“Trace, are you ready?” Justin calls up the stairs, failing to hide the annoyance in his voice.
“Yeah!” comes the reply, which is quickly punctuated with a, “I just need to get dressed!”
He rolls his eyes, leaning heavily on the banister of the stairs. “So you’re not ready, then?”
There’s a silence. “Kinda depends on how you define ready…”
“Oh God,” Justin groans, pushing himself away from handrail and walking around the hall impatiently. “How can a guy, who can plan four weeks of nonstop activity for me, be incapable of getting his ass dressed by the time he’s been given?”
Reaching out to calmly stroke his bicep, I smile. “It’s not as though the plane is going to leave without you.” Justin had needlessly wasted a ridiculous amount of money chartering a personal flight for just him and Trace to take them to LA, and no amount of persuasion on my part could convince him that it was an utter waste of money.
“Baby, it’s easier if I get a private jet,” he repeats for the umpteenth time in the last few days. “That way I can avoid the hassle of airports, because, trust me, everyone in LA has got a camera in their hand, ready to take a shot of a celebrity and sell it on Ebay.”
“Well, you are going to Hollywood, the breeding ground for the most fame-hungry people on this earth,” I shrug, rolling me eyes. “Oh, and let’s not forget the only place in the world where it’s normal that the percentage of people without breast implants pales in comparison to the number of those who do.”
He laughs, swinging his car keys on his index finger. “Very bitchy.”
“But very true.” Sighing, I pull down my top nervously. “Just run over the plan one last time?”
He lets out an annoyed breath of air and throws his keys in the air, catching them again. “We’re takin’ the Viper to the airport…”
“Is that some kind of snake?”
“No,” he replies, shaking his head with a smile. “It’s my car. You’ve been in it. The silver one with the button ignition.”
“Oh, you mean the thing that threatened to break my neck as we hurtled down the highway?” At his nod, my eyes narrow. “Are you sure that’s safe to drive?”
He rolls his eyes. “Yes.”
“Justin, I’m being serious. That thing goes at an immense speed, I don’t want you getting carried away and crashing into some other poor soul.”
“Cat, I’ve been driving for almost ten years, I think I can handle it.”
“That’s what everybody says,” I proceed, the panic rising in my voice. “All you boy racers go out there thinking you’re invincible and then, bam, you’ve T-boned a fence!”
“Cat!” he says sharply. “Please, stop worrying! We’ll be fine.”
“But what if--”
“You’re being worse than my mom, so can you please just let it go, okay? We’ll be fine.” Seeing I have no choice in the matter, I let him continue. “Anyways, Mike and Tiny are meeting us at the airport.”
“Okay,” I nod, crossing my arms across my chest, for some reason feeling the flutters of nerves in my stomach. “What time is your plane going to take off?”
“At the rate we’re going at now…” he trails off, checking his diamond encrusted watch. “Probably around three.”
“And you’ll call me when you get into Los Angeles?”
“Of course.”
I bite my bottom lip, drumming my nails against my arm. “Make sure you wear your belts on the plane.”
He rolls his eyes. “Okay.”
“And for Heaven’s Sake, don’t piss off the flight attendants by stealing peanuts.”
Justin grins broadly. “Now, there’s a promise I’m never going to make.”
“Okay, I’m dressed, I’m ready, I’m…I’m shoeless,” says Trace, stopping in his energetic journey down the stairs and frowning as he looks around him, as though expecting his shoes to be within a yard’s distance.
Justin lets out an angry sigh. “Man, we couldn’t be any slower if we were going backwards, now find your fucking shoes and let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Patience, my dearest friend,” replies Trace in a sing-song voice, happily hopping towards the living room and looking for his shoes under the couch.
As Trace disappears into the large living room to search for his footwear, I turn to Justin. “I guess we should say our goodbyes now.”
“Yeah,” he replies quietly, staring down at the bundle of chinking keys in his hands. “I hope you’ll be okay on your own.”
I laugh uncomfortably. “I spent twenty one years on my own before you swept me off my feet, I think I’ll be okay.”
He smiles, still not greeting my eyes as he fingers the keys to the house. “Well, you know where I am if you need me. I’ll come back in no time, or fly you out there, whatever.”
“Sure.”
Just as an awkward silence looms over us, threatening to crash down and linger for the three weeks that we’ll be apart, Trace’s triumphant shout of, “Found ‘em!” is heard, and we break into uneasy laughter.
“I’ll miss you,” I admit earnestly, capturing his gaze as he looks up at me.
“I’ll miss you too,” he says quietly, slowly reaching out to hug me, his strong arms enveloping me into the warmth of his chest.
Taking a deep inhale of the cologne I bought him at Christmas, I nuzzle into him, relishing in the closest contact we’ve had for days. It feels as though he’s inflicted a strict, ‘No Touching Cat’ Rule lately, despite the fact we’re not going to be seeing each other for quite some time. Our sex life is such a taboo I’m beginning to doubt we’ll ever actually sleep together again.
“Love you,” I whisper into his ear, as an oblivious Trace rams his feet into his sneakers behind me.
He sighs, stroking my back and playing with the ends of my hair. “I love you too, Cat.”
“Don’t do anything…stupid, whilst you’re there,” I remind hesitantly. If fraternizing with gorgeous blonde LA models is under the category of “stupid”.
“I won’t,” he promises, giving me an awkward pat on the back before jumping away, as though my body has suddenly burned him. He buries his hands in the pockets, glancing slyly from underneath the slits of his eyes at me and Trace.
Is this a mere insight to the rest of our relationship? His ridiculous blowing of hot and cold; one minute murmuring sweet proclamations of love, and the next snapping away, as though he’s too afraid to get close to me again? He acts as though I’m some form of disease he thinks he’ll catch by standing too near.
“Cutie,” Trace says, holding his arms out to me and playfully twirling me around. “Try not to watch too much Friends whilst we’re away.”
Snorting, I poke him in the arm. “Try not to shrink too much whilst you’re away, Tempt,” I laugh teasingly, “or we’ll just have to slip you right in my pocket!”
“Excuse me, I am the grandiose height of--”
“Guys, really,” Justin snaps wearily, staring condescendingly at the pair of us, as though we were two kindergarteners making trouble by the water fountain. “We don’t have time.”
Trace raises an eyebrow, glances at me and shakes his head. When he came home, I had been expecting some kind of somber talk or lecture from him, at the very least an enquiry about how Justin and I were doing. That’s what he always does, right? But instead, he skipped into the apartment beaming and talking about an incident he had had on the subway, and didn’t make the slightest reference to the events of the past few weeks. It seems as though everyone in this house is trying their very best to pretend it never even happened.
Holding out my arms to him, I wrap him in a hug that, for some reason, holds a whole lot more feeling than me and Justin’s did. “Take care of him,” I whisper into his ear as Justin starts to look around him in case he’s forgotten anything.
“Don’t worry about him,” he replies, rubbing my back. “You just worry about yourself. Make sure you always lock the doors at night and stuff. And don’t let the doorman seduce whilst we’re away.”
Laughing, I pull back, trying to stifle the tears building up in my throat. “I’ll try to control my urges, but there is something about his seventy-year-old self that really rings my bell.”
“We really should go,” interrupts Justin pointedly, putting his wallet into his pocket.
Trace stops mid-laugh and gives him an incredulous look, which Justin returns icily.
“It’s going to be a long trip,” Justin explains in a chipped tone.
“Call me when you land,” I remind them, trying to disrupt their budding argument as I slowly budge them out of the apartment. “Drive safely.”
“Okay Cat, I’ll see you later,” Justin says hurriedly, placing a very small, very awkward, very forced kiss on my lips, and then withdrawing hastily.
He’ll ‘see me later’? What does he think he’s doing, going grocery shopping?
“Bye doll,” says Trace, kissing my cheek affectionately and smiling at me. “I’ll make sure to tell Chris Martin you think Gwyneth Paltrow is way out of his league.”
I giggle and open the door for them, giving them one final wave before watching them jostle each other over who can press the button for the elevator. When it finally arrives and the two doors slide open, they step in and stand with their backs against the wall, Trace short, Justin tall. Trace’s face hinting at sadness at leaving me, Justin’s a picture of relief.
The doors shut, with the two men offering meek waves, leaving me in a city I barely know, in an apartment that’s far too big for just one person, and entirely on my own.
This is exactly what I need.
---------------------------------------------------
“Well, I hate to sound like a prick here, but it sounds total bullocks.”
My grin widens. Chris Martin just called me bullocks. “So how are we gonna make it better?”
He leans back in his chair, tapping a pencil against his lips. “Well, take out that crap guitar for one. It just clutters things up. Secondly…maybe add a soft piano in the background or something. But not overpowering, for Heaven’s Sake, like that blundering guitar that you’ve got now. Just something to free things up.”
“But what about the guitar solo after the third chorus?”
“Take it out,” he says simply with a wave of his hand, “put in a few tinkly piano noises instead. It’ll bring the song down a lot more, to like, chill out, rather than dance.”
“I get you,” I nod, tapping away at a few buttons that could potentially not be what I think they are. “I’ll try and get a piano melody down for that.”
“Cool,” Chris nods, standing up and stretching his back. “Oh, I bumped into one of your friends on the way in here.”
“Which friend?”
“Rebecca something…she had flamin’ red hair.”
My heart froze. Not that psycho. I’m not being disrespectful, the girl genuinely is crazy. We had one night together and she stole my boxers, for crying out loud. She was desperate to have my children just so she could tell everyone that she had been impregnated by Justin Timberlake. “Rebecca Bru?”
“That’s the one. Said you two were great friends.”
I let out a disbelieving snort. “Oh, trust me, that isn’t the case. You see, back in 2002, just after I had released Justified, I--”
“Justin!” I shrill voice suddenly interrupts, as the door to our studio flings open. “How wonderful to see you again!”
Oh no. The crazy, red-haired mental patient is here. “Um…hey, Rebecca. Nice to, er, see you too.”
“How are you!” she exclaims, wrapping me in a somewhat unreciprocated hug and drenching me in the exotic smell of perfume. “I haven’t seen you since, oh, it would be when we slept together in October 2002!”
I stare at her as though she had three heads as Chris makes an uncomfortable noise in the background. “Mm, that must be it.”
“Hey, I hear you got yourself a very special honey,” she says, poking me in the stomach with her brown eyes blazing. “Apparently, you two are practically engaged.”
Psh, as if. “Well, that’s a bit ambitious, I think.”
“Really? Because I heard from Paula Jones who heard from Sara Giles who was at your birthday party that you’d found a real, girl next door sweetheart who couldn’t wait to get married and start a family.”
Where the hell did that come from? “Um, no, that’s not quite it.”
“She said you two were all over each other, practically stuck at the hip, she said.”
I think back to my twenty fourth birthday party, when my mom grinded on Trace and Chris, when Cat spent the evening obsessing over whether people liked her, and then gave me those stupid handcuffs that we thought were hilarious at the time… How could something that was such a good joke taint our relationship like this?
We were attached at the hip at the time. We couldn’t get enough of each other. Where did those days go?
“So, how are you?”
“Oh, you’ll never guess what!” she screeches.
“What?” I mumble indifferently.
“I got a gossip column in Rolling Stone, isn’t that amazing?”
Her? A gossip fiend? Never! “Congratulations.”
“Thanks!” she says happily, looking around the studio and waving at Chris enigmatically. “Well, I’d better go. Great seeing you.” And with that, she leaves the room almost as quickly as she came.
Hallelujah.
Slumping back into my chair, thoughts of Cat invade my conscience. She was so wonderful the night of my birthday, even though I knew she felt uncomfortable in front of so many people. She was there for me, and I loved her for that. So why the hell wouldn’t she let me be there for her? I don’t understand it, and I’m beginning to doubt whether I ever will.
“You alright, mate?” Chris ask, tapping my leg to get my attention.
I glance up at him. “Oh, yeah, fine. It’s just, you know…woman troubles,” I smile meekly.
“Let me guess…you had a supremely amazing relationship, and now it’s suddenly gone arse up?”
I frown. “Um…yeah, that’s it, basically.”
He laughs and hits my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, it’ll sort itself out.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Take it from someone who’s married,” he says wisely. “Things might appear dark, dark, dark, but they get better eventually.”
I rub a hand over my face. “Yeah…yeah, I hope so.”
--------------------------------------
“Personally, I don’t see the big uproar about the Mona Lisa. There are a million theories; that it’s Da Vinci himself in drag, that it’s some silk merchant’s wife…and yet, I just think it’s a woman who happens to be smiling.”
Ed nods, smacking his lips together after taking a sip of his coffee. “I agree. It’s a nice painting, his use of sfumato is impressive, but nothing particularly leaps out at me.”
“Maybe you have to see it up close to fully comprehend its power,” I shrug, eyeing Ed’s milky coffee with envy.
As part of our, "Get Fit, Healthy and almost as Hyper as me!" regime, Robb-with-two-B’s had suggested I cut all dairy out of my diet. Yeah, right. I cleverly told him that I was lactose dependent (a disease I made up on the spot that is supposed to be the opposite of lactose intolerant), and just had to have cocoa beans and milk in my diet every day, which is, of course, utter crap. He didn’t realize that milk and cocoa beans are actually chocolate, and gave me a sympathetic look and said that he’d heard of this condition and sympathized with me. Brightest flower of the bunch he certainly is not.
Regardless, as part of my new losing weight plan and trying to find things to do, I’ve tried to cut out as much milk as I could, and purged the house of all things unhealthy. In other words, I’ve been hungry for the past two weeks.
“Oh, I’ve seen it,” he says. “I spent a year in Rome during my art history major, and I honestly didn’t find it all that moving.”
“Hold on, what time does the museum open?” I ask suddenly, trying to find my phone to see the time.
Ed checks his watch. “Another ten minutes.”
“Good,” I nod, relaxing in my seat again. “I can’t believe I’ve been in New York for what…two and a half months, and I still haven’t been to the Guggenheim Museum.”
Ed smiles and leans back in the small coffee shop’s armchair, watching as a flood of tourists come in through the swinging glass doors. The light catches his brown eyes, making them sparkle slightly, and his moves his chair in to let people past him easily, rubbing the top of his black curls as someone spills a little ice-cold frappucino on his head.
Ed Carrey, a twenty six year old man who has just moved to New York from Chicago, is officially my friend. Well, it’s actually Elliot Carrey, but he told me that he finds that name far too pretentious and only his appallingly rich parents call him that, and everyone else calls him Ed. I’m not entirely sure how he got from Elliot to Ed, but I’ve learnt to never question anything he says.
He is a genius. And that’s no exaggeration; I’ve been in his tiny attic apartment and seen the hundreds of certificates and qualifications hanging on his walls. There’s nothing he doesn’t know; ask him anything, about art, about math, about history, about Cher, and he’ll be able to tell you the answer. Oh, and I really do mean Cher, “I have two tattoos on my butt cheeks”…I don’t fully understand it, but for some odd reason the brainy intellectual has some sort of fixation with the age-defying singer.
We became friends purely by accident. The day after Justin had left (as I was too busy on the first crying my eyes out and thinking there was some mass murderer maniac hiding in the apartment), I went to this tiny book store to search for that book Michael Moore wrote about Columbine, and found that the only people in the shop were me, this guy with brown eyes and black curly hair, and the shopkeeper, who looked so old I thought she’d die at any moment.
As we were the only two in the store and inevitably kept on bumping into each other, we eventually fell into conversation about whether we found Michael Moore biased or whether his extreme views were justified. We got on well, but nothing particularly extraordinary happened and I thought I’d never see him again. So of course, fate spited me and I saw him the very next day in the same book store, pretty much in the same position as I had left him the day before.
This time we did go out for coffee, and I had the most fun I’d had in weeks. We talked, laughed, had political discussions. It was so…refreshing, I suppose. To not be entangled in the web of problems that surround Justin, Trace and I, to not have to worry about everything I say, should it make any kind of reference to cancer, lies, secrets, or sex. He’s the first person I’ve met in a long time that hasn’t had anything to do with Justin or Trace, and it was wonderful. I wasn’t introduced as, “Justin Timberlake’s Girlfriend” or, “That Girl Who Trace Ayala Is Good Friends With”, I was actually just Cat.
It’s a wonder I can even communicate with any of Justin’s friends, seeing as my personality is so starkly different to theirs, and I’ve found that all of the things that I tend to tone down around them, such as my intelligence, I can fully embrace with Ed. Not that I’m saying Justin’s friends are stupid, but how many times does a guy call Ripper want to talk about communism? Ed’s really the last guy since, well, Sean, that I’ve really had so much in common with.
Now, if your mind works in any way like mine does, you’re very suspicious of this ‘Ed’ character. Here I am, a vulnerable young woman whose relationship is on slightly rocky grounds and I meet an intelligent, nice man with brooding dark eyes and a head of thick curly hair? Not to mention the fact that said intelligent, nice man with brooding dark eyes and a head of thick curly hair is the complete opposite of my boyfriend, whose absence I am grateful for, and who I get on with like a house on fire. Surely we’re having a highly secret, highly intelligent affair?
Not quite.
I idly stir the ice cubes around in my water, trying to crush them into smaller pieces so they don’t keep on banging my teeth whenever I try to take a drink.
Ed shakes the sachet of sugar in his hand before ripping it open and depositing its contents into his cup. In our week long friendship, where we’ve met up every day, we’ve done the exact same thing: met in a coffee shop in the morning, had something to drink and, in his case, something to eat, spoken about a book that we’ve read or something on TV last night, and then gone out to a museum or sightseeing. Our friendship revolves around Starbucks and my book of “Most Interesting Places to See and Visit in New York”.
My cell phone starts to buzz unexpectedly. “Mind if I take this?” I ask, pointing towards my vibrating purse.
“Not at all,” he waves of submissively, and I quickly head out of the noisy coffee shop.
“Hello?” I answer, flipping the phone open and pressing it to my ear.
“Hey Cat, it’s Justin.”
“Justin! Hi, how are you?” I ask quickly, my stomach fluttering at hearing his voice. He’s been gone a week already, and I’ve only heard from him three of four times. That doesn’t sound too bad, but when you’re used to living with someone day in and day out, not hearing from them for more than fifteen minutes can be very disconcerting.
“I’m good, things are going great,” he answers, and I can hear the relaxed tone of his voice. He sounds much better than when I last spoke to him. “You?”
“I’m fine, thanks. Just out for coffee with E--…a friend,” I reply hesitantly, suddenly realizing I had failed to mention Ed to Justin, and knowing Justin’s somewhat overactive imagination combined with his jealousy would concoct a sleazy situation in mere seconds.
“Oh really? Which friend?”
I squeeze the bridge of my nose. “Ed,” I reply, not even daring to venture down that road of lying.
He’s silent for a moment, and I can just imagine his jaw tensing. “Ed who?”
“Ed Carrey?” I respond casually, as though Justin might know him. “Didn’t I mention him? I met him in a bookst--”
“Yeah, well whatever, I have to be quick,” he interrupts brusquely, and I know his male ego is just wounded from hearing I’m out with someone else, despite its innocence. “Basically I was just calling to say I’m probably going to be longer than three weeks.”
“What? But you’ve only been gone one, how can you tell already?”
“There’s too much work to be done in just three weeks,” he says simply, in a tone that one might use when talking to a complete stranger, not a girlfriend of nine months. “I don’t know how much longer, but longer.”
“Well, alright, I understand…”
“And there’s also something I want to ask you,” he continues briskly.
“And what is that?” I ask warily, leaning against the dirty wall of the building as hundreds of people rushed pass me to get to work.
“I was just wondering whether you would mind if I, um…” He coughs uncomfortably. “Um…go to a strip club.”
My jaw drops in surprise. “What?!” I exclaim, forgetting his cold manner and frowning angrily, even though the source of my anger can’t see me.
“Yeah. The boys are going out and I--”
“You want my consent to go visit some sleazy brothel where girls are willing to have sex with you for a few bucks? Wow, you’re so considerate,” I spit sarcastically.
“Don’t be stupid. I don’t do anything, I just watch and laugh with my friends. We’re not allowed to touch them or anything.”
“Oh, you’re a real gentleman.”
“Cat, you’re not my mom, I can go if I want. I thought I’d just be polite and ask.”
“Polite!” I screech incredulously. “This is your idea of politeness?”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
I honestly can’t believe the words coming from his mouth. How can he be so cold? Is this just because of the fact I’m having coffee with another man? “You know what, Justin? Fine,” I reply heatedly. “Do whatever the hell you want, you don’t have to check in with me.”
“Don’t you dare try and make me feel guilty, Cat. You’re the one out on a snug little coffee date with Jed.”
“Ed.”
“What-the-fuck-ever!” he shouts, jolting me with his volume. “Shit Cat, can we not even talk like adults?”
“It appears not,” I reply coldly, hoping I can make him feel as crap as I do.
“Great. What a fucking productive relationship we have,” he retorts, and a moment later, the dial tone lets me know he’s hung up.
Asshole. A real fucking asshole. I hate him. I want to cry, I want to scream, I want to call him back and say we’re both being ridiculous. A malicious argument just spawned itself from nothing. I don’t care if he goes to a strip club, I know Justin just laughs and then leaves, giving the girls a tip. And he knows there’s no way I’d cheat on him, the idea is just ridiculous.
“Cat?” a voice manages to swim into my head, through the jumble of thoughts.
Ed stands in the doorway of the café, letting people past him as he looks at me dubiously. “You okay?”
Taking a breath, I try to shove the lump in my throat back down again. “Fine.”
He frowns and walks over to me, wrapping an arm around my bare shoulders (no one ever warned me that it was so hot in New York in June, so I was forced to wear the only cool top I could, which was a strapless creation that showed more cleavage than I liked). This would be the first time Ed’s even touched me.
“Who was on the phone?”
Shaking my head tiredly, I murmur, “My boyfriend,” unenthusiastically.
“Oh,” he says in surprise, pulling back slightly. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”
A feeling of nausea creeps into my stomach. He didn’t think we were…dating, did he? Have I inadvertently cheated on Justin?
“YeahIdoandwe’reveryhappytogether.”
“Sorry?”
“Yeah, I do, and we’re very happy together,” I reply firmly, moving away from his arm. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I thought it was obvious I just wanted to be friends.
“You don’t look very happy at the moment,” Ed comment, raising an eyebrow. “Sure you don’t want to talk about it?”
“Um…”
“Come on, let’s go get another coffee,” he reassures me soothingly, jerking a thumb in the direction of the slightly quieter coffee house.
“Oh, you wouldn’t be interested…” I stutter uncomfortably, giving him an artificial smile.
“Trust me, I find everything about men interesting. Let’s go in before someone takes our table.”
He stands in front of me, looking at me expectantly as I stare at him wordlessly. “What?”
Ed shrugs, tilting his head to the side. “What?”
“You find men…interesting? What?” I repeat stupidly.
“Oh,” he smirks, “I’m gay. Didn’t I tell you?”
Not from my immediate recollection, and I’m pretty sure I would have remembered that.
“You’re gay?” I reiterate in astonishment.
“Yeah,” he pauses, eyeing me cautiously. “That’s not a problem, is it?”
I vehemently shake my head. “No, no, of course not, it’s just…you don’t find me attractive?”
“Er, what?”
“And you never will?” I smile, as Ed face becomes increasingly more worried. “Justin’s going to be so happy.”
Before Ed could turn on his heel and run five hundred yards in the opposite direction, I laugh and clutch his forearm. “Let’s go inside. We can talk.”
So he was gay. Who would have thought? I should have known that as cruel fate would have it, the female race would be deprived of Ed’s intelligence and chivalry and acceptable looks. Once we were back in the coffee house, my mouth opened and I started to ramble about Justin, starting from the very, very beginning when we first met on that destined day in the grocery store, and running right through to our present state. Conveniently missing out that part that he was a global superstar, of course.
I was going to skimp on the details; I had, after all, only known Ed a week and this was something so private it would be improper to impose so much of my personal life on him. But for some reason, once I started, I just couldn’t stop. I told him of my plans to have changed dramatically for Justin’s return, both in looks and personality, I told him how I was so immersed in the threesome of me, Justin and Trace, that without them I was completely alone, so I wanted to regain some of my independency, I even told him about my cancer scare and that stupid, stupid bondage idea.
He convinced me to call Justin again and apologize for how I had reacted. After all, what’s so bad about a strip club? A bunch of girls dancing around shaking their thing could only amuse Justin for so long. Our conversation was brief and to the point:
“Hi Justin, it’s me.”
“Oh. Hey.” The lingering notes of the piano in the background fade.
“Look, I’m really sorry about earlier. It’s not fair of me to ask you to sacrifice your fun just because I feel a little jealous, and I hope you have a good time.”
He was silent for a moment, before he chuckled. “Well, I actually decided not to go. It didn’t seem right.”
“Oh,” I did a few mental cartwheels, “well, for the future then. You, um, have my blessing.”
“Thanks,” he replied, before I could hear the slightest yawn.
“I’ll not hold you long, because you sound really tired, but I also wanted to talk to you about Ed.”
There was another silent. “Look, I’m sorry too. I know I was out of line, it’s just not cool to hear your girlfriend is chumming up with some other guy.”
“I know, and I understand. But you don’t need to worry; Ed’s gay,” I explained, smiling to myself as Justin let out a gasp of surprise. “He’d probably go out with you before he would me.”
“You’re sure he’s really gay?”
“Yeah. He just hates the gay stereotype and refuses to do any of that crap, like wearing man makeup and calling everyone sister, so most people don’t realize until he tells them.”
Justin laughed. “Oh God, we’re both so stupid, you know that?”
“Sadly, yes.”
There was shouting in the background, a quick playing of some piano keys, and I heard Justin cup his hand over the phone before replying. “Sorry Cat,” he said, returning to me, “I’ve gotta go.”
“Okay. Call me later.”
“Sure thing. Later.”
“Bye,” I replied, hanging up the phone and feeling the tiniest of weights being lifted off my shoulders.
That was our first and, so far, only argument. I’m not going to pretend we’re as close and chatty as we usually are, but at least we’re talking civilly. There are advantages to his being away, like I can spread out on the bed as much as I want in a star formation because I don’t have to make room for anyone else, I don’t have to watch any sports on the television, and I don’t have to listen to stupid conversations that go along the lines of, “Who looked better as Cat Woman, Michelle Pfeiffer or Halle Berry?”
On the other hand, I can’t wait for Justin to get back. He’s my boyfriend, it’s perfectly natural to feel slightly off balance. I see things and make a mental note to tell him about it when I get back to the apartment, or I’ll be shopping and wonder whether Justin said we ran out of Apple Jacks. This all makes it sound as though he was dead and I’ll never see him again, but sometimes it feels like that. The time sure is spanning out.
It’s only when they’re gone that I realize how codependent I’ve become on Justin and Trace; I expect them to do everything for me. I had to make sure I had the house keys before I left, whereas I would usually assume Trace had picked them up before we left. I had to take my purse everywhere with me, because I didn’t have Justin slapping down a gold credit card everywhere I went. I had to catch a cab the other day, and I realized I’d only had to get a cab a few times before, because usually Tiny or someone would always be driving me. I mean, how ridiculous is that? Catching a cab in New York City was a new experience for me.
Before Justin came into my life, I spent a lot of time on my own and was extremely independent. Probably too much, in fact. But now that I’m with him, I barely ever go places or do things by myself, and this time apart has made me realize I need to find an equilibrium, otherwise I’m never going to be happy.
My cell phone starts vibrating furiously, and I quickly put it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Cat, it’s Ed.”
“Hey, what can I do for you?” Today is one of the odd days where we haven’t seen each other.
“I was hoping to invite you to a dinner party. I’m sort of scooping up all the friends I’ve managed to make thus far and putting them all in the same room, whilst feeding them delicious finger foods and making them drink wine.”
“Mm, sounds great.”
“Well, it should be. Anyway, would you like to come?”
“Of course!” I exclaim, rather too quickly. “When is it?”
“Thursday. It may seem a rather odd day to have a dinner party, but it’s the only day a particularly beautiful boy I met on the subway can make it.”
“Ah, I see,” I laugh, making my way to the kitchen where the pathetically empty appointments calendar was hanging on the wall. “Want me to bring anything? Food, wine?”
“Just your sparkling personality, dearest.”
I giggle again and write Ed’s name down for the Thursday. “Fantastic. I’ll be there with polished bells on.”
“Great.”
“Oh shit,” I mutter, catching sight of the clock. “I’ve got the be at the gym in fifteen minutes. Robb-with-two-B’s has delighted me by informing me that we’re working on my gluts, and I don’t even want to know what that means.”
“But you just went to the gym yesterday,” he points out.
I search for a response. “You’re point being?”
“Are you sure it’s good for your muscles to be doing so much exercise? I mean, I know you want to look wonderful for your boyfriend, but don’t you think you’re overdoing it slightly?”
“No,” I respond firmly. “I’m barely wasting away, am I?” With this said, I catch a glance of my face in the reflection of the window and groan at the determined roundness of it.
“Well, alright, but just be careful. You seem to be getting a tad obsessed.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, yes. I’ll see you later.”
“Bye-bye.”
I admit, I have been going to the gym quite a lot lately. But what’s wrong with that? I haven’t seen any results yet, and I’m brutally determined not to stop until I do. It’s not as though it’s doing me any harm.
“You’re late,” Robb-with-two-B’s says, tapping his watch condescendingly. “I’m not impressed.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not punctual,” I reply, throwing my towel down and quickly taking in the white walls and moving figures in the gym. “How are you today?”
“Great!” I should have known, the guy’s never anything less than bouncing-off-the-walls-happy. “You?”
“Ready to feel the burn,” I reply sarcastically, heavily trudging over to the dreaded black treadmill, noting that an extremely skinny and fit girl was running at athlete-speed right beside me. Great.
“That’s what I like to hear!” Robb-with-two-B’s slaps his hands together loudly, causing people to turn in our direction with an alarmed expression.
Groaning, I try and push every thought out of my head, and step on the machine.
-----------------------------------
I’m jealous of a guy I don’t even know. It’s really quite pathetic.
“Oh Justin, you should have seen this guy. He was one of those stunningly attractive but not quite there type, you know?”
“I’ve met a fair few myself.”
“I swear, he had the looks of a model and the personality of a potato. It’s was appalling.”
“Cut the poor guy some slack,” I smile, reclining on the brown leather couch to lie down. “Maybe he was nervous.”
Cat lets out a disbelieving snort. “No, no, trust me when I say the guy was a no-hoper. The only half interesting thing he said all night was, ‘which was better, Home Alone One or Home Alone Two?’”
“Home Alone One, no competition.”
“That’s what he said, but Ed and I thought that, visually, the second one was better. Perhaps it’s just because it was set in New York and Macaulay Culkin had two years in which to mature and further his acting skills--”
“So the dinner party was fun?” I interrupt quickly, not feeling quite up the task of hearing what a great time Cat’s having without me and with ‘Ed’, her new best friend.
Trace tells me I’m being selfish, and that it’s great Cat’s found a friend that she can relate to so much. He says I’m just used to being the only guy that Cat is close to and admires, and that I just don’t want to share the crown. Hell no, of course I don’t. Why can’t she just be happy having me as a friend? And plus, the guy seems to have a severe case of Seanitis, he’s far too perfect for his own good. Cat tells me he’s some sort of prodigy, has an IQ of two hundred or something, and comes from a rich family that he’s not interested in because he’d wants to make it on his own, rather than accepting his huge inheritance. Perhaps he’s not so clever after all.
In some ways, I’m glad she’s met this guy. Ed seems right up her street, and he’s gay so there’s nothing for me to worry about there. Actually, I did doubt his homosexuality for a while, but Cat told me I was being stupid. And the guy does like Cher, after all. She sounds so much happier, compared to the exhausted mess I left behind when I came to Los Angeles, and I know it has something to do with the fact she’s met all these new people recently. To be honest, I thought she’d just end up miserable and coming out here to indulge in the great fun I would be having here.
So how come she’s back there having a ball and I’m here in Los Angeles having a crap time?
We’ve only had one argument, and I have to admit, it was partly my fault. It’s true the guys asked me to go to Forty Deuce and see some girls shake their stuff in my face, but I just wasn’t feeling up to it. But when Cat said she was cozying up to some other guy over hot drinks, my mind went on autopilot. What else was I supposed to think? So I stuck the old knife in and turned it around a few times, asking whether I could go. In the end, I didn’t go anyway.
Recording’s going great, Chris is great and it’s great to see all my LA friends again, but for some reason I’m still not…right. It’s sort of like that faint butterfly feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you know something’s wrong, or going to happen, but for the hell of you you just can’t pinpoint it. I know it has something to do with Cat, but then again when don’t my problems revolve around her?
It’s because we parted on bad terms. Things were still awkward as hell when I left and, well, to be completely honest, we hadn’t had sex since…you know, that night. God, makes me sick just thinking about it. But our self-imposed celibacy worries me, and I don’t know why. It just seems wrong and unnatural. Sometimes I consider just going straight back to New York, sleeping with Cat, getting it over with, and then coming back again. It probably wouldn’t be all that wise, though.
“Anyway, I’ve gotta go.”
I give myself a shake to waken myself up a bit. The dreary brown colors of the recording studio surrounding me always make me a little spacey. “Sorry?”
“I have to go,” she says, and in the background the faint sounds of her packing a bag or something can be heard. “I’ve got Robb at five.”
Frowning, I prop myself up on the backs of my elbows. “You seem to be spending an awful lot of time at the gym lately.”
“I know, isn’t it great?”
“Well, um…”
“Robb says I’m actually improving, can you believe it? I could even be classified as sporty,” she exclaims happily. “I feel as though I’m finally getting myself together, you know? Like I’m actually moving past all…all of that,” she finishes quietly.
I make a grunting noise, not giving away any emotion. I’m glad she’s getting over it, because I know I’m not.
“Good,” I finally settle for.
“Justin, I know things have been…difficult recently,” she says sincerely, “but we’re going to be fine, aren’t we?”
“I know we are, eventually, Cat,” I murmur tiredly, sighing and rubbing my eyes. “But it’s this part in between that annoys me.”
“I can’t wait until you come home,” she says.
“Me too.”
“How long is it?”
“Another week and a half, darling,” I reply, “maybe more.”
She sighs. “Well, I really have to go.”
“’kay, have a good time.”
“You know I won’t.”
Laughing, I drop my phone on the opposite end of the couch and arch my neck, resting my head on the back of the couch. Only a week and a half to go until I see her again, and hopefully only a week and a half until I can get rid of this weird butterfly feeling.
I just know the next time I see Cat, either something really great is going to happen. Or, something really terrible.
--------------------------------
“Just five more minutes, Cat, keep on going,” Robb demands in what I assume he thinks is an encouraging voice. “In five minutes, you’ll be on that pec deck, and we all know how much you love working those pecs.”
“Robb?” I say through gritted teeth, pulling my arms back and pushing from my legs on the rowing machine.
“Yeah?”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t, Cat.”
“Okay, I don’t,” I concede, breathing out harshly in an attempt to get some oxygen in my system. “I want to die.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, this time I really do.”
“Who is this negativity helping, Cat?” Robb asks earnestly, lowering his eyebrows in question. “It’s not helping me, and we all know it’s not helping you.”
“Actually, it’s making me feel rather…” I let out a loud grunt as I pull the bar back again, “wonderful.”
“Come on Cat, you can do it,” he continues. “Just give me five more minutes.”
“You said that two minutes ago!”
“I added on time for your Cattitude.”
I roll my eyes and lift one hand to wipe the sweat from my brow. Robb may say I’m improving, but I really don’t understand how that can be. Perhaps he means I swear less profusely when I’m doing that fucking four mile run. Well, it’s a jog really, and I still curse at least fifty times.
I actually have a lot more emotion for Robb-with-two-B’s than I let on. He’s a nice guy, no matter how hyper he always seems to be. He would call it energized, I would call it coked up. And for some reason I have been coming here every other day for the past month, trying to get myself into shape. What’s really depressing is the fact that my workout, which almost kills me daily, is actually a piece of piss compared to what most people do in this gym.
I hate it. I hate feeling sweaty, I hate feeling my heart race, I hate feeling as though I can’t breathe. The only time any of those things are fun is during sex, and I’m still waiting for my orgasm from the rowing machine.
“Think, Justin’s coming home tonight, don’t you want to look good for him?”
The bastard… “That is emotional blackmail!” I groan, going a fraction faster nonetheless.
“But it’s working,” he smirks, looking at the small computer screen showing my not-so-impressive stats. “You’re speeding up.”
“I am not,” I respond huffily, furious that he knows his twisted form of encouragement is working.
“So, looking forward to seeing Justin?”
“Oh yeah,” I nod, flicking the sweaty hair out of my eyes. “I mean, for the first few weeks, I didn’t really miss him because I was so busy with my friends and stuff, and shit, this thing is hard!” Another grunt. “But lately time has been going so slowly.”
“Has he had a good time?”
“I don’t really know,” I admit, closing my eyes to block out the pain coursing through my legs and arms. “Every time I talk to him, he sounds tired. I think he’s really been stretching himself with work. He says he hasn't even been to any clubs,” I laugh. “But we'll see how true that is when he gets home...you got a girlfriend, Robb dearest? Or do they interrupt your weight-training time?”
“It’s amazing that you can still talk during your workouts you know. And also a bit of a shame.”
“Oh, just hush,” I remark, as he puts a hand on my back to tell me to stop. “I couldn’t stop my sarcastic comments if I tried.”
“I had noticed,” he comments, handing me a towel to wipe my face. “You know, I’ve also noticed a difference in your body shape.”
My head snaps around to meet his. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he nods, “it’s quite big. You’ve definitely lost some weight, and hopefully gained some muscle along the way. Not to mention your fitness has improved.”
Who gives a fuck about fitness? “Am I really thinner?” I exclaim, spotting the mirror lining one wall of the gym and turning around to examine myself from behind.
“You know what would make you look even thinner?”
“What?” I ask excitedly, pinching my waist.
“If you stopped looking at your ass and got on the pec deck.”
Smirking, I move onto the…pec deck (words cannot describe how much I hate that name), and spread my arms apart, before pushing them together again.
“You know what Robb?”
“What?” he asks, staring at my arms and adjusting the positions of my hands slightly.
“You’re okay,” I smile happily, feeling a searing pain go through my arms, with the pain barrier telling me to stop immediately and go and find some chocolate.
He smiles. “Thank you. I know Justin will be very pleased when he sees you.”
---
“Cat, how the hell am I supposed to know?”
“You’re gay, Ed, you’re supposed to know these things!” I exclaim heatedly, stomping my foot childishly.
He rolls his eyes. “Look, before Queer Eye for the Ugly Guy or whatever it was called came on, we gay men were allowed to be as unfashionable as we wanted. Now, people expect us to look like perfectly made up, immaculate, porcelain faced dolls the whole time.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s a simple question. Red and green, or black and black?”
“You look like you’re going to a funeral.”
“So red and green?”
“Sort of looks like a sprig of holly,” he shrugs from the depths of the beige sofa outside the woman’s changing rooms in Macy’s.
“Okay, so that’s a no,” I sulk, returning to my stall and whipping the curtain shut.
I had to buy something that was new and special, but didn’t look too new and special. Justin was going to be coming off an excruciating plane journey, all he probably wants to do is crawl into bed when he comes home. But that doesn’t mean I can’t look nice for him.
After my morning workout, I had brought Ed along for advice and support to go shopping, and to be honest, he’s been crap. At the hairdressers, I was making the rather pivotal decision over whether to dye my hair a different color (eventually I didn’t, it sounded far too adventurous and likely to go wrong), and all Ed was doing was reading an article in Cosmo about how to improve your cosmic connection to your career, and kept on shouting out phrases like, “an utterly fabricated assumption…” and “they’re not being serious, are they?”.
“What do you think would be better, pants or a skirts?”
“Don’t know.”
“Well, which would you rather see?”
“Men in skirts aren’t all that hot. Unless they’re Scottish.”
Letting out a sigh, I grab another skirt and hold it against my hips.
“This guy better be worth all this effort, Cat,” I hear Ed’s voice float through the cloth partition. “It seems you need to do an awful lot to impress him.”
“Trust me, he is,” I assure him, poking my head out of the cubicle before returning and sliding the skirt up my thighs. “What do you think of this?”
He glances up from his New York Times. “Nice.”
Rolling my eyes, I pursue the subject. “Nicer than the last one?”
“Um…yeah, I’d say so.”
“Good,” I smile confidently. “That’s progress.”
Tonight, I'm going to make that awe-inspiring, fantastic impression that all those bastard hours at the gym and time spent gazing longingly at pizza have been leading up to. And I'm going to make Justin Timberlake fall for me harder than before.
-----------------------------------
The elevator opens, its sliding doors parting to reveal the door to my apartment, standing proudly before me. Behind that seemingly innocent front door is a woman who does things to my head I didn’t know possible, and I mean that in a good and bad sense.
I’m nervous, and I’m man enough to admit it.
I’m also tired, and jetlagged, and eager to get to bed. Of course I want to see Cat, these past few weeks have dragged on like nothing other and thank goodness I had the distraction of work, but the idea of my big, warm bed is the thing most enticing me.
Slowly pushing the key into the lock, I open the door, hearing it creak on its hinges. My stomach seems hung in suspense, partly excited to see Cat again, partly scared shitless things will be worse than before. But really, how could they get any worse?
“Justin,” a small voice says in front of me and as I look up, I see a figure standing in the kitchen doorway, illuminated by the light behind her.
My mouth goes dry at the sight of her. For a second, I think there’s a complete stranger in my house, until the stranger’s lips part to reveal a slightly goofy smile that I know can only belong to one person.
Cat looks entirely different. Her hair, it’s sort of the same but more…I don’t know, fluffy? It frames her face perfectly, coming down in unrehearsed curls, as though she just woke up with perfect tresses. Her face looks quite familiar, only more pronounced in areas. Her cheekbones stick out more, her jaw seems more defined. And her body…her body.
She’s always had a very feminine body, with a small waist and big hips, not to mention a killer chest, and I love her curves. The way that her waist just dips in and then arcs out at her hips, it’s beautiful. There’s nothing more enjoyable than just letting my hands glaze over her body, in search of new curves.
And right now, I really, really wish my hands were on her body.
Every expression of hers seems to be strengthened. Her waist seems just that little bit narrower, the widening of her hips seems more gradual, making the perfect hourglass shape, as though someone had just carved her waist and hips like a knife slicing through butter. The legs climbing out of the surprisingly short skirt are leaner and look lengthened because of it. Her shirt, which in my opinion is far too modest, covers up her bust but nothing appears to have gone down in that department, thank God.
It could be my male senses heightened by a four week absence and an even longer sex absence, but she looks absolutely fantastic.
“Cat, you look amazing,” I manage to splutter out, ignoring the common greetings of hello has I causally drop my bag on the floor unceremoniously.
She runs her hands over her stomach, which looks flatter, and beams. “Really?”
“God yes,” I nod, my eyes still dancing over her newly chiseled body. It’s as though someone’s taking a cookie cutter and just cut out all the slightly lumpy parts, leaving a smooth, defined version of Cat.
“Thank you. It’s all down to Robb’s persistent enthusiasm,” she grins, tugging at the sides of her skirt with a smile still on her face.
“I…I can’t believe it,” I laugh, slowly approaching and very gently placing my hands on her waist, slowly trailing them down over her hips. “I’m speechless.”
She giggles, swishing her hair over her shoulder. “Am I that breath-taking?”
“Yes,” I reply seriously to her teasing comment. “How did this happen?”
She swats me on the chest. “I’m not that different.”
It’s true, she’s not suddenly transformed into some Naomi Campbell-esque supermodel, but she’s definitely lost some weight. I would have never thought a loss of, what, maybe ten pounds? Could make a person look so different.
“I’m glad you like it,” she says coyly, glancing down at the floor before back up at me, her blue eyes glittering flirtatiously at my own.
“I do like it,” I pause to smirk, “very much.”
I bring her forward to me with a slightly more commanding grip on her hips, feeling her lower body press into mine. She smells pretty, just like she always does. The faint lurking of perfume mixed with that sort of baby smell that all women have. Everything about her tonight is perfect.
My lips softly seek out her own, and I almost groan at the softness of them. How does she do that? Every time I kiss her, her lips area always soft. As is the rest of her skin, come to think of it. Every single little inch of it…
And I want to feel every single little inch of that soft skin tonight.
No, but this is wrong. Our relationship is practically in tatters. We can barely have a conversation without slipping into awkward silences or starting arguments. Before I left, we couldn't even kiss. Sure, we can have sex tonight, but what about tomorrow morning? When the light pours in through the window and brings with it a lot of regret and realization that we’re far too often prey to our desires? I shouldn’t sleep with her, I really shouldn’t. It would be wrong…
“Oh, Justin,” she moans, wrapping her arms around my neck and bringing me closer to her, with somewhat of an urgency. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve missed you too,” I murmur, my lips attacking her neck before I can stop them, skimming down to her collarbone. “I want you,” I whisper teasingly, letting my hand slip from her hips and gently touch the outside of her thigh, ready to cheekily go further up into her skirt.
She giggles and threads her fingers through my hair. “Well, that is most pleasing to hear.”
I laugh and quickly lift her up, wrapping those seemingly longer legs around my torso and bunching up her skirt to her hips, completely by accident, of course. We blindly stumble through the corridors, trying to find the stairs that will lead to the bedroom, her girly laughs making me even more desperate to get her to bed. Her hands run through my hair, her lips caress mine, sometimes aggresively, sometimes softly, her voice emits light chuckles as my fingers try and find her ticklish spots…I can feel her everywhere.
For this moment, I really don’t care if what we’re doing is wrong. I just know I can't stop.
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