Fools for Lust by Maxim Jakubowski Page B

of her. Very quiet. Keeps to herself. Hasn’t been seen around for a few weeks. The merchant banker from the top floor thought he remembered her catching a cab, holding a suitcase. Maybe a trip to the West Coast because of the film rights to the novel, I wondered?
    I try her bell every two days.
    Surely she’ll be back for Christmas?
    5 December, 1999
She misses Thanksgiving in New York.
    Well, she ain’t a Yank, is she?
    10 December, 1999
Callie has returned.
    But I managed to miss her.
    She knew I’d been, though.
    There was an envelope with my name hastily scrawled on it taped to the bell.
    How dare you follow me the way you do, Callie said. Just go away. I can’t stand it any more, Joe.
    She had vacated the apartment the same morning. I contacted the letting agent and visited the premises, maybe hoping she had left something, papers that might provide me with a clue to where she decamped to.
    This was the bed in which she had slept.
    No, I think it’s too small for me, I told the realtor.
    I was back to square one.
    And needing her was eating me up inside like a cancer.
    20 December, 1999
At last, I’m no longer running around in ever diminishing circles. I’m back on the trail. Through her erstwhile agent who had moved to LA I discovered that she had accepted to dine on New Year’s Eve at the 42nd St Brewery that now overlooked Times Square with some studio executives who were developing her novel.
    I tried to make a booking there, but it had been sold out for months for such a momentous evening. No doubt, for the view rather than the food.
    29 December, 1999
My final contact in Immigration at last provided me with an address. Varick Street. A bit late in the day. I already knew she had left no forwarding address.
    The New York Post kindly outlined the crowd control measures being put into operation for the Times Square Millennium Party on New Year’s Eve.
    I knew from one of the waiters that her booking was for 10.30 p.m.
    The only access to the Brewery would be down 42nd Street, coming from 5th Avenue.
    31 December, 1999
I await the year 2000 standing in front of the Fun City sex shop. Its neon lights turn my skin a sickly shade of pink. The window end-of-century sale advertises six-hour all-anal gangbang tapes for only $9.99, but tall blondes with shaven snatches and extreme amateur debuts go for $12.99. A few yards further down, there’s a security cordon of cops who check people’s passes to Times Square venues.
    Everything around sounds too loud.
    Artificially joyful.
    The sky is clear of stars.
    10.15 p.m. Here she comes, sashaying down, her long legs like metronomes, her strawberry blonde hair shorter than I remembered, walking too fast as usual, her eyes full of sadness peering ahead in a myopic trance.
    The crowd of revellers parts slightly as she moves nearer.
    She sees me.
    Not a sign of emotion.
    My heart beats like the onset of a major symphony.
    She approaches.
    Glares at me.
    â€˜Hi,’ I say.
    She stays silent.
    â€˜We were bound to meet eventually,’ I clumsily say, by way of excuse.
    â€˜I told you not to,’ she finally answers.
    The crowds whiz by on their way to the party of all parties.
    â€˜I had to see you.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Answers.’
    â€˜You know it’s over. It can never be the same again.’
    â€˜You owe me some explanations.’
    â€˜No, I don’t.’
    â€˜You just disappeared ...’ I mumble.
    â€˜You can’t take rejection, can you?’ she says.
    â€˜You’re right. It’s physical, mental, whatever, I just can’t accept there’s not even a diamond of hope you might listen to me again, remember the way we felt ...’
    â€˜The way you felt.’
    â€˜Please, Callie.’
    â€˜It’s Katherine, now.’
    â€˜Please.’
    â€˜No, Joe. Life is not like fiction, there are no second chances.’
    â€˜So why did you write the