Blue Rose In Chelsea (16 page)

     I envision myself in chiffon and rhinestones—a Flapper perhaps, or fishnets and feathers—a Can Can girl, or a character from a Jane Austen novel—aloof, alluring, aristocratic, and utterly literary all at once, but Sinclair insists on a French maid, which I vehemently object to.

     “Think skimpy,” Sinclair implores.  “Viv, this is your one shot at parading around in practically your underwear in front of Evan and doing so with the utmost respectability.  You’ve got legs as long as the Nile.  We’ll pad you up in all the right places.  It will drive him to utter distraction.”

     I consider his argument, as the first drops of rain plink down upon us.  We have to look skyward to be sure we haven’t imagined it.

     “I like it,” I say, just before the downpour.

~~~~~

     True to his word, Sinclair creates a costume for me, a satin black dress that looks like it’s made for a child, it’s that small.  It’s shirred at the waist, with a sweetheart neckline and flair skirt supported with a white crinoline underlining, because, as Sinclair puts it, “Crinoline arouses Evan.”  There’s a white lace apron, and, in lieu of a tiara, a round pillbox hat with black netting, very 1940s.  There are lace cuffs for my wrists, sewn with seed pearls.  He even supplies the fishnet stockings, but leaves the choice of shoes to me, with the stipulation that the heels must be a height of three inches minimum.

     Sinclair is working in midtown, so I meet him in the lobby of the Penta Hotel, the Technicolor Dreamcoat wrapped around me, and my stilettos in a paper bag.  We walk to Brandon’s loft, and I change into the heels in the elevator.  Sinclair pins the charming little hat into my crush of curls, cocking it seductively to one side, and lowering the mesh to touch my cheekbones.  Sinclair is dressed as the Devil.  Two glittering horns jut from his jelled hair.  He wears red spandex pants and a red satin blouse that looks like a throwback to the days of disco.  There’s a regal velvet red cape fit for a Count, with a plush satin lining, and black piping along the edging that zigzags like flames, and, of course, his trademark black Kenneth Cole shoes.

     “Nice pants.”

     “Yes, I pinched them off my friend’s heavy metal head-banger nephew.”  He pulls at them, letting them snap back like rubber bands to show just how confining they are.  He has painted his face red, and created a spectacularly devilish effect with kohl eyeliner.

     The loft is packed when we arrive.  Brandon meets us at the door, with his latest girlfriend riding piggyback.  She’s dressed as the Statue of Liberty, in the green patina of pennies left too long in the rain, her torch dangerously close to poking Brandon’s eye out, as she struggles to keep her grip on him.

     “Evan!” Brandon calls when he lays eyes on me, and I’m struck that his first reaction upon seeing me is to summon Evan.  I quickly introduce Sinclair to Lady Liberty, who changes her torch to her left hand so as to shake my right.

     “Are you the boyfriend?” she asks.

     “No, I’m the gay sidekick.”  Sinclair switches his pitchfork to his left hand so as to be free to shake with his right.

     Evan is in the kitchen, surrounded by a group of people.

     “Sylvia!  Wow, everyone’s here now,” he says, but then someone diverts his attention.  There is something odd about Evan.  He seems foggy, and I realize he’s been drinking.

     Sinclair pokes me in the butt with his pitchfork, to urge me toward Evan, who has turned away to reply to someone on his left.  Then I spy her, standing just to Evan’s right.  I quickly pivot out of the kitchen.

     “Take off your coat, my dear, and strut your stuff,” Sinclair whispers to me.

     “Did you see the girl beside him?  That’s the girl from the chewing gum print ad.”

     “There’s a Doublemint twin in the house?”  Sinclair looks delighted.

     “No, it wasn’t Doublemint gum.  I forget what gum it was, and does it really matter?” I grouse.  I suddenly feel horribly self-conscious in my choice of costume.  The Gum Girl is dressed as a Greek goddess, perhaps Aphrodite.  She wears a cream-colored chiffon dress draped demurely over one shoulder, and fitted at the waist with a gold leaf belt, a crown of fresh stephanotis flowers perched on her short Dorothy Hamill hair, and silk ballet slippers with gold lame rosettes on her feet.  Her womanly curves show through the clinging chiffon, unlike my manufactured curves, courtesy of Sinclair’s rather lumpy padding.

     I begin to sweat.  Sinclair insists that I take off the Dreamcoat and mingle.  We manage to move among the crowds.  I introduce him to some of Dylan’s band members, and we make the acquaintance of others in the hot and faintly-lit loft, which has a surreal pink glow to it tonight.  I am so relieved that I invited Sinclair.  He has a graceful quality in social situations, and can find common ground in mixing with anyone.  I stand back and marvel at his ability to get people to open up and talk about themselves, their professions, their hopes and dreams, their foibles and triumphs, even their annoying relatives.

     “Good lord, there are lizards at large!”  Sinclair recoils and collides with me at the sight of the iguana, which is not caged tonight but lurks in the corner, dragging itself incrementally like some mechanical toy whose batteries are running low.

     “It belongs to Brandon’s roommate.  I’ve never met her, but I hear she sometimes brings the lizard to bed with her in her underwear and cuddles it like a teddy bear.”

     “That thing looks more crusty than custard left out overnight,” Sinclair whispers, horrified.

     An hour has passed and Evan has made a few rounds.  The party is sort of partly in honor of him, so I suppose he’s obligated to speak with everyone, and everyone wants to hear all about his filming experience in Vancouver.  There is buzz about the show being the next
21 Jumpstreet
, and Evan being the next Johnny Depp.

     “I told you he has Depp hair!” Sinclair insists to me, as if this were some major bone of contention between us.  Someone jokes that Evan will soon be a Tiger Beat pinup.  Eventually Evan makes his way to Sinclair and I.

     “As the Red Queen once said to Alice,
Look up, speak nicely, and
don’t twiddle your fingers
,” Sinclair instructs at Evan’s approach.

     I want to appear distracted and aloof, so I gaze out the wide swath of windows, to the dark and fecund city four stories below, and blow the mesh of my hat with my breath in a bored manner.  This is the exact opposite of what I’m really feeling, which is attuned, like some Soviet spy, to Evan’s every word and nuance.

     Evan chats with Sinclair.  Sinclair is eager to dish the dirt about the ballet world, and delights in Evan’s inside stories on the principal dancers at American Ballet Theatre.  I realize I’ve never asked Evan much about his former career.  He seems eager to talk of it, and is full of fascinating stories.  Evan cradles a beer and wears a black pullover and jeans, and a tweed blazer with black velvet patches at the elbows.  It’s almost something David would wear.  Now and then Evan’s eyes sweep over me, and then back to Sinclair as he follows the conversation.

     “You barely said a word,” Sinclair scolds me when Evan walks away.

     “I just want to get out of here.”  Evan feels a million miles away, with his new career, his new circle of friends, his new tweed blazer.

     “What is his costume, exactly?  What is he?” Sinclair wonders, watching the back of Evan as he chats with a girl on the couch.

     “He’s a rising star who no longer takes an interest in his old friends, that’s what!” I say petulantly.

     “What’s with the Robert Deniro mannerisms?” Sinclair observes.

     “That’s his favorite actor,” I giggle, and feel suddenly haughty at the idea of Evan adopting the mannerisms of his Hollywood idol.  Perhaps he’s not so cocksure as he appears!

     The Gum Goddess drifts by, and smiles at us.

     “Do you want me to chat her up, and do some digging?” he asks.

     “No!” I say defiantly.  “I don’t want to know anything about her.  It’s enough that she’s got a perfect face and figure and perfect poise.  If I find out she’s on scholarship to Harvard or the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, or starring in her own series, I’m jumping out this window.”

     “My dear, you are much prettier than she, and you’ve got better legs.  There is not a more glorious set of gams in Gotham than yours.  You have that ingénue charm.  You are Libby from St. Martin’s Lane, a willowy but fiery waif with a reserve of talent, just waiting to light up the world!”

     “Well, I feel like the lizard: out of place and prickly as hell.”  I gulp my last warm guzzle of gin, resisting the urge to scratch my contrived cleavage where the lace trim of my costume is giving me hives.  I make my way to the bathroom as quickly as can be accomplished in stiletto heels.  I check my makeup, which has held up remarkably well.  There’s nothing like a mist of rain in the air to set one’s makeup, and the walk to the loft has done the trick, while the pillbox hat with the mesh netting compliments my pile of curls.  When I return, Sinclair is beside Evan, who is seated on a couch reading something.  I realize with alarm that it’s one of my poems published in a literary journal that I gave to Sinclair some time ago.

     “Why did you give him that?  This is a party.  It’s no time for depressing poetry,” I joke, and without appearing to grab it, I manage to slip the booklet away from Evan, whose genuinely quick reflexes are slowed from drinking.

     Evan looks up at me.  “I want to read it.”

     “It’s just a bad rip-off of Sylvia Plath’s ‘Elm’” I say, which is true.

     “Leave a copy with me.  I want to read it later.  I’m so proud of you.”  He cranes his neck to look up at me as I tower over him in my stilettos.

     Someone hauls him playfully off the couch, knocking Evan up against me, his hands brushing my thighs, and then he’s gone.

     “I’m going to kill you.”  I mouth to Sinclair each word slowly and deliberately while maintaining my I’m Having A Great Time party face.

     “You must learn the art of parading your talents.  Everyone in this city is skilled at self-promotion, even those with nothing to promote.  You, on the other hand, keep your prodigious talents packed away in desk drawers or under bulky clothing,” the devilish Count chastises, giving a fluff to my droopy apron.

     “I’m so proud of you?” I echo Evan’s compliment, incredulous.  “That’s something a parent would say to a child!  What am I, five?  I got a gold star in spelling today, Daddy!  It sounds so condescending, so patronizing.  I’m so proud of you?  I’m so proud of you?” I repeat over and over, growing more annoyed each time, the words sticking to my tongue like saltwater taffy.

     “You’re slouching, my dear.  Remember the first rule of ballet: ears over shoulders, shoulders over hips, hips over knees.”

     “It’s the shoes.  I can’t believe you talked me into wearing these FMPs.”  Because Sinclair has no clue what I’m talking about I define the acronym.  “F-me pumps.”

     “Your tiara is tilted.”  He attempts to adjust the hat, but I duck out of his reach.  I tuck away the mesh netting, and try to flatten my over-sprayed locks.  “I look like an Early Eighties Big Hair.  I may as well just have Suburban Un-chic tattooed on my forehead.  I should not have let you dress me!  I thought gay men were supposed to be on the cutting edge of fashion.  Big hair is out, Sinclair, and has been for five years.  Look at Aphrodite.  She’s got Little Hair!” I hiss.

     I plead with him to let us leave, but Sinclair has one more trick up his satanic sleeve.  He spies the Petrof piano in the corner, and decides that I should sit down and play something, one last talent on parade.  He shuffles me over toward it, and digs the score of Gypsy out of the piano bench, opening to “All I Need Is The Girl.”  He sings along softly as he reads the lyrics, begging me to begin.          

     “
Got my tweed pressed, got my best vest, all I need now is
the girl
.  This is perfect.  He’s wearing tweed!” he whispers loudly, enunciating as if I were deaf.  “Tyne Daly is a kick-ass Mama Rose on Broadway.  Who knew Lacy had it in her?”

     I give him a look that says, No Way and he opens the score to the newest musical
Phantom Of The Opera
.

     “Oh, this song, just once for me, then we’ll leave, I promise,” he cajoles.

     The idea of hiding behind a piano is suddenly appealing.  I settle in and begin to play.  The score is not difficult, and my sight-reading has always been good.  Sinclair hums along with it, and now and then sings a phrase, clutching his heart, and nodding heroically.  Suddenly a voice joins in.  I look up to see The Gum Goddess, her perfectly manicured cuticles splayed on the piano, as she begins to croon.  Sinclair’s voice peters out, and the conversations in the room cease, as everyone turns to listen, to a voice that is both beautiful and obviously professionally-trained.

     I keep my eyes on the score and try to breathe so that I don’t miss a beat, now that we’ve suddenly become the center of attention.

     “
Think of me/think of me fondly/when we’ve said goodbye/think of me every so often/promise me you’ll try
.”  The Goddess has them all in the palm of her French manicured hands.  I become painfully aware of my chipped pink polish and stubby nails, as I fade further into the background.  I’m Sam the piano player to her Ingrid Bergman.