Cleopatra and Frankenstein(108)

“Come on, it’s Guy as in gui-llo-tine,” he said. “How long we know each other now?”

“Long enough to know better.”

She smiled, pressing her cheek against his. She was careful to breathe through her mouth, since Guy smoked like a true Frenchman: constantly. But to her surprise she smelled only shampoo. She hoped he would not ask after Frank. It was not yet public knowledge that they were no longer living together. The best tactic, she knew, was to get him talking about himself.

“You look great,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “I am sober almost six month now.”

“Seriously?” Audrey craned around in her seat to look at him. “I thought the French were supposed to be able to drink and smoke the rest of us under the table.”

“I used to say the same,” said Guy. “But then I went on tour.”

As the bus turned onto the FDR Highway, he told them about the four months he’d spent doing makeup for a major rock band on a yearlong reunion tour through the States and Europe. The endless cycle of free booze and drugs that surrounded him, the bar fight in Amsterdam where he lost half his earlobe, the prostitute in Brussels who robbed him at knife point, and finally the time he’d woken up completely naked in a hotel hallway, with no idea what time it was, what room he was staying in, or even if he was in the right hotel. He staggered down the endless corridor, lost, naked, and panicked. Ahead of him he saw a light shining from the half-open door of a broom closet. As if in a trance, he walked toward the light. He opened the door. Inside, he found a white fluffy robe on a hanger. Inside, he found God.

“So that was it?” Audrey asked. “You put on a dressing gown and stopped doing drugs?”

“No.” Guy shrugged. “I flew to Mexico to take ayahuasca and trip for three days. Then I stopped doing drugs.”

“What was that like?”

“First,” Guy said, holding up a tobacco-stained finger, “you see the color orange. Then”—he mimed an explosion either side of his head with his hands—“you realize you’ve never really loved.”

“Wow,” said Marshall. “One moment can change your life forever.”

Quentin turned to look at Cleo and rolled his eyes.

“Now, I am addicted only to meditating,” said Guy.

“Meditation as medication,” said Audrey, evidently pleased with herself.

“Exactement.” Guy nodded. “My goal is to one day own only a loin-cloth and a singing bowl.”

“Don’t forget a toothbrush,” said Quentin.

Cleo was silent, staring out of the window at the dark East River rushing past, the lights of Long Island City beyond, the art-deco Pepsi-Cola sign in its dramatic ruby-red script. She was thinking of the day she got out of the hospital. Frank had undressed her in the dark bathroom upstate, slipping her shirt over her uplifted arms as though she were a little girl. She’d put her hands on his shoulders as he’d knelt to pull her jeans off over her ankles and feet. She could feel the air whispering around her stitches. He slid off her underwear. She stepped out of them gingerly. Her body felt drained of all sex. She was back to being a child. He rested his forehead on the slope beneath her belly button. She took his skull in her hands, his lovely curly hair sprouting between her fingers. Devotional. That was the word for two bodies like that. They should have been more devoted; she understood that now.

“Cleo?” It was Quentin looking at her. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Carsick maybe.”

“I’m just checking, you know,” he said. “Being a good friend.”

She wanted to tell him that a really good friend wouldn’t feel the need to point out what a good friend he was being to her all the time, but she let it go. Quentin turned back to Alex, whose yellow eyes had stayed fixed on him. Without looking at him, Quentin pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and slid it into Alex’s lap. Inside were what looked like shards of ice. She could see, in her sliver of view between their seats, just the corner of Alex’s mouth twisting into a smile.

“Look, there’s Zoe!” said Audrey.

They were overtaking one of the other school buses heading to the party. Through the window they could see Zoe’s beautiful curled head resting on the shoulder of an older Asian man wearing a suit. Their bus sped up, and she disappeared behind them.

“That girl is an enigma,” said Audrey, shaking her head.

Quentin threw his arms above his head and shook out his hands.

“Are we there yet?” he yelled.

Audrey laughed. “You can’t seriously be bored already.”

“You know me,” said Quentin. “I’d rather be crying in a limo than laughing on a bus.”



Thirty minutes later they arrived at the entrance gates of the warehouse and parked near a large courtyard. Across the dark river the spiky Manhattan skyline winked at them. The revelers piled out and were shepherded up a walkway lined with burning torches toward two statuesque women holding clipboards. Either side of them was a line of stone-faced security guards. Each of them gave their names to the tall girls in front, all except Alex, who stood there staring defiantly at them.

“He’s not coming in,” the girl with the clipboard said.

“This is Danny’s ex-girlfriend,” Quentin said, pushing Cleo toward her. “He’s her guest.”