Room with a Jungle View

CHAPTER 1

N EW YEAR’S EVE. IT’S PROBABLY the one holiday I’ve always loved. The intoxicating mix of parties and people; almost everyone is happy. The classy clothes, the music, the fancy dinners, and of course the drinks. The fabulous drinks. New Year’s Eve always calls for something special. Somehow beer seems lower class on such an evening. It’s close to midnight, and I’m on my eighth or maybe ninth drink. From refreshing wine spritzers to the fun mixed drinks like screwdrivers, cosmopolitans, Tom Collins, and several Coke mixtures to the get-down-to-business martinis, I dabbled in them all this evening. This year, I chose an affair that I hoped would not provide me with so much liquid fun. Somehow the modern moonshine always finds me.

Sitting on a small cranberry ottoman, I’ve sandwiched myself between a shiny, black, baby grand piano and a ficus tree, half-hoping someone will come and play for me, half-hoping no one will notice me. The conclusion hits me that I lack the energy for rich folk chitchat.

The condo is a wonder. Straight out of a magazine, it’s completely white. So sterile, these walls. With high ceilings and windows stretching to meet them from the floor, there is a penthouse feel. The décor is simply elegant. White sofas in a cube formation placed opposite to where I’m sitting, the baby grand in the corner just beside the balcony where white sheers allow the breeze to gently wisp into the room. Slight accents, such as the cranberry ottoman, black piano, several archeological-looking artifacts donated by the host’s father, and plants placed here and there in odd corners create a spa feel rather than that of a hospital. The place is gorgeous. Sipping on my gin martini with a twist, I saver every moment with Mr. Tanqueray.

The party is well underway with people laughing and talking all around me. Sparkly dresses, tuxedos, and fun diamond accessories clutter the main room. Such a classy affair. Although there must be close to seventy-five people here, the forty-first-floor condo doesn’t seem cramped. The conversations fill the air, polluting noise that offers the impression of a thousand words a minute going by. I, however, can’t make out a single clear syllable.

I chose to dress down for the occasion. My long black pants, tailored just right to achieve a flowing, breezy look, is complemented by a white blouse buttoned up to the collar. I pulled my crimson red hair back into a messy French roll. I opted not to wear the tie. Too over the top. I’ve become one of the many accents in the condo.

Out of the crowd emerges the host, Chantal Rousseau, a young, rich gal whose Daddy bought this apartment and everything else in it. She seems so happy, always hosting parties. Most of the time, they’re lame theme types, such as Hawaiian night, casino village, or something equally as corny. Chantal always has a great turnout though. So full of life, she is able to make a good time out of any situation. A free spirit if ever there was one, Chantal is a lady who generally enjoys life and doesn’t want to miss a second of the action. On a night like tonight, I’m surprised that her father, Remy Rousseau, isn’t on hand to make a speech or co-host; he must be off on one of his fieldtrips again.

I can’t help but notice her beauty and her long, jet-black hair, smooth, straight, and preened with perfect care. Sky-blue eyes complement her delicate, expensively flawless nose and perfect, rose-tinted lips. Her tall, slim, almost shadow-less frame is dressed in a black, sequined dress outlined with a rhinestone border. It’s halter style with a plunging neckline. I’ve never known anyone quite as striking as Chantal, and I wince as she coasts toward me.

Hey, Shane, bring that tray of drinks through the crowd, would ya? Then head back to the kitchen to help Danny with the champagne. It’s almost midnight, she says with eyes wide and a huge smile on her seemingly airbrushed face. An almost melodic note fills her voice, and I can feel the energy and excitement emitting from her.

I finish my drink and pull myself up off the ottoman leaving the silver tray of drinks as is on the top of the baby grand; people will help themselves. Straightening my blouse, I focus on walking to the kitchen, excited about the champagne. It’s the only part of the New Year’s holiday that is a constant. No matter where you go or what you do on this night, there will be bubbly! Judging the class acts at this party, the champagne should be of outstanding quality, and I smirk at the thought of being the first to taste it.

Moving quickly through the crowd, I remind myself of why I came to this party—to help Chantal. I promised to help her pass out drinks and tend to the guests.

The kitchen is situated at the back of the condo. A long bar separates it from the dining room, which includes a glass table and chairs fit for Cinderella. Beside the hallway-style kitchen is the washroom. Nowhere else is there a door. The chandelier hanging over the dining room table is a specialty piece of blown, deep pink glass shaped as an upside-down hanging rose. Beautiful. An open concept is perfect for these parties, and guests are always impressed by the view; the Donald couldn’t design a better penthouse. Taking one last look at the condo before entering the kitchen to help Danny, I can’t help but feel the sting of jealousy. Thinking of my small, one-bedroom six blocks north, I sigh and push through the kitchen door with my backside.

Hi! Danny’s loud boom of a voice rips me from my ponderous state and causes a nonalcoholic related stumble.

Hey, Dan, what’s the brand? I reply, nodding to the champagne bottles on the counter. I’m crossing my fingers hoping he’ll say Dom Pérignon.

Dom Pérignon. Success!

Taking a bottle, I lean back against the handcrafted marble counter while I fiddle with the foil top.

The kitchen is painted white with sleek and sexy black appliances that sparkle. With vertical wall-mounted ovens on the middle wall, there is a range just to the right, tucked away in its own little alcove. I bet it has never been used by anyone not paid to be here. The refrigerator facing the vertical ovens is also black, with an almost reflective surface that is quite stark. No postcards, no magnets, nothing to indicate that someone actually inhabits this show house. To the left of the ovens and across from me are the sinks and dishwasher, also black. The countertops are white and black swirled marble, supposedly flown in from somewhere in the Mediterranean, most likely from some local craftsman. Noticing the hospital-like cleanliness of the place, I wonder how often the kitchen is actually operational. Chantal loves to throw parties and be around people so much that she often eats out.

So, how’d you get roped into this? Danny is facing me, wiggling away at the cork in one of the bottles. I cringe, acknowledging the possibility that it could fly up in my face.

Danny Phillips, a surfer type with messy, dirty blond hair, shines with a tanned, clear complexion, perfect white, Chiclet teeth, and sparkling, green eyes. The standard for Chantal’s flavor of the week has certainly kicked up a notch with this one.

Sliding down the counter, feeling my way with my back, I hope he doesn’t notice that I’m avoiding the possible assault. Nothing better to do, I reply.

Chantal tells me that this is the night for you. Is it true? I mean, is this the end for Shane? Cold turkey? No more booze? Asshole. I feel like a guest on Maury Povich or some shit. "What could this mean for Shane Campbell? The end of an era? On the next Maury Povich." Give me a fucking break.

It’s not that big a deal, I reply quietly.

Sometime at the end of last summer, I passed out on a side bench in the back of a friend’s ’99 Sea Ray Cruiser. The boat party continued, and due to its intensity, it took minutes before anyone noticed that I’d actually missed the bench and flopped into the water instead. My memory of the event hasn’t left me with much, but I guess I scared the fun out of that little soiree, to say the least. That wasn’t the only time partying with the bevies has gotten me into trouble. During party nights, I admit to having my own fun. I’ve met new people and even recently hooked up with a punk Irish guy named Alistair Malloy who seemed to understand me. We spent two months drinking and fucking in my apartment. It was great. That is, until he was arrested for robbing a liquor store. Al will probably go down in history as the only robber to take as much free booze as he did cash. When I heard the news, I couldn’t help but laugh. What an idiot. His trial was quick. As it turned out, he had two priors, and as the judge said, Three strikes and you’re out, Mr. Malloy. Al just turned to the gallery, winked, and took a bow. What a champ.

Since he went to jail, I’ve been to see him only once. I went to break up with him.

So that’s it then? Alistair actually looked hurt. His brown puppy-dog eyes almost looked glossy with emotion. It didn’t go with his short, black, Mohawk hairstyle and penitentiary duds. I never thought our relationship was anything more than two people who loved booze and sex. I felt like a rock star.

Al, you’re in jail. We had a great time, but yeah, that’s it. I mean really, did you think I was going to wait for you? You’ll be in here for the next few years. We were never in love. We aren’t married… yeah, I’d say that’s it. Annoyance prickled my tone because I’d gone there to gain some closure for both of us—finish our relationship on a good note—and he wanted to fight for something that just wasn’t worth the effort.

Normally I’d completely agree with you, but since I moved in here on a more permanent basis, my thoughts really do turn to you more than I thought they ever would. I don’t know if I love you, but I sure as hell don’t want you out of my life.

Moved in? Dude, you’re in the slammer for stealing a small wad of cash and some joy juice! I’m sorry, you’re asking for more than I’m prepared to offer. Stay cold; it’s easier that way.

Well, if there’s ever any chance… anything I can do… He trailed off, seeing the unimpressed look on my face, and leaned his chair back far enough to set his feet up on the counter in front of him and fold his arms behind his head in true cocky Al fashion.

Good-bye, Shane.

Good-bye, Alistair. Sure I sounded like a bitch, but as I walked out that day, I had that burning, sinking feeling you get when you know you have strong feelings for someone you just pushed out of your life. Even if they were purely physical feelings, somewhere that counted for something. The relationship wasn’t serious, so why did it hurt so much? I chalked it up to the fact that I just really needed someone to accept me and show me love.

I moved passed the breakup with Alistair and soon enough was back to my same old set up. Work, eat something with a beer or liquor on ice, TV at night, pass out/sleep, back to work again. Thursdays through Saturday were party nights for clubs, pubs, and martini bars with friends and co-workers.

Then it happened. I finally broke. Who knows why, but one day as I sat in my office procrastinating my entry-level work and studying a pigeon on the outside window ledge, I finalized my resolution for the New Year. Drinking is a fun habit, like smoking and eating too much chocolate. But at some point after thirty, it somehow becomes less cool, and those who continue the twenties’ partying lifestyle come dangerously close to becoming that single forty something in a club trying to jazz up the twenty somethings in a Hawaiian shirt. No thanks. Taking a breather from Mr. Martini and his friends Jack, Jim, and Johnny seems to be a worthwhile decision to help me approach my thirties as a grownup and also to see if it helps my career aspirations. If nothing else good comes of it, at least I’ll save some cash. The week when I made that decision, Chantal called to invite me to her party.

Hi, Shane! Been a long time, eh, babe?

Yeah, I guess. What’s up?

I don’t have much time to chat, but I want you to come to my New Year’s party. I could hear that big smile through the phone.

All right, I agreed without a fight.

Great, wear black and white and give me a hand with the drinks. Do you mind? It’ll be worth your while. The last sentence rang like porch chimes.

Sure, whatever. I wasn’t surprised that my friend was asking me to a party, not to visit but to serve—how very Chantal. Really, it didn’t bother me. After all, I knew her high-class friends would be there, and via a dinner party years ago, I learned that I hate them, all of them, and therefore don’t plan on socializing with them ever again. They were just too fake and too mink for me. Besides, I had nothing else planned for New Year’s Eve, what with Alistair in jail and not my boyfriend anymore anyway. Why the hell not?

Great, see you December 31 at seven thirty. Ciao!

Now at the event, I’m a waitress at a snooty party with Danny Phillips, the smiling jackass, in my face asking me if I’m really going to quit drinking. To keep from responding in a dramatic, violent rage, I opt for golden joy and serve myself a swig of the champagne from the bottle I just opened. I wipe the residue from my lips with my sleeve and offer a sarcastic smile.

Finally I reply, trying my best to mimic Chantal’s enthusiastic tone while adding a little shoulder wiggle to my cheerleader impression, "Yes, Danny, this is the night. The night." He laughs and gives a little wink, acknowledging my discomfort with the subject. As dumb as he seems, he is handsome, and I feel a flip in the pit of my stomach in response to the flirtatious gesture. Down girl, I think. You’ve got a lot more to think about tonight than getting laid. Especially with your friend’s current squeeze.

I turn to the counter, which has the glasses already set up on silver trays, the crystal glimmering in the track halogen lighting. Joining Danny and me, the other wait staffs fill the kitchen, bustling around, opening bottles, and filling glasses. I wonder how many cousins and family friends Chantal bribed into serving this evening. With the extra bodies, the room suddenly gives an adrenaline surge like the hub of a restaurant. Then Chantal, sticking her head over the open bar, sings, It’s eleven fifty! Ten minutes, everyone! She sounds like a fifth-grade teacher trying to round up a bunch of nervous yet hyper nine-year-olds for a Christmas pageant. I half-expected someone to pee themselves and start a domino effect of crying.

Soon after, I hear the countdown from the crowd. Ten… nine… eight, they bellow in unison, much different from the undecipherable chatter that filled the previous hours.

Seven… six… five… This is the longest time. My night has gone well overall, but now, standing with a tray of champagne at the kitchen door, watching Danny make his way through the crowd preparing to kiss Chantal, who is standing on the ottoman that had been my solace earlier, it seems to be going downhill. I miss Al, or at least I think I do in this lonely moment. Four… three… two… The crowd of dollar bills gets louder with every number. Perhaps they’ll explode, and it can all be over.

One… Happy New Year! With that, they commence the most polite kiss-kiss session I’ve ever seen. Not quite the loud, cheering, high-fiving, kissing, and nuggies of the previous year out at a local pub with friends. Giggling at the scene, I begin offering champagne to those around me. By the time I work my way back to the baby grand, my tray is empty. Slapping it onto the polished lid of the piano, I flag down one of the other waiters and grab two friends from his tray. With experience, I down the first in two gulps and politely savor the second, reflecting on the decision I made to take a break from drinking this year and get my life in order. What a stupid idea. No, no, I can do it. I will do it. I’m thirty this year and not getting any younger.

Noticing Chantal and Danny staring in my direction, observing and disapproving of my beverage selection for the New Year, I give them a finger gesture with a smile, set down my glasses, and head over to say good night.

CHAPTER 2

C HANTAL AND I FIRST MET in the ninth grade. Even then, during anyone else’s ugly, awkward stages of life, she was a knockout. Her dad’s secret yet lucrative business had brought them to our humble little city just outside of Toronto. Having lived in Paris and New York already, I worried that she might go mad with the lack of fashion sense and social events in the burbs.

I guess opposites do attract because from the moment she sat down behind me in French class, we learned we have a common pastime of poking fun at others. Halfway through the seventy-six-minute class, she kicked the back of my chair to ask, What’s with this dork? obviously not impressed by the nasal, tight-lipped, Hitler-resembling Mr. Hebert. From this, a great friendship blossomed.

Chantal and I started hanging out after school, going shopping together, talking on the phone at night, figuring out what boy was super cute and who passed who a note during math class asking if they want to go steady. I always had other friends, but Chantal and I just connected. We were the best of friends.

Throughout high school, Chantal became increasingly popular, especially with boys. She often skipped school to go home to an empty house with Bobby or Jimmy or whoever it was at the time. Her dad traveled so much and focused on work most of the time, so Chantal’s lonely mother was often out shopping or at the country club. This left Chantal alone enough to ignore her studies, except for acing Make Out 101. It seemed a bit sad to me, and I thought maybe her behavior was a cry to her parents for attention. In any case, I was seldom able to keep track of her boyfriends and honestly didn’t care much about them.

Although dating here and there occupied my social time, I definitely had a less becoming set of teen years. With braces and crazy, red, curly hair usually in a ponytail, I dressed my slim frame with jeans, rock T-shirts, and sneakers. Unfortunately, I often appealed to a guy on a friends-first type of level before moving closer. Chantal, on the other hand, was everyone’s dream girl. The Barbie, the trophy, the country-club type that everyone who would consider marrying a high-school sweetheart wanted to marry. Though a total and shameless slut, everyone still loved her. One flash of her sparkly, blue eyes, and you would agree to buy the Brooklyn Bridge for her if she insinuated it was on her mind. That was how she missed so much school without her parents ever finding out. She’d bat her eyelashes at a male attendance monitor, and her name would disappear from the detention list. In the meantime, I covered for her, delivering homework to her house and tutoring her close to test dates. Somehow we both survived.

Although Chantal moved around quite a bit during her elementary school years, her father’s business, of which I am not sure that she herself ever really knew the specifics, kept her in the Toronto area until high school graduation.

After high school, I went to college, and Chantal started approaching modeling agencies. Having been the general queen of the school, everyone knew she would make the big time. Although busy with photo shoots, getting a portfolio together, and traveling for go see meetings with agencies and for shows, she always dropped me a postcard or popped in for a quick lunch, keeping in touch and catching up on the latest gossip. Along the way, she made a small army of friends and had almost as many admirers, but she never severed our ties.

Finally graduating with a diploma in journalism and after a brief position as a music video jockey for an all-music video channel, I found a midtown media center to work at. Now, writing copy for anchors and traveling news reporters keeps me busy. I’m proud to have a job that relates to my field but am hoping to move up to reporter someday. I thought about writing novels or getting into more serious journalism but just don’t have the time, the ambition, or—hell, let’s face it—the discipline. You just can’t go wrong with a good, raunchy bar party instead of sitting quietly at home in my closet apartment, sipping tea while trying to create a piece interesting enough for other people to read and not just recite accompanied by video footage.

The heavier drinking and serious partying really started in college. First year, I think every student is drunk. Whether you’re of age or not, you’re drinking! It’s a social act, party fun, and a way to spice up the boring daily college life. The college years are definitely good for habit forming. Everyone smokes and drinks. Some even do drugs, leaving only one question: will we still do it when we graduate? I did.

That is, until today.

Rolling over diagonally, lying on my unmade bed in a white tank top and panties, I let out a moan of disgust for the morning. Depression is the theme of my morning since bringing in the New Year as a waitress is not quite the Hollywood party one pictures attending. I realize that I have no man to date, a relatively boring job that shows no immediate prospects of moving forward into a reporter position, and an annoying yet loyal best friend who has lived life to the fullest under my nose and is currently dating a man so hot that I can barely stand thinking of him. To boot, I’ve given up the only successful habit I’ve ever had. Son of a bitch, it’s looking to be a good year.

Dragging myself out of bed, I stroll out of the small bedroom and into my main room. My place, a few blocks north of Chantal’s in the downtown area of Toronto, is tiny. I inhabit a one-bedroom hovel on the fifth floor of a twenty-five-floor high rise. My bedroom contains a bed, small closet, dresser, and thirteen-inch television that I