“Jeffrey!”
There was a distant echo, low and choked with something stronger than alcohol. A figure materialized from the crowd. His winter coat blurred like a double exposure of neon in an advertisement. His eyes shone with tears.
A sob wrenched from his throat as he cried, “No! This isn’t you.”
Jeffrey felt the need to justify himself. A phantom voice floated up and out from his chest. “It is me,” he began to say, but just then, a thump on the back jolted him back to reality.
It was no casual slap on the back. No, he realized, he’d been punched—but by then, he was stumbling, and his momentum carried him outside the ring of his interlocutors.
Out of the merrymaking.
Over the surface of the pool.
Now I’ve done it, he thought.
The next thing he knew, everything was in darkness.
Jeff. Jeff!
The boy calling his name shot up like a tree before Jeffrey’s eyes. One moment, he was an angelic child with lovely blond curls, the next, an attractive youth with sharp features that did nothing to dampen his sense of reticence. With every second, he assumed more of the incredible man he would one day be, a man with all the coldness of ice and the warm affection of spring.
The youth grew up before Jeffrey’s eyes like an image in a magic mirror or the pages of a photo album flying by. Throughout it all, the boy continued to call Jeffrey’s name. Smiling. Crying, at times. Chastising, at others. Spoken entreatingly. Spoken in the murmur of one half-asleep.
And, at the end of it all, he always said the same thing: No. This isn’t you.
Jeffrey wrenched up and out of sleep with an unvoiced scream dying on his lips. His face hurt, oddly. His nose in particular ached like nobody’s business. Someone had laid him out on a sofa, and there was a crick in his neck from sleeping at an odd angle. A white bathrobe covered him.
That reminded him. He had face-planted into the pool.
Before he could remember anything that happened before that, something warm was thrust into his face.
“Hot apple juice.”
Jeffrey registered a white mug and a set of dark, hazel-brown fingers gripping the handle. The owner of those fingers was younger than anyone Jeffrey had met at the party. Their voice was low, moderated.
“Do you want some or not, hon?”
Jeffrey couldn’t tell if this person was a man or a woman under all that makeup. They were, however, attractive. And they had a friendly smile.
He muttered his thanks, took the mug, and sipped the juice. The overpowering sweetness was an assault on his taste buds. That’s one hell of a wakeup call, he mused as the person grinned. Whenever they smiled, their lips, orange with lipstick, quirked up into a semicircle.
“You’re one lucky guy. You probably passed out the moment you hit the water. It’s a miracle you didn’t drown.”
“Lucky? Sounds unlucky to me.” Jeffrey sneezed. “Excuse me.”
“Gesundheit. No, I’d say you were lucky. There was someone there to pluck you out after you went for your little swim.”
“…Let me guess. You?”
“Mm-hmm. I was on the swim team way back in elementary. I wasn’t going to let you drown, you know? I ruined one of my suits in the process, but that’s fine. I have another.”
At the mention of clothing, Jeffrey looked over the clothes this man—or were they a woman?—wore. The suit bore the Chanel logo, guaranteeing the finest of materials and make, even if the color wasn’t the most flattering for this person’s skin tone. That logo, the white fringe, and the lapel pin glittering at their throat in the shape of a thoroughbred horse’s head were signs that this was a person with power.
Jeffrey scratched his head self-consciously. He set his mug on the floor and offered his hand to shake. The other person’s hand was large but soft. It smelled good.
“I can’t thank you enough for all your help. My name is—”
“Oliver Straight? If the pile of business cards in your pocket was anything to go by.”
The person tittered and flashed a wad of sodden, misshapen business cards in Jeffrey’s stupefied face. The laughter and gesture were coquettish, the kind that would charm any stuffed shirt in a high-end suit.
One finger, its nail painted a garnet orange, pointed at the impeccably made-up face. “Joanna Zarzuela. Sorry, hon, but I don’t think we’re going to run into each other again. If you want to thank me for saving your life, you’re gonna have to do it now.”
“No, give me a moment, and I’ll… Shoot. I left my phone at the coat check.”
Jeffrey couldn’t even sigh in disappointment. He had hoped to call up the manager of the Chanel stores on Fifth Avenue or the Rue Cambon and let Joanna shop till she dropped on his dime. So much for that idea. Enough of that, he thought. He lowered his bathrobe-covered legs from the sofa to the floor and looked his savior in the eyes.
“Thanks a million, Joanna. I unfortunately don’t have a lot going for me, stripped of my wallet and contacts as I am, but I still truly appreciate you saving me. I hope something very good comes your way before long.”
“Even if you’re a broke nobody, I’m happy to get a thank-you. I’m glad I fished you out of that pool.”
“I promise, I really do have money and connections. It’s just, well…without my phone…”
“Pooh, who cares about that? I like glamming myself up with accessories, but I don’t need connections with hot-shots to bedazzle my social network. Money and connections are peeling gilt in the face of real sincerity.”
Jeffrey blinked. Could words like these really be coming from the lips of someone who attended that vanity fair of a birthday party? In the business world, everything was business. A person’s name was a commodity and friendship, a product to be bought and sold. In Joanna’s terms, it was a veritable accessory fair. Buyer and seller alike were fully aware and enjoyed the game for what it was. They enjoyed playing pretend that it was sincere. That, or they enjoyed making fun of each other. I’m the only one who knows the truth, they thought, a derisive snicker burbling up from the pits of their stomachs.
But this Chanel-clad character had no shame about calling it the farce it was. As far as Jeffrey was concerned, they might as well have been royalty from some unknown kingdom. He grit his teeth—if only he had his phone—and offered a bashful smile instead.
“…Could I ask for your—”
“No.”
“Not even your phone number?”
“Nope.”
“I could give you mine.”
“Not happening, buster.”
“Not even if I offer you a nice surprise? Something to brag about to your friends?”
“Didn’t hear me the first time? Shoot, it’s getting late. I gotta run.”
“Nooo!”
“You sound like an unhappy child. I’m not Santa Claus, honey.”
“I wish you were. All I’d have to do to see you next year is be a good boy, but for you—oh, for you, who knows what sort of boy I’d have to be?”
“Bless your heart. The mystery is what makes it so fun, silly. Now, ta-ta.”
“No, wait—”
With one last goodbye and a waggle of those orange fingertips, Joanna rose. Jeffrey couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way she towered over him in her stilettos—God, what brand were those?—and the willowy torso that supported the entire magnificent structure. Did she delegate all her work to her employees and spend the whole day doing yoga? Jeffrey clenched the mug of apple juice in his hands.
“We’ll meet again!” he called. “I’m persistent like that.”
“Don’t press your luck. I’m as free as the wind, honey. Get some rest and stay warm. Try not to go jumping into any more pools, Oliver.”
“I’ll try, but I can’t make any promises.”
“I won’t be there to pull you out next time.”