Chameleon On a Kaleidoscope (The Oxygen Thief Diaries) (13 page)

“
What time do
you call this? It’s our anniversary’ the girl says.

“
I didn’t
forget I just bumped into Bob.” says the man
defensively.

“
Bob?
Nobody’s called Bob any more.”

“
Bob…you know
Bob, he asked after you.”

“
I don’t care
if Robert DeNiro asked after me” She smashes a vase.

Cut back to me downstairs
as I take out my cell phone.

“
Yes I think
maybe you probably can help.” I say.

Cut back upstairs. The
girl is shouting now.

“
What I’d
like to know is where you’ve been for the last four
hours?”

“
Three,
actually.’

“
Four, you
went out to get a pint of milk.”

“
I got the
milk.” he holds up pint of milk.

“
But I’ve
been cooking all day, it’s our anniversary….”

Just then we hear the
sound of a doorbell.

“
Oh, that
might be Bob for you now” she says sarcastically.

On
opening the door the girl is met by a huge bunch of flowers handed
to her by a courier. Assuming her boyfriend ordered them for their
anniversary she throws herself into his arms. Tears of rage become
tears of joy as the boyfriend accepts her sensuous kiss of
gratitude. Cut back to me downstairs. My smug expression has
returned as I settle back into my chair. I am about to resume
reading when I hear the loud annoying creak of bedsprings as my
upstairs neighbors make love. My plan worked too well.
Tulip Express. Flower Delivery. Amsterdam 1800
345 7686

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

And so, it turned out that
on that last Friday in February, I alone, was summoned to the
couches downstairs where Ted Lichtenheld waited for me; half-stood,
half-sat, inhaling only when absolutely necessary the surrounding
atmosphere of what was already in his mind, a quarantined
building.

He presented me with a
beautifully printed crisp memo announcing the closure of company
that same day. I marvelled at the quality of the paper and the
opacity of the ink. This hadn’t come from our printer. An hour
later my entry-card to the building was cancelled. Orchestrating a
remote electronic lock-out from five thousand miles away was easy
while the printer upstairs hadn’t worked since I’d arrived. It no
longer mattered. It was all over. The satellite had embarrassed the
mothership by doing too well. It wasn’t meant to win awards. Our
little office was only intended as an outpost. We had exceeded our
brief. The Lions had been captured and tamed and were already on
show in reception area of New York office. We were told they’d been
held up at French customs. Johnathan was offered a position in the
new office they were setting up in London and he jumped at the
opportunity to return home to Blighty. But within two weeks of
selling his place in Amsterdam and moving his family back to
London, he was let go. They needed to get him out of his
employee-friendly Dutch contract. But it wasn’t all bad news. I
received a hundred thousand Euros in severance pay.

JANE

“
Has Sean
Killallon taken out a contract on you yet?” Jane Duncan,
Editor-in-Chief of London’s media magazine AdVent had finished
reading my newly minted book. A positive mention in her editorial
section would be even more impressive than Silvestro’s quote. But
how did she know it was about Killallon? She knew better than
anyone what went on in the ad game but even so, why was she so
confident?

“
Is it that
obvious?”

“
Frankly,
yes, see page 109.”

I ripped open a box,
grabbed a copy and opened it at that page.

“…
had done
Killallon a lot of favors.”

It was nightmarish. It was
the one word that shouldn’t appear anywhere in the and yet there it
was. I tried to let it settle into me; the horror of it. Fighting
the feelings would only make them stronger. I had to accept it
quickly and then deal with it. How could I have been such an
amateur? It was bad enough having typos all the way through but
this was unforgivable. A law-suit would generate publicity but not
enough make up for the worry and stress. I had an overwhelming urge
to run. Just run. But where?

I was beginning see what
people meant when they said the book was courageous. I didn’t like
hearing that because
courageous
meant risky. I suddenly felt
like a boring client who didn’t have the balls to run a cool ad
campaign.

Letting that word through
was suicide. I kept returning to the moment I found out like a
slow-mo replay of an own goal. Somehow it got through and it was
now in all ten thousand copies. A glum inevitability descended on
me like ash. I accepted my fate and assumed it into my character.
It seemed logical to let the feeling of abject defeat settle inside
me since it would obviously be around for some time. What would
prison be like? Would I be expected to suck cocks? I had better get
used to the idea. I looked at bananas anew. Would I be expected to
swallow?

Yes I would.

I consulted porn for
pointers. If my survival rested on sucking cocks I would take pride
in it. It couldn’t really be that bad. I mean at least I’d still be
alive. Sort of. And I could always write about it. If my cellmate
let me. I heard about a prisoner who had avoided being raped
because he was funny. In prison humour is as valuable as
cigarettes. And everybody knew that a repeatedly raped prisoner
didn’t tell jokes.

Talk about motivation to
come up with new material.

Maybe it was a clever
attempt by Pamela to undermine me? Could she have been so
devilishly clever? It was just a matter of removing the space
between the words so that Killallon was rendered invisible to my
endless wordsearches. I had checked and double checked so many
times it was surreal to see it there in the finished book. But why
would they sue me? For not liking them? Meanwhile, that tasty
blonde girl from the Athenaeum Boekhandel, one of Amsterdam’s most
popular independant bookshops, called and left a voice
message.

“
It’s selling
well, we’ll take another batch if you have them”

Oh fuck.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Open on
a dizzying over-the-shoulder shot of me standing out on the
ledge
of a high-rise office building. I look distraught and
dishevelled. The voiceover sounds like my own thoughts;
“This is where I’m supposed to remind you of all
the wonderful things you have to live for, but since it’s little
late for that, here’s a question for you instead. Are you up high
enough? If you jump from this height you might actually survive,
and we don’t want that now do we? Yes, you could always come back
and take the disabled elevator to the roof and roll yourself off
but wouldn’t it be better to get it right the first time? I think
you need a few more floors between the pavement and the possibility
of people saying
the fucking idiot
couldn’t even kill himself properly.
Come
on, the stairs are through here”

This actually makes sense
to me and as I begin to edge back towards the open window I realise
the voice I heard wasn’t inner monologue, it was a real person
speaking to me from just inside the window. And as he helps me
inside I can see that he is a calmer more handsome, healthier
version of myself. He wears exactly the same clothes as I do but on
him they look tailor-made. He is my better self. As I stand there
still staring at him I am suddenly surrounded by carers and
paramedics and wrapped in a blanket before being helped into an
elevator.

Later,
from inside an ambulance, I see my twin once again this time as he
gets in on the passenger side of a champagne-coloured Falfaux
parked nearby. Beside him in the driver’s seat is a beautiful
dark-haired blue-eyed girl. They kiss hello. A wide generous smile
spreads across her face when she notices the resemblance between
myself and my twin and I can’t help feeling we’ve met somewhere
before, or that we will meet soon. This notion has a calming effect
until something occurs to me. I look upwards. The camera follows my
eyes and we realise the car is parked directly beneath the window
ledge where I threatened to jump.
Falfaux.Saving Lives.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

BRIDGIT (Part
Two)

An apartment in the East
Village for nine-hundred a month? It was too good to be true. There
had to be a catch. Surely she was setting me up for some terrible
revenge. Had I hurt her more than I realised? Poor thing. I had
broken her heart and this was her long-awaited opportunity to
avenge herself. She‘d stand by as I gave up my place in Amsterdam.
She’d even help with my transatlantic move until at last on the
same day I arrived in New York with as many boxes of my newly
published book as the luggage-limit allowed, I’d be told there was
no apartment. I’d stand there ridiculous, caught between countries,
apartments and cartons of my self-published semi-fictionalised
memoir. It would serve me right for not marrying her.When I finally
met her to pick up the keys she had a baby with her in a huge
carriage. I was not expecting this.

“
I didn’t
mention I was married?”

So much for my image of
her pining for me in curtained rooms. I peered into the carriage
and from under all manner of expensive-looking blankets and toys
emerged a tiny fist like a parody of rebellion and attached to it
was what I could only describe as a bald blue-eyed miniature
version of myself.

Why was she watching my
reaction so carefully? Was this in fact
my
baby? Had she
gotten pregnant and never told me? I tried to do the math as I
smiled and wiggled my fingers in front of …

“
What’s his
name?” I was looking for clues.

“
Tarquin.”
she said enjoying my embarrassment.

“
Tarquin. And
how old is he now?”

It had been two years
since we broke up. Nine months to incubate and.. .oh jesus, had she
arranged to get me an apartment in her building virtually opposite
her own apartment so I could take up my responsibility in parenting
our child?

“
He’s ten
months.”

Ten months? Ten months
earlier I was banging Rebecca.It couldn’t be mine then. But maybe
she froze some of my sperm. Was that even possible? But she was
married. Or so she said. The baby didn’t look too happy about the
situation. Like father like son?

“
Oh my god he
looks just like you, congratulations.”

This from the waitress
looking at me and Tarquin like we were biological tennis. I had
been lured back to New York with the promise of a cheap east
village apartment and now she was about to ambush me with a
paternity suit. She was a lawyer she knew all about these things.
She knew I had enough money to warrant the effort because she had
already all my bank account details. She was laughing at
me.

“
Oh my god
no. I see what you mean, but no, he’s just a friend.”

The waitress retreated. I
exhaled. The truth as always, was less flattering. As an unemployed
writer I fulfilled the requirement that all tenants in her building
be of low-income status and preferably connected to the arts. Of
the six apartments in the building only two of the occupants met
these requirements and one of them was so old he was expected to
vacate not just the apartment but his mortal frame at any moment.
My addition to the roster would help reclaim some credibility for
the co-op and with my recently banked severance money there would
be no worries about me keeping up with the rent. In fact, if
anything, I was doing Bridgit a favour. Within weeks I was back in
New York under my latest guise. A writer living in the East
Village.

3

PRUDENCE

“
Are you
Brent?’ it was a women’s nasal voice.

I looked up from my
double-toasted bagel and shook my head.

“
No,
sorry.”

“
Oh, sorry.”
She said smiling weakly as she sat down at the adjacent table all
the time glaring at me like I had just lied to her. Should I double
check? Was I in fact Brent? If she had been gorgeous I might have
been less certain. Her face was a conspiracy of cosmetics and I
could see how her online profile might attract some emails but
day-lit and sitting across from me she looked like an effigy of a
young girl. The door to the café opened behind her and the shaved
head of man about my height poked inside. His eyes ricocheted
crazily but the rest of him remained outside. When he saw the woman
he stopped and his eyes met mine for a split second. He could have
been an older version of me. Retrieving his head he disappeared. At
least he wasn’t fat. My phone rang and because I didn’t recognise
the number I answered.

“
Hello?

“
Hello
darling sweetie it’s Prudence”

It was the literary editor
of the celebrated Prowess magazine and her little squeaky voice was
even sexier now that she was alone in her apartment. She had
already described herself as “the editor of a well-known magazine”
in her profile so I knew after a only little research who she was
before she called. Her voice was laced with sex from the moment I
answered and within minutes she was describing her body to
me.