Chapter 69: Kissing Reflections

Chapter 69: Kissing Reflections

Mandarin Oriental, New York. November 2011.

Mere-exposure effect. It’s the name of that phenomenon where you’ve glimpsed yourself in the bathroom mirror so often that your brain’s built a bias for itself and makes you appear more handsome than you might very well be. 

Not me, though. I’m perfect.

I licked my pinky and my index finger with one swipe of my tongue and sleeked my eyebrows flat using either digit. “Perhaps some pomade would suit you better, no? Unless you are deliberately going for the ‘handsome hobo’ look.” See? Fedex is about as familiar as it gets with me, yet my dashing devilishness has yet to breed contempt.

Though, that’s not a sentiment that’s always going to ring true with everyone. “Mate, I’m supremely grateful for all the bells and whistles, but can you please put yours away!?” Alfie Allen, for instance, had grown weary of my comfort around him.

A meek little mouse where I instead stood with Donald Duck’s devil may care attitude—and fashion sense. 

All top, no bottoms.

Considering the amount of posed underwear we were poised to witness, me flashing the floor-length mirror with my full-frontal glute flex wasn’t anything that should’ve fazed him. I still had a pair of snug boxer-briefs safeguarding the last vestige of my decaying decorum. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

“… No, Bas. I don’t speak German.”

“Then stop being as stiff-necked as someone who does.” I wasn’t being a wiener for schnitz and giggles. “Loosen up! We’ve an entire evening of partying to prep for. Time you sorely need, I should add. Because honestly, what in the name of the Ibiza club scene are you even wearing?”

Depriving the mirror of my sweltering visage, I stepped aside and let Alfie’s reflection take my place. It was a wonder there weren’t shattered shards of glass littering the carpeting right about now. 

Unlike my overdeveloped sense of self-esteem, not everyone is capable of delusion. Few people can ever accept their own disillusion. It’s like being at the barber; something about sitting there staring at yourself under the unflattering lighting and your own limpid locks makes you look uglier and uglier. “Are my eyes really that far apart? Why didn’t I properly shave my scraggly scruff? My outfit makes me seem like a pedo.” 

“You’re narrating out loud, Bas. We can all hear you.” Oops. “At least have the decency to limit your sarcastic mockery to an internal monologue. There’s absolutely nothing slanderous about my choice of clothes—I have it on authority that I’m on the cutting edge of haute couture. You’re just jealous of my swag!” I begged to differ with Alfie’s inexpert opinion. 

How could he be so blind despite wearing glasses? Perhaps it had something to do with his fake frames without any lenses.

My frown deepened with every inch of my lowering gaze scrutinising his atrocious attire. If the divorced-dad deep v-neck shirt wasn’t bad enough, the pants were infinitely worse. Trousers so tight that one wrong step is liable to give every constricted contour of his obviously obstetric outlines, testicular torsion. In other words: skinny jeans causing skinny genes. 

“The whole reason you’re here, Alfie, is because I’m apologising for cockblocking you at the train station prior to me becoming Jaqen. So, if you want any chance for your knob to function tonight, you will—and I repeat—loosen up. We’re gonna disappoint supermodels, not ourselves, capisce?” 

My flicked wrist served as ample signal for Fedex to fix Alfie’s garish issue. “Follow me, Mr Allen. Bas has plenty you may borrow.” She dragged him away to get him fitted.

Given my classic sense of style, hopefully something timeless rather than trends that deserved an untimely death. “... Fine. But, this is Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show—the event of the year. I’d like to stand out. And a lesson I’ve thoroughly learnt is that Bas’ understated tastes will garner me no attention.” 

Zip! Wow, would you listen to that? Even my freshly buttoned bottoms were telling Alfie to shut up. “Clothes don’t make the man—it’s the other way ‘round!” I yelled as they retreated into the nearby walk-in where my suitcase was stashed. Giving myself a final once over, I found that something was absent from my all-black ensemble. 

Knit sweater haphazardly tucked and untucked from my belted waistband; tailored pants trailing in sharp lines down to my suede desert boots. 

Hmm… I shucked off my blazer and chucked it at Alfie, who was too preoccupied patting himself down to catch it. Whether covering his face or across his back, it completed the rest of his (my) flashy fuckboy suit. “M’not fully convinced, I’ll be honest. My original get up had more panache. You’re not inspiring a lot of confidence with your thrifty-looking threads, either. Not for our game plan at least, that’s for sure.”

Fair enough, I acquiesced. The slightly oversized shearling jacket I slipped on was autumn-weather appropriate, owing to its super comfy lining. Fleeced—which was coincidentally what my appearance suggested I was.

Actually, I reminded myself of that Ikea monkey. The Swedes would go bananas over my fuzzy meatballs for sure. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I promise we’ll be biting into something. Or failing that, there’s a fantastic takeaway joint on this block. Either way, we’ll get some mushu.”

Alfie continued to complain during our exit. “That’s a shite consolation, and you know it!”

–

Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, New York. November 2011.

Alfie quickly changed his tune as the show got underway. “Ignore every word of criticism I’ve ever lobbed in your direction, Bas. This is the single greatest day of my life!”

Cheeky—and I wasn’t referring to Alfie’s side-mouthed whisper. 

The sway of my massive fame had afforded us seats right at the apex of the runway. Which meant that the broadcast recording would have us dead-to-rights every time a supermodel struck her final dynamic pose before sashaying away. 

Each dollop of my drool would be caught in high definition for every hypnotic jiggle, and every lathered inch of skin peeking naughtily from beneath shifting silk and lace.

I didn’t care, though. I was determined to ogle pert behinds until I went blind. Although, Alfie and I were far from the only blokes who’d strategically bundled their coats over their laps. 

It was a delicious dichotomy ol’ Vicky had cooked up—skimpily dressed supermodels in sweater weather. Clever girl, as I’d discovered, had another secret to her success. The frequent musical featurettes weren’t just your run-of-the-mill flavour enhancers, they were vital ingredients added to the mouthwatering mix. 

Intermissions that sang: don’t bust that nut just yet. We’ll be right back with more boobs!

These angels were biblically blasphemous, and even edge-worthy interruptions were a welcome reprieve. 

Unfortunately for me, however, despite my drab drip, an additional fifteen seconds was added to my name. Pin-pon! Pin-pon! Pin-pon! Pin-pon-pin! To a soundtrack, no less.

We weren’t in Paris, and neither Kanye West nor Jay-Z were my homies, yet throughout their performance my proximity to the stage likely goaded them into pointing their mics at me at the most inopportune stanzas. 

I did what any unreasonable person in my position would do. Clamp my hand over the nearest stranger’s mouth and pretend to save them from lip-syncing certain rhymes. No, my jacket was not, in fact, Margiela; so no harm wiping any sputtered spit on it. 

Can’t believe I’m even thinking such a horrid thing, but somebody go invite Adam Levine on stage!

Needless to say, I was relieved to applaud them off the catwalk and the subsequent return of the true stars of the show. 

Adriana Lima, Alessandra Ambrosio, Candice Swanepoel, Doutzen Kroes, Liu Wen, Karlie Kloss, Miranda Kerr, Behati Prinsloo, and a whole host of other svelte angels strutted across the catwalk. Scantily (un)dressed in elaborate lingerie, while flouncing and bouncing their baps to the beat of song after song to suit each tantalising theme.

Towards the end of the event, the only thing tripping up the titillation was the next musical guest.

Nicki Minaj was bleating out Super Bass while trotting around like a troll doll beside the real supermodels. A foot wider and two feet shorter than anyone else on stage, I could tell she was struggling to yield her larger-than-life self image to her small, squat stature.

Every new set of wings was a challenge she couldn’t measure up to. Rather than allowing her ego to get trampled, she made herself a nuisance by prancing and posing practically in-between any model’s already precarious steps instead of staying in her lane. 

Gaudy gremlin was getting in the way, and I was getting increasingly irritated. 

For the first time tonight, I felt impotent. As much as I’d have liked to storm the stage a hair’s breadth in front of me, I didn’t want to rob the limelight than was already being unnecessarily hogged.

But that idea—hell, any thought at all, was viciously stripped from my mind when the next angel made her entrance. 

I was entranced.

How can I describe such an abrupt infatuation? A fleeting glance at her focused face was all my senses required to go into static shock. Everything was cutting—her shapely jawline, her sharper cheekbones, and all the tension I was feeling fell blurred behind her in a halo highlight. 

I swear, at that moment, I could hear only the clacking of her heels and my own racing heartbeat. 

All it took was a wink at her apex turn. Large, round, brilliantly blue, and slightly slanted eyes—almost alien—launched me straight through the stratosphere. She was otherworldly in that same manner all truly striking supermodels were; but distinct in her own unique way.

That mere bit of exposure to her had me suddenly manifesting an entire life of domesticity. 

I was gone before she was; barely registering the end of the pageant a few minutes later. Alfie had to physically shake me into consciousness. “C’mon show’s over, Bas. Time for you to make good on your pledge and sneak us backstage for a meet-and-greet.”

He read my mind. “I’m glad we have this last hurrah to share. Because I don’t think I’ll be single for much longer.”

“Get married, get divorced, get whatever. Just help me get mine first, all right?”

Before we could go ahead and plan any nuptials, however, a curt cutie wielded her clipboard as if it were a bollard. “Excuse me, sir? You have been cordially asked to attend an after party hosted by Mr Carter and Mr West.” A hushed invite for some Hollywood shoulder-rubbing, eh?

I so hated to disappoint, but I decided to anyway. “Please extend my sincerest thanks and apologies. Unfortunately, I must decline. I’ve gotta go hunt my future wife behind the bleachers before she disappears to parts unknown.” I threw a thumb over my shoulder and a falsely apologetic grimace in a single motion. She was persistent, though. I’ll give her that. 

The celebrity clerk stood in the middle of my escape path and handed me a post-it with a hastily scribbled address. “I may be able to clear up the unknown part, Mr Rhys. Whoever you’re searching for will be joining the party shortly.”

Guess Fedex was gonna have to pull the car around ASAP.

–

Chelsea Piers Marina, New York. November 2011.

I’d only just plonked onto the poop deck before shit hit the fan. “Bas fuckin’ Rhys!” Kanye West had his head and a thick gold chain dangling dangerously overhead as he yelled down at me from the third story deck of the massive moored yacht we’d arrived at.

Climbing the stairs was tricky. Clearly, a good chunk of the crowd had gotten here before us. Boded well for my expedition.

The sound of sloshing had less to do with the water batting against the boat, and more to do with the copious amounts of booze spilling over unsteady rims. Swash and knees were buckling equally.

Which wasn’t surprising since there was an open bar, but not a single appetiser in sight or bite. 

Kanye stood cross-armed at the tip of the third-tier stairs. “You owe me, bitch!” Yeah… that icebreaker was going down as well as the Titanic.

“I didn’t realise there was a cover charge. Must be expensive to run, then.” Boat was just an acronym for bring out another thousand. “I’d been considering buying one of my own—not so sold anymore.” 

“Ain’t what I’m talking ‘bout. Do you have any idea how much of my time you’ve wasted? The world needs me in the studio, but every time one of your movies comes out, my whole crew’s always gotta run a marathon.” I switched my eye-line to the two exceptionally large gentlemen bordering him, who nodded in confirmation. 

“Always flattering to meet a fan.” Given the sudden twitch in his already angry face, he didn’t agree with my provided moniker. “Potter’s demographic reach is always astounding to witness in person.”

“I get pussy, man. I don’t watch that nerd shit! I’m talking ‘bout Tokyo Drift, Tropic Thunder, Black motherfucking Dynamite, and now Limitless is on the list, too. I’ve watched ‘em all—repeatedly. Shit’s dope, but that imbalance don’t sit right with me. I don’t care how much of my music you’ve listened to before, you’re gonna spend the rest of the night makin’ the ledger equal.”

Would it be going overboard if I dove off the side of the yacht? “Ah, well… I suppose I wouldn’t mind kickin’ it for a bit.” He was just gonna have to deal with the 808s and heartbreak, because I had my own beautiful dark twisted fantasy to fulfil this evening. “But there’s plenty of other lovely people I’m planning on mingling with.”

“If you’ve got girls on your mind, there’s plenty of bitches where I’m taking you. Grab whichever one. Now c’mon, my listening party’s gotta start.” 

No escaping this net, apparently. My fate was sealed, but didn’t mean Alfie’s downtrodden expression need be permanent. I shoved him quickly towards the nearest life preserver, signalling him to save himself even as I was dragged off.

Taking the hint, Alfie waved me tearfully away before hurriedly bounding towards the nearest biddy.

Passing through a couple of guarded doors found me squeezed into a cosy cabin lined with a speaker system and other stereo paraphernalia. Kanye didn’t even allow his entire waiting gang to finish dapping me up before shushing everyone and pressing play. 

To his own music.

He forgot about me three songs in. Too enamoured by bopping his head to his own beats and karaoke-ing his own bars.

The only reason I was still stuck on the couch was as a consequence of being pinned by a woman who’d draped herself across me. “If you’re getting bored, we can go have some fun in one of the side rooms, Bas baby.” She suggested salaciously, while biting my ear and tickling my chest. “Jay-Z’s yacht’s got a lotta nooks and crannies we can explore. Maybe we can find him in one.” 

Let’s just say I didn’t want the FBI knocking on my door demanding I play Jay-hova’s witness. Yeezus could bear that cross all by himself. God only knew what section of the ship Beyonce was in. Probably practising the choreography for ‘single ladies’, if you catch my drift.

Neither did I want Fedex to cop a murder charge. I schemed an escape. “Know where the toilet is?”

“Kinky.” Her mind was evidently in the gutter. “Second door on the left. I’ll meet you there in five minutes.”

Mercifully, she rose off my torso, and I raced out through the first door on the right. 

My head on a swivel, I surveyed and spotted the quietest corner I could find and collapsed on the railing. “I need to get the fuck outta here.” 

“There is wisdom in what you say. If I could, maybe I leave also. But cannot.” I think I just discovered the melodic cadence Scandinavian angels sing in. Perched languidly on the same bannister, Elsa Hosk and I returned to that catwalk when we were just inches apart. 

She hadn’t deigned to toss a peek in my direction. Content instead to focus on the trailing smoke of her burning cigarette as she took a handless drag from between her lusciously plump lips. Elsa potentially didn’t realise who I was—or was unbothered by it. After my most recent ordeal, that just made her all the more attractive to me. 

Wake up, brain! Stop fixating on her willowy arms tightly hugging her waist, and say something suave, already! “No like party?” I belong in a goddamned cave.

“Party?” Incredible. Even her sneer was appealing. “Please! This is work.” She lazily flopped her wrist to gesture at the more lively congress on the deck below us.

Proof of her disdain was clear as day under the strobing lights. Actual adult men afflicted with Ed Hardy apparel tried to flirt with bored bombshells. “Wealthy men buy more underthings when they think pretty girls will wear it for them.” I couldn’t help but observe.

“Ja. It is so.” No amount of Rolex ticking seemed to do the smooth talking for them, though. “They also try to drown us in drink to make it easier to fool us into sex with them. How stupid. We are supermodels fresh from the runway. We have not eaten a proper meal in days. Maybe if they fed us, we might bed them—however unlikely.” 

Huh. Suddenly the tobacco and grip around her tummy made sense. Appetite suppressants. 

Now, that just wouldn’t do, would it? I’d prefer her as hungry as I was. I shortened the gap between us and sidled up to her, reached over, and plucked the cig from her lips. Bringing it to my own, I inhaled the last puff of nicotine left, and crushed the filter underfoot. 

That piqued her interest, forcing her to finally turn her head. “That was mine.” Elsa’s tone was as threatening as the manicured nail she pressed on my mouth.

I stifled my reflex to dart my tongue out; I’d just have to imagine what the same acrid taste of burnt tobacco on my lip and her digit had in common. “Then oblige me to make amends. You like Chinese?”

She traced her finger across my jaw and snagged my cheek flesh between her knuckles. “It will do in a pinch. Do not expect me to come alone, though. Is Harry Potter sure he is capable of the magic trick to disappear many, many starving models?”

The cat was in the bag, and the rabbit was in the hat. “You said it yourself, gotta keep the millionaire philanderers occupied, yeah? I’m about as spoiled, rich playboy as it gets. Everybody’re only gonna cheer me on if I steal a few ‘drunk’ supermodels.”

“So, what are we waiting for? Let us go!”

Fedex was relegated to driver duty again.

–

Side Wok Chinese Restaurant, New York. November 2011.

Sandwiched between two Victoria’s secret angels clashing their chopsticks to nab the last dumpling on his plate, Alfie was as happy as a clam and eager as an egg roll. “Enjoying yourself?”

“I love mushu.” 

Panning around the packed booth of burgled beauties, my view ultimately landed on Elsa, who’d half jammed herself onto my seat. “And what’s your verdict?”

“I think… you shall have difficulty topping tonight for our second date.”