Not that this mattered.
None of it did.
The recent bout with happiness? Short-lived — as usual, it had all too quickly decamped. While she felt a fool, worse still she had this uncontrollable melodramatic belief that her heart had been mashed beyond repair. Louise thought about slapping herself. She had stupidly trusted Jack, believed in him, loved the man. A vacuous rollercoaster that was over inside two weeks — some kind of new record.
Damn it, Jack, she mulled, why couldn’t you be honest?
Was she to blame for that? After all, she’d brought up Lee’s death at the hands of other Bops. No wonder he didn’t want to mention his career choice. And it wasn’t his fault he was naturally reticent and shy — that’s what she liked about him in the first place.
But what were those more recent awkward moments, his thoughts obviously elsewhere, and the lie about his parents?
At least, she believed it was a lie. Jack had been safe-harbouring too many secrets, not allowing her to glimpse his real self, and then one major truth exploded onto the front page of a newspaper. She had every right to react the way she did. He couldn’t be trusted. He’d lied. Hadn’t he?
The Prof always said it took two to tango.
Who was it that moaned her dead spouse’s name in the middle of a particularly poignant moment? Louise closed her eyes. No wonder the guy acted strange.
And she’d played the jealousy card by paying too much attention to Karl Burgos at the restaurant, had seen Jack squirm. Now she felt disgusted with herself. He’d behaved almost…human.
When a relationship goes right, she decided, everything sparkles. Life is so grand you could carve it up and generously give portions to the needy. When a relationship goes wrong, every niggling doubt shoves its way to the surface. You close up shop, embrace bitterness, and denounce the world.
Louise looked up, shook away the vacillating debris, and held up a hand to order a glass of Bollinger from the waiter. She then produced cigarettes from her bag.
Flicked one out of the pack, grabbed it with her teeth and struck a match. Breathed in hints of sulphur and burning wood along with the tobacco smoke.
Exhaled in the direction of the ceiling, with it’s gorgeous French-style chandelier, thinking as she did so — and saw the middle-aged gentleman standing there between dinner tables, dressed in a long raccoon coat, a black bowler hat between his hands. While his shiny scalp was unadorned with hair, the man had a fine moustache, was passably handsome — and he was staring straight back at her.
“Hello, Mitzi.”
Louise glanced over her shoulder at the other patrons, even while knowing the man had addressed her. “I’m sorry? Are you speaking to me?”
“It’s been a long time, baby. Perhaps you’ve forgotten.”
The mention of long-term memory gaps gave the girl pause, but the name ‘Mitzi’ still threw things. “I think you have me confused with someone else,” she decided, presenting the kind of smile she usually gave to customers in the bank. “My name is Louise.”
“Of course it is. My mistake.” The man responded with his own artificial beam. “And yet the likeness is uncanny. So — are you, or aren’t you?”
“Am I, or aren’t I, what?”
“A phony.”
Louise dragged on her cigarette. Something about this individual was unsettling — likely it had to do with being labelled a phony — but curiosity won out. “What do you mean?”
“Well, now. Would you mind if I sat?” He indicated the vacant seat on the other side of the table.
She’d only recently broken a scoundrel’s jaw. Why not? “Sure.”
The gentleman took off his coat to place it on the next chair over, depositing his hat on top. Beneath, he wore a tailored black jacket, grey vest, and dark-grey satin ascot tie, in the centre of which was a flashy diamond. He settled down opposite the girl, reached into a jacket pocket, and took out a fat cigar that was wrapped in cellophane and the words Coronas del Ritz.
“Would you overly mind if I smoked, Miss Louise?”
“Just Louise. And go ahead — I am. Or was.” The girl stamped out her cigarette in a glaring white plastic ashtray that had on it mystical-looking mountains and the words ‘Shangri-La’ in an Asiatic-style typeface.
“Cigar?”
“No, thank you.”
“I could order you another glass of champagne, or better yet the entire bottle. What are you drinking there, kid — Moët?”
Louise placed her hand over the flute. She despised Moët. “I’m fine. Thank you. I don’t mean to sound unappreciative, but weren’t you going to tell me something?”