The song ended, and Peter had his hands on Katy’s shoulders, steering her in the direction of their table. Soleil was pulling Keith by the hand, and he mockingly resisted. ‘Moon River’ began playing and he tried to twirl her. She twirled twice and Keith dipped her. It was the wrong sort of dance for the music, but Soleil looked thrilled. For a moment Gabrielle had an image of Soleil at age eight, riding a bike down a hill, her hands in the air.
Peter and Katy sat down clumsily at the table, and Peter slid a glass of water toward Katy and removed the glass of wine that sat in front of her.
‘What’d the grandmas want?’ Soleil asked, as she and Keith joined them. Gabrielle recounted what they had said.
‘Some people…’ Soleil said. Everyone waited for her to finish her sentence, but instead she refolded her napkin.
‘Hags!’ said Keith. ‘People get so jealous when they’re not getting any.’
‘Well, Bree’s not exactly getting any,’ Katy said. ‘And they’re still jealous.’
Everyone laughed, and Gabrielle made herself laugh too. If she didn’t, the joke would be on her.
By the time the boat docked, it was clear alcohol had affected Katy and Soleil in different ways: Soleil was loud and Katy was quiet. Peter and Keith drove them all back to Katy’s house. Gabrielle was anxious for the night to be over, for Katy and Soleil to wake up the next day, sober and casually dressed.
‘Goodnight, thank you,’ Gabrielle said, when Keith’s car pulled up to Katy’s house.
Everyone laughed again.
‘They’re coming in for a night-cap,’ Soleil explained, as Keith circled around the car, opening each of the doors.
They all spilled into Katy’s living room, which, Gabrielle thought, suddenly seemed too small to accommodate their limbs, their smells, their shrieks. The adults must have felt the same way: within a minute Keith and Soleil pretended to race each other into the guest room; Peter and Katy stumbled into the master bedroom.
Gabrielle slept on the itchy living room couch. Or tried to – noises filled the house. Doors closed and toilets flushed and a bed squeaked like a child’s toy.
In the morning Gabrielle woke to Soleil’s voice coming from the porch: ‘Are you sure I can’t make you waffles?’
Gabrielle sat up and looked out of the open window.
‘That’s okay, doll,’ Keith said. ‘I gotta skedaddle.’
At the edge of the porch, Keith kissed Soleil hard and then walked toward his car. Without turning around, he lifted his hand and waved goodbye.
Soleil came back into the house. Her eyes met Gabrielle’s. ‘W-w-w-what are you l-l-l-looking at?’ she said.
Gabrielle ran out the door and followed Keith to his car. ‘Excuse me,’ she called out.
‘Well, look who’s awake,’ Keith said, putting on his seatbelt. The top button on his shirt was hanging from a long thread. ‘Good morning, camper.’
‘Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?’
He opened his glove compartment and handed her a pad of paper and a pen. At the top of the pad was a cartoon drawing of a man skiing. The caption said: ‘Life is good.’
‘Here’s where I live,’ Gabrielle said, as she wrote down her address. ‘Soleil will be home with my family after the weekend.’
‘Okay, partner,’ Keith said, taking the paper from her like it was a receipt. ‘I thank you kindly.’
Gabrielle had no idea why he was talking the way he was. She walked back to the house, where Soleil was standing in the living room. It was clear she’d been watching through the window. ‘What were you doing?’ she said, accusingly.
‘Giving him my address.’
‘What?’ Soleil said.
‘So he knows where to find you this week.’
‘W-w-why would he need to find me?’
‘To apologize,’ Gabrielle said.
Soleil tightened her fingers into fists. She mimed screaming at the ceiling, she mimed screaming at the wall. Finally, she turned to Gabrielle with eyes that were strangely dull, dark as wet soil. ‘Oh, grow up,’ she said.
Roy Spivey by Miranda July
Twice I have sat next to a famous man on an airplane. The first man was Jason Kidd of the New Jersey Nets. I asked him why he didn’t fly first class, and he said that it was because his cousin worked for United.
‘Wouldn’t that be all the more reason to get first class?’
‘It’s cool,’ he said, unfurling his legs into the aisle.
I let it go, because what do I know about the ins and outs of being a sports celebrity? We didn’t talk for the rest of the flight.
I can’t say the name of the second famous person, but I will tell you that he is a Hollywood heart-throb who is married to a starlet. Also, he has the letter V in his first name. That’s all – I can’t say anything more than that. Think espionage. OK, the end – that really is all. I’ll call him Roy Spivey, which is almost an anagram of his name.
If I were a more self-assured person I would not have volunteered to give up my seat on an overcrowded flight, would not have been upgraded to first class, would not have been seated beside him. This was my reward for being a pushover. He slept for the first hour, and it was startling to see such a famous face look so vulnerable and empty. He had the window seat and I had the aisle, and I felt as though I were watching over him, protecting him from the bright lights and the paparazzi. Sleep, little spy, sleep. He’s actually not little, but we’re all children when we sleep. For this reason, I always let men see me asleep early on in a relationship. It makes them realize that, even though I am five feet eleven, I am fragile and need to be taken care of. A man who can see the weakness of a giant knows that he is a man indeed. Soon small women make him feel almost fey – and, lo, he now has a thing for tall women.
Roy Spivey shifted in his seat, waking. I quickly shut my own eyes, and then slowly opened them, as if I, too, had been sleeping. Oh, but he hadn’t quite opened his yet. I shut mine again and right away opened them, slowly, and he opened his, slowly, and our eyes met, and it seemed as if we had woken from a single sleep, from the dream of our entire lives. Me, a tall but otherwise undistinguished woman; he a distinguished spy, but not really, just an actor, but not really, just a man, maybe even just a boy. That’s the other way that my height can work on men, the more common way: I become their mother.
We talked ceaselessly for the next two hours, having the conversation that is specifically about everything. He told me intimate details about his wife, the beautiful Ms M. Who would have guessed that she was so troubled?
‘Oh, yeah, everything in the tabloids is true.’
‘It is?’
‘Yeah, especially about her eating disorder.’
‘But the affairs?’
‘No, not the affairs, of course not. You can’t believe the ’bloids.’
‘ ’Bloids?’
‘We call them ’bloids. Or tabs.’
When the meals were served it felt as if we were eating breakfast in bed together, and when I got up to use the bathroom he joked, ‘You’re leaving me!’
And I said, ‘I’ll be back!’
As I walked up the aisle, many of the passengers stared at me, especially the women. Word had traveled fast in this tiny flying village. Perhaps there were even some ’bloid writers on the flight. There were definitely some ’bloid readers. Had we been talking loudly? It seemed to me that we were whispering. I looked in the mirror while I was peeing and wondered if I was the plainest person he had ever talked to. I took off my blouse and tried to wash under my arms, which isn’t really possible in such a small bathroom. I tossed handfuls of water toward my armpits and they landed on my skirt. It was made from the kind of fabric that turns much darker when it is wet. This was a real situation I had got myself into. I acted quickly, taking off my skirt and soaking the whole thing in the sink, then wringing it out and putting it back on. I smoothed it out with my hands. There. It was all a shade darker now. I walked back down the aisle, being careful not to touch anyone with my dark skirt.