plot device so characters can hole up in a place with resources and, because of the size, both privacy from other survivors and the ability for isolation (which brings opportunity for danger). This emotion is one that many directors employ to play up an unnerving atmosphere.
I’m seeing a lot of parallels tonight.
My date and I are alone in the restaurant except for the efficient wait staff who are only here when we need a refill of the best champagne he ordered a bottle of. I hate champagne but am going along with it because I’m used to adapting to elitist culture when I have to put my game face on for work. It’s definitely a strike against him, not asking me what I wanted to drink, instead assuming I’d be impressed and happy to go with the most expensive thing in the house.
He rented out the restaurant so we have it to ourselves. I’m flattered, but it’s ostentatious and unnecessary if he’s trying to win points back from the last time he took me out. And having no other diners around to observe and take the focus off of each other, the whole set-up feels forced, like one of those one-on-one dates on reality dating programs. That, and the fact that it feels like we’re eating in a haunted restaurant doesn’t exactly add to the ambiance.
I’m not saying this date is a horror show, but it’s definitely not the experience I was hoping for when I gave Jacob another chance when he called me up and invited me on another date since he “lost me at the party.” Initially I was reluctant, as he hadn’t seemed to notice and didn’t get in touch with me for a full week after I went home with Dominick, but eventually I said yes. I was getting overwhelmed by the flower deliveries as his means of apology…and running out of vases.
And, to be honest, I’d crept his Instagram, and there was a picture of me and all these other quotes about excitement and new adventures and hope and it was very flattering.
The thing is, it feels manufactured. Something simple and heartfelt was what I was hoping for instead of what’s feeling more and more clichéd. That’s the problem I have with those reality dating shows where they take contestants on these magical luxury dates in the hopes that the women—or men—will fall for the person they’re all fighting for.
Sure, maybe some people do develop genuine feelings for the person, but can you really be into a stranger enough to want to marry them on the first date? If so, you’re not in love with them, you’re in love with the idea of them. I’m not saying genuine feelings can’t develop after initial lust or attraction, but let’s be honest. You don’t know the person that early on. And the producers know that too; it’s why they work the competitive aspect of the show so hard, encouraging envy and pitting contestants against each other so it’s more about winning instead of finding a connection—though that’s certainly an overused buzzword.
Most women fall in love with the experience and imprint those feelings onto the guy they’re with instead of analyzing whether or not they’re actually in love. And it’s not only the women—the man feels pressure to fall for one of the contestants when really, maybe his match isn’t on the show. She’s probably not. But they wedge themselves into a relationship on an unrealistic timeline and then everyone’s sad (but not surprised) when after the show ends the couple’s pictures are on the cover of various supermarket tabloids with “Why they split” and “The Romance Is Over” written in bold font.
I’ve read studies that show if you do something exciting with someone on a first date, you’re more likely to fall in love because of the chemical rush in your body. Your brain interprets it as falling in love, and you get attached more quickly. So, I guess, if you’re looking to force a timeline, it’s best to go for an adrenaline rush. That explains why a lot of those dating shows outings involve zip lines and bungee jumping.
The better to fool you with.
It makes sense then, that the contestants are falling for the experience instead of the bachelor or bachelorette. It’s all about the fantasy, carefully cultivated until they forget that back home there won’t be helicopter rides to exotic dates on mountaintops, or giant mansions to sleep in. They don’t want them to remember that back home you’ll be working instead of sitting around discussing your potential husband’s dreamy attributes with seven of your closest frenemies, making him seem more desirable. They forget that there won’t be a big swimming pool to lounge by, or private dates where your favorite band plays just for you.
So I find it even more insulting that Jacob’s clearly trying to win me over with more toys and gifts and flashy crap I don’t care about. What would have impressed me more would have been if he’d remembered the drink I’d ordered for myself at the bar he took me to on our first night and asked me if I wanted one of those instead of gloating about the quality
of the champagne.
It would have impressed me more if he’d asked what I wanted to eat instead of informing me that he’d had the restaurant prepare Kobe beef steaks he’d specifically had flown in just for the occasion. I hate when people do that as though wanting praise for making a show of themselves. I don’t want to fall all over myself with effusive praise for something I never wanted and don’t care to have.
It’s no longer in my nature to coddle phonies. I swore I’d be true to myself after Jack and I intend to keep that promise. It’s also not in my nature to be outright rude, so I take this for what it is—an experi-ence—and sip my champagne, now knowing I don’t even like it if it’s perfectly chilled and poured from a ridiculously overpriced vintage. At least now I can say I’ve drunk some.
“Good, huh?” Jacob asks, swallowing more.
I make a non-committal noise and set my glass down.
“I’m glad you finally saw sense and agreed to come out with me. Most girls would have caved way earlier.”
“I am not most girls, then,” I say archly.
He winks. “I find most girls are basically the same at the end of the day.”
Way to actually insult me. “When does it become acceptable to say things like this to people?”
He grins. “I’m just kidding.” His smile fades when he notices I’m not buying the charm. “Hey, I’m sorry, okay? You made me nervous. You’re an intimidating woman, Catherine.”
I don’t buy it, but I relax a little. What’s the tax bracket that leads you to believe people are things to acquire instead of to interact with and care about? Now I get it. He only pursued me because I resisted. He’s used to girls falling all over themselves when he snaps his fingers. No wonder he was interested in me. I present a challenge to his monstrous ego.