The Journey Prize Stories 22 by Various Page A

of yachts, a high-end floating shantytown.
    â€œWhat are all those boats doing here?”
    â€œMost of them anchor here year-round, but some are here for the fireworks tomorrow.”
    â€œWhat’s the occasion?”
    â€œNothing special. They happen
every
Friday.”
    With the mountains all carved up, this place isn’t as electrifyingly green as I remember, although colours tend to ripen in the memory bank. After Sarah left me for good last year, I got the greens of this place all mixed up with her eyes, but when she finally agreed to see me again a few weeks ago, they seemed so dull and translucent as she said, “I wish I just felt like I don’t know you anymore. What you’ve
become
. But now I wonder if I ever really knew you at all.”
    What possessed me to think that she wouldn’t suspect the story was anything more than fiction? And then to look her in the eyes and feign shock at the very suggestion? I should have burned that manuscript, but hubris brought me here instead.
    â€œHere we are,” says Lana, as if to a toddler needing the loo.
    The hotel is a tall, impossibly thin glass slab plunked like a gravestone atop the old Sylvia Hotel, where Sarah and I once drank too many Long Island iced teas. We pass by an army of paparazzi and crowds of people waiting for a glimpse of some celebrity or other. Lana pulls into the roundabout. A bellhop comes jogging over, grinning wildly, the eager eyes of a fan.
    â€œIt’s a huge honour to meet you, sir. I’m Marius.” He grabs my bag from Lana and leads the way into the lobby and the elevator, past blankly curious eyes, the odd pair flashing with a tabloid-induced hatred of recognition.
    Marius blurts out, “I’m a huge fan. I’ve read everything.” He presses 39 and keeps his finger on the button. “I just have to say, that
E-Life
piece last night was an abomination. I hope you sue the crap out of them.” His anger is better than pity, or the horrific nudge-wink of my lawyer.
    â€œHere we are,” says Lana, before the elevator doors have even slid open. She must be desperate to get to cocktails on balconies, away from this sordid handler job.
    The room is full of gift baskets, mostly fruit. Who could ever eat all this fruit? I’d have to hunker down and make a fulltime job of it.
    The bay is a sheet of pale blue with the sun gone down. But still nobody swimming. Is it contaminated? I’m desperate to get my stinking shoes off, but not until they leave. “Please take a basket, both of you. I insist.”
    They pick a small basket each.
    â€œMy number’s on the schedule,” says Lana. “Don’t hesitate to call.”
    â€œSee you bright and early.” I wave, but they’re too close to be waved at, and the gesture feels somehow violent.
    Sleep is impossible and eventually I crack.
    â€œAre you sure you can swim in there?”
    â€œAh, yes.”
    â€œOh, did I wake you?” Or maybe I interrupted something else.
    â€œNo. I’m awake. I’ll call the hotel and tell them to give you after-hours privileges at the pool.”
    â€œI don’t want the pool.”
    â€œThe bay’s clean. I’m positive.”
    â€œDo you swim in it?”
    â€œI’m not much of a swimmer. I’ll make a call and –”
    â€œNo please. I shouldn’t have called. I should be sleeping. You should be sleeping. I don’t have a swimsuit anyway.”
    â€œI’ll get you one.”
    â€œYou’re very sweet, but that’s not necessary. I’m off to bed now. Goodbye. Sorry.”
    Under the bathroom’s greenish interrogational light, I face off against my pasty, saggy, cellulite-pocked body. I know what lurks below the surface, having seen too many televised liposuctions: the unconscious body on the metal slab, vivisected by scalpels, the slashed flaps assaulted by a screeching vacuum that suctions out a milkshake of