Seven Days of Us(33)
“Nicola?”
“She’s her best friend. You’ve met her. Blond, shouty?”
“Oh right, her. Look, Phoebles, I’m really sorry, I have to go. We’re doing champagne breakfast. I’m sure she’ll be OK. Talk later.”
And he hung up.
Jesse
ROOM 17, THE HARBOUR HOTEL, BLAKENHAM, 10:00 A.M.
? ? ?
Jesse woke up fully clothed on top of the bedspread. His head was throbbing. He was craving a cold-pressed juice, but the only remotely cleansing thing in the minibar was a chamomile tea bag. He stood, sipping its thin, floral brew, looking out at the marshes. It was hard to believe it was Christmas Day. The room smelled of George’s cologne, woody and young—perhaps Chanel égo?ste or Boss. He lay down and stared at a yellowish stain on the ceiling, replaying last night in his head.
They had left the bar. He remembered George pulling on a beanie, but having no coat, and how his athlete’s shoulders looked strong and powerful in the cold. The moon was so full it cast shadows. A pheasant shot out of the undergrowth with a frenzy of squawking and flapping, and their arms bumped as they both instinctively ducked. The rest of the time, the only sound was their footsteps on the frosted road.
“You close with your brothers?” said Jesse, for want of something to say.
“Sure. They’re, like, my boys. My buddies. We were shipped off to boarding school when we were seven, so we kind of clubbed together.”
“Seven years old?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Jeez. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s all good.”
They walked on in silence, turning onto a lane so overhung with branches that it was more tunnel than path. George had been the one to suggest they keep drinking, but he didn’t seem to want to talk. Jesse couldn’t work him out. He was straight—publicly—but sometimes the straightest-seeming guys were the ones who wanted to experiment. Why else would he have suggested they go back to Jesse’s hotel? Unless he was just drunk. His profile was expressionless. Jesse tried a different tack.
“Do you think that’s why you proposed to your girlfriend? Looking for security? Righting the wrongs of your childhood. All that shit.” For a moment, as George’s head whipped round, he wondered if he’d overstepped the mark. But George just looked bemused.
“What wrongs?”
“Your parents sending you away. Abandoning you. Maybe you wanted to, I don’t know, fix it with your own happy ending.”
“Ha. Happy ending.” He sniggered, like Jesse had said something dirty. “Do there have to be reasons for everything?”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
“Right . . . so you’re like a Scientologist?”
“Nope. But I’m a filmmaker, and we get pretty deep. Human condition and all that.”
“I thought you were in porn?”
“Hell no! That was your brother, jumping to conclusions. I did some acting when I started out, but I prefer being behind the camera. Besides, I’m too tall to be an actor.”
“So what’ve you been in? Anything I’d know?” The question came with a slight sneer, as if to undercut any inferred interest—either in Jesse’s acting or superior height.
“Mostly U.S. shows. Spring Break? Willow Drive? I had a walk-on in Curb Your Enthusiasm.”
“Whoa! Did you meet Larry David?”
His excitement made him sound younger.
“Sure. I mean, we didn’t talk a whole lot but we met.”
They reached the hotel. The security light revealed a deserted lobby, and a metal screen over the bar. Jesse sensed the mood evaporating, and George having second thoughts. “I have booze in my room,” he said, on impulse. He must have been drunker than he realized. Or perhaps he just needed company. It was days since he’d had a real conversation. George followed him up the stairs. He was suddenly very aware of the other man’s body, the corridor so narrow that they switched to single file. Up in his room, they both sat side by side on the edge of the maroon bed. Jesse emptied two Jack Daniels miniatures into tumblers. “Chin, chin!” said George.
“Merry Christmas,” replied Jesse.
“So, what, you’re spending Christmas here?” asked George, leaning back on his elbows and surveying the room.
“Looks that way,” said Jesse. He switched on MTV but turned the sound way down.
“How come?”
“I didn’t plan on—I mean, it wasn’t supposed to turn out this way,” he said.
George looked confused.
“OK, here’s the deal. I’m adopted, right?” said Jesse. “And I’m looking for my birth father. He lives around here. The whole idea was that I was going to spend Christmas there, at his home, but it turned out I’m not welcome.” He knew he was oversharing again, but he was too drunk to care. He could hear his therapist’s monotone asking: “Do you think you ‘blurt,’ Jesse, because you want to free yourself of something?” Shut up, Calgary, he thought.
“Wait—what? So you’re looking for your real, as in, biological father and he told you to piss off?” George seemed more animated than he had been all evening.
“Not straight out. But I sent him a bunch of e-mails, and he didn’t reply.”