Hollywood Ass. (10 page)

I was happy to have Geri as company, but I knew there was a risk her boyfriend would get angry, which would be an unnecessary complication. But on the other hand, artists weren’t so macho and possessive and Geri didn’t seem to think it was a big deal to walk around with a complete stranger. Maybe they had one of those “open” relationships?

The classical room
was a time machine into the 17th century and most of the paintings in there carried massive gold frames and a sense of legend. The furniture was from the same period, dark wooden and in vivacious shapes and there was a huge golden chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Being a semi-snob, I actually preferred this style from the ultra-contemporary designs that dominated the rest of the gallery. I have always been nostalgic for the “good old days”.

I stopped in the middle of the room, stared upwards at what I realized was a wonderfully and meticulously painted ceiling and said “Wow!”

“Dashing,” Geri replied, in an accent I thought was reserved for old ladies in hats and pearl necklaces. Despite her young and fresh looks, it suited her. Perhaps we were both snobs.

I saw a painting I recognized and walked up to it, “He has an original Monet?” I said, feeling my mouth open into an awkward shape.

“Of course, this is one of best private collections in the world. He has lots of famous works, Monet, Dali, Caravaggio. It’s basically a museum.”

“Amazing.” I replied.

Geri didn’t seem very interested in the paintings though and kept talking, “Did you find anything you like yet? The apartments, I mean, the one she wants to buy.”

I don’t like lying because it always pushes you further down the rabbit hole, but here I had already taken that step and had to worm myself out of it. I faked interest in the painting in front of me and said in a faraway voice, “Nah, not really, but I'm sure something will turn up.” I didn’t like how my voice sounded when I lied - all squeaky and shaky - a lie detector would probably be drawing up mountains for me.

“I wonder where she is by the way,” I added in an attempt to change the subject and also because I had no idea where
B
was. I was supposed to guard her against the evil who came in suits, long hair and musky colognes, but I wasn’t doing a great job.

Geri looked a bit disappointed when I mentioned
B
, “If you want to look for her, that’s fine. But I'm sure she's in good hands around Matteo,” she said and kept looking at a
Dali
.

“You know him?”

“Well, through Flavio I know pretty much everyone in the upper end of the Roman art scene. I've met him quite a few times, he’s a true gentleman.”

I was almost about to ask about Matteo’s sexual orientation when a tall man in long, slightly frazzled hair, wearing a brown turtleneck sweater appeared from nowhere and started talking to Geri in a sharp Italian tone. She responded in a raised voice, her accent sounding impeccable to my mono-lingual ears and gestured towards me and said, “Flavio, this is Darryl, Darryl, this is my boyfriend Flavio.”

Boyfriend? He’s your oldfriend, that’s what he is!
I remember thinking, because the tall and slim man in front of me was at least 25 years her senior. A part of me wanted to reassure myself that it wasn’t an uncommon thing these days and another part of me wanted to shout:
Call the cops!

Flavio shook my hand nonchalantly like he couldn't care less who I was and I could’t really blame him either, after all I had “hijacked” his girlfriend. He leaned down like a T-Rex towards Geri’s delicate little ear and whispered something, after which she turned to me, said “excuse us,” and then the odd-looking couple walked away and left me feeling lonely and miserable. Geri had been a great escape for me, but now she was gone and all I had was an empty glass and some paintings to look at.

I walked around and looked at some more paintings. My head was strangely empty. I looked at my watch and realized time had literally flown and that I needed to get back to
B
. Wherever she was.

Back in the main room people were scattered about talking, and the crowd didn’t look as dense as before. My head went back and forth as I paced the space, but
B
was nowhere to be seen and my nervous walking around was starting to attract curious looks from the rest of the partygoers and beads of sweat from my armpits.

Wasn’t someone saying something about a roof terrace? That must be where she is!
Was the thought that popped into my head after a while.

After asking a waiter I found a door leading to a small staircase in one of the corners of the room. Up there was a glass door leading out to the roof, which was full of plants and furniture and looked more like a lounge. Most of the party had moved up there it seemed and I was soon handed some kind of drink. I saw Gianluca, I saw Flavio and Geri, I saw many of the people I’d met downstairs, but not
B
and not Matteo. Finally I turned to Geri, “Sorry to disturb, but have you seen
B
?”

She shook her head and reached over towards Gianluca and said something in Italian. He looked up at me and said, “I think she left already. Sick.” He rubbed his belly to make up for his poor English.

Alarm bells went off in my head. She had already left the party with Matteo, without telling me. How could she have gotten sick again
?
She wasn’t drinking that hard? Or was she? I said thanks to Gianluca and left the terrace in a haste. Once again she had walked out on me without saying anything and I was really angry with her. Was she at Matteo’s place or back in her room? I tried calling her, but as usual, she didn’t answer her phone. In the end I decided to take a cab back to the hotel, it seemed like the only sensible thing to do at that moment.

But I didn't think straight and just walked out of the building without telling anyone and ended up walking for 20 minutes before I found a taxi willing to stop and take me back to the Hassler. I looked out the window at night-time Rome passing by and yelled at myself for dropping my focus and leaving
B
to her own devices. She was still fragile and could easily be manipulated into anything, especially by an Italian stud.

***

I didn’t sleep well that night and woke up with a dry throat. I needed water, but the first thing I reached for was the phone, where I found a message saying: “I'm SO SORRY! I got really sick & Matteo offered me to stay at his place. I hope u got home ok! Love x.”

She had spent the night with another man, which in my head could only mean one thing, infidelity, which in another turn could only lead to the dissolution of her marriage, which would make my job situation very shaky. I sighed deeply, walked over to the mini-bar, grabbed a bottle of San Pellegrino, sat down in the sofa chair and felt like a ton of bricks had fallen over me - like everything I fought for was lost. I don’t know why I felt it this harshly, it wasn’t a typical thing I did, I wasn’t a drama queen. After all, I wasn’t sure it would cost me my job or bear any grave implications on my personal life. It was too early to know anything. Still, her “betrayal” hurt me more than I could have ever thought.

***

B
returned to our hotel just after lunch, chipper and cheerful and constantly on her Blackberry. She didn’t say anything about her night with Matteo, only that she must have some kind of stomach bug, because she’d had the same feeling of nausea several times now, with it, timely, reaching new heights during one of the most prestigious red carpet events.

This baffled me. Was she so far detached from reality that she wouldn’t even comment on what in my mind was a likely adultery? Wasn’t she sorry she abandoned me at a party in a foreign city? And why, if she was sick the night before, wasn’t she hungover? Where was all this energy coming from?

Like nothing had happened, she suggested we take a trip to the Vatican, making it sound like the equivalent of popping down to Starbucks for a cream cheese bagel. I said yes, of course. What else could I say?

At that point I thought
B
was completely oblivious (or just didn’t give a shit) about how I felt, but in the cab on our way to the Pope’s home, she proved to have a better check on her surroundings - she said, “What’s up with you today, Darryl? Why aren’t you talking to me?”

I told myself to take it easy, but anger burned inside of me and I couldn’t help but burst out, “What do you think? You just left me, said nothing, didn’t answer my calls and spent the night at his place. I at least thought you could
say
something about it!”

“What are you talking about? I was drunk and slept in his apartment, not in his bed! Not
with
him! He’s gay, remember? And I texted you this morning! Since when did you get so sensitive?”

I had opened Pandora’s box and figured I might as well dive straight in. I looked at
B
whose lips were quivering with fury and shock and for a second I was going to back down. After all, she seemed to be feeling good about herself for once. But I couldn’t help but wonder: at what price?

“Seriously? You didn't do anything? I saw you two. He looked like he wanted to
lick
you! Like some kind of horny cat! You slept at his place and nothing happened and you didn’t tell me you left because you felt sick and you couldn’t call me because your phone was out of battery? I’m supposed to believe all that? This is not
Gullible’s Travels
you know!” A pun like this would normally make me smile, but I was furious. A rare emotion in my body.

“Whoa, what the fuck are you talking about? You think I’m stupid and heartless enough to cheat on my husband? Is this the perception you have of me, that I’m so fucking clueless I don’t know what I’m doing? What has gotten into you?”

I didn’t know what to reply. Suddenly I felt that maybe she was right, maybe I was imagining the worst? On the other hand,
B
was a skilled actress.

After contemplating my options for a while, I raised my hands above my head in defeat, “Okay, okay, I’m out of line. I just don’t know
what
to think, the way you’re acting. Can we drop this, please? I’m sorry I got a stupid idea in my head. I was just worried about you.”

B
put her arm under mine, “You were worrying about me? You’re so cute I could pinch your chubby little cheek,” she said in a quick shift of emotion, grabbed my cheek violently and tugged it back and forth. It hurt, but I had to be manly enough and pretend not to be bothered by it.

Then she put her hand on my shoulder, “I’m happy we’re clear on the cheating thing. I don’t cheat, period.”

I nodded in agreement, but honestly I didn’t really know what to think, because reality was that if she wanted to cheat, I couldn’t stop her, so I might as well stop thinking about it. People do what they want. We learn that the hard way.

***

In the square outside of St Peter’s Cathedral, the line to the church looked mighty demotivating. I didn’t really know why
B
had wanted to come, she wasn’t the most devout Christian, but like most celebrities she did get irregular bouts of spirituality which sometimes broke out into a tattoo or God-inspired tweet. All this fame and money must make you battle feelings of guilt from time to time and I guess religion helps you deal with that.

Besides, believing in God is kind of cool. At least for celebrities.

“There's a line?” she said, both surprised and annoyed at the multi-colored cue of people who were there because of faith or guidebooks.

I looked at her with a crooked smile on my face, “Yeah, there are no VIPs as far as God's concerned. Except for the Pope maybe. And the cardinals. And the priests. And...little boys.” A bad joke, I know, but I couldn’t help it. Besides, I really liked the idea of
B
having to stand in line for once.

“Ha-ha, very funny, Darryl. It just looks so long, that's all.”

I looked over at the massive group of people slowly moving forward towards two metal detectors and said, “It’s quite fast though, won't take more than ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes my ass,”
B
snapped back as we placed ourselves at the bottom of the line. I kept my eyes open for people who might recognize her and start trouble, but hopefully standing in line to a church would save us.
B
had also managed to cover herself up pretty well in a big hat and giant Dior sunglasses, and why would a world class celebrity be here, queueing like everybody else?

“I always wanted to see this place, it's on my top five,”
B
whispered like we were already in the confessional.

“Which are the other four?” I asked, curious, because I had no clue.

“Since I’ve been to the Louvre, it’s Taj Mahal, The Great Wall of China, Chichen Itza and Petra.”
B
rattled off, like it was on top of her mind.

The line moved almost as fast as
B
’s tongue and we were soon at the metal detector. She put her Gucci bag through the miniature car wash machine and watched it disappear. Since we didn’t carry any heavy weaponry, no alarm went off and we were allowed inside the church.

Like most people of my generation I tend to believe only what I see, which has severely dampened any interest in religion, but the massive St. Peter’s Church took my breath away nonetheless. Just the sheer size of it was, well, amazing.

I looked over at
B
and saw that she had tears in her eyes, “It's so beautiful...” she said, her voice breaking slightly, “I didn't know what to expect, just not this.”

“Yeah, it's fantastic,” I said, my eyes wandering.

We walked around quietly among scattered groups of people who were either equally taken or just there to say they had been there, the latter being people whose cameras probably experienced more on the vacation than they did. I lost track of
B
for a moment and when I found her again I saw she was sitting on a wooden bench behind one of the massive stone pillars. She was crying. My heart sank down to my stomach because I really hated seeing her emotions get the better of her every single time. I sat down next to her and put my arm around her.