I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror, holding onto the sink for added support. I looked hideous.What was my mother’s favorite saying again?“I look like the wreck of theHesperus.” I’d never known what a Hesperus was, but for some reason, the word seemed to describe perfectly how I looked and felt right now.
“Hesss Perrr Russs.” I hissed it out loudly as I leaned towards the mirror and then almost laugh-cried out loud.
I splashed some water on my face to counteract the wooze—it worked a little—and then I grabbed some paper towels and attempted to wipe my tears away. I blew my nose quickly when I realized it was making a disgusting “squeeeeeee, squeeeeeee, squeeeeeee” sound on every out breath.
I reapplied my foundation, popped on a bit of mascara and smooshed on some lip-plumping lip-gloss. I’d bought the lip-gloss forhim. I’d stupidly thought that if my lips were more Jolie, and less me, that he might take notice. I’d been wrong. And now I was 250 rand poorer.
The lobby outside was abuzz with a crowd of overdressed people.Sheand her crowd were of the super-skinny, pearl-wearing, overdressed ilk. Which meant that I always felt somewhat inferior in their presence, and a great deal larger than I knew I really was.Sheandhercrowd were the kind of people that gave normal women body dysmorphia and made us all feel like large, beached marine animals.
At least eighty people were bustling about in the massive lobby, excessive for an engagement party, if you ask me.
I smiled at everyone as I walked past, trying to do my best impersonation of a happy, non-tipsy person. Soon we were all ushered into the restaurant and instructed to take our seats. I was sitting across from my so-called BFF, Matt. He smiled at me and I melted into my chair. I always melted when he smiled. I always got butterflies when he called and I got downright dizzy when we spent time together. I glanced to his left, and thereshewas . . .
Samantha. Doctor Samantha, I might add. Pediatric oncologist Samantha, to be specific! She saved sick children’s lives for a living, for heaven’s bloody sake! How the hell could a mere mortal such as myself compete with that?
Samantha caught me looking at her and I quickly shot her a smiley thumbs-up. I’ve always wondered if she knows how Ireallyfeel about him. Aren’t women supposed to have a sixth sense about these kinds of things? Unless she did have her suspicions but feltthatunthreatened by me. I wasn’t sure which was worse, and I suddenly imagined her and Matt’s late-night conversations about me . . .
“You know she’s in love with you, right?” she says, lying in bed, silk sheets tussled, body glistening with beads of sweat from post-coital workout.
“I know,” he says, equally sweaty and naked from mind-blowing sexcapades. “Don’t worry, though,” he turns and kisses her softly, “she’s no competition for you.”
“I know, baby. I know,” she says, and I want to imaginary-punch her.
I tried to shake the image from my head and looked down at the handwritten speech in my hands. But my fingers were shaking uncontrollably and the wooziness was hitting me in steady waves that seemed to be building in momentum.
A large pair of invisible hands suddenly reached out and wrapped themselves around my throat. Squeezing. Throttling. I swallowed, but it got stuck. The tightening feeling was growing by the second as Samantha’s father was nearing the end of his speech.
“And now we’ll hear from Matt’s best friend, Val,” he said.
I froze. A deathly pause followed as people turned and looked for me.
“Val!” He said it a bit louder this time. “Val?”
What the hell was I going to do?
Three Years Ago
14 Feb.
Dear Diary,
Something amazing just happened. Genuinely amazing. No, it was not the insights I gained while writing my latest article about why “Dairy is the New Gluten.” It was the amazing thing that happened in the lift, precisely 7 minutes ago. As you can see, I’m writing this soon afterwards, while the amazing thing is still fresh in my mind, because I don’t want to forget any of it.
I’d just come back from my “romantic” Valentine’s date with Stormy-Rain, in which she’d spoken all evening about how Valentine’s Day was yet another example of the evil consumerist-capitalist agenda. (I still have no idea what she means, and the irony is that she actuallydoeshave a boyfriend!) Needless to say, I wasn’t exactly in the most “hearts and chocolates” kind of mood when I got home at precisely 2:30 a.m. . . . that is, until I got into the lift and saw him!
Gorgeous. Pitch-black hair. Maldivian-blue eyes that make you want to peel your clothes off and go swimming in, naked. Dark, sexy stubble dotted across seriously sculptured jaw—not in a Ridge Forrester way, though. Tall, broad shoulders, seriously sexy ass and smelling like heaven. In a word, H. O. T.
So, naturally, I tried to exude that cool nonchalance that is always preferable in these kinds of situations. I made momentary eye contact, gave wildly noncommittal nod of acknowledgment, placed hand on hip, and looked in opposite direction. And, it worked! Because HE started a conversation with ME. I reiterate, this is important, he opened his mouth first . . .
He asked, “Are you coming back from a Valentine’s date?”
I replied, “No.” (Still exuding cool, aloof nonchalance, although terribly uncool inside.)
And then he said, and I quote, “I find that hard to believe. Someone that looks like you, dateless on Valentine’s Day?” And then he locked eyes with me and smiled.
Bam! I melted. Swooned. Felt explosions around us and butterflies inside. Mainly because he was just soooo good-looking. If he’d had a big, shiny bald patch and those gross white sticky patches in the corners of his mouth . . . it would have just been creepy!
For the purpose of this entry, it’s probably also worth noting that by this stage, 2:30 a.m., I was pretty well lubricated. I had hit the cocktails,hard. I could tell he was tipsy too—he had that slightly dreamy, dopey look of someone who was buzzing.
