Love Creeps (7 page)

“Nothing at all. Please don't mind me.”

“I'm sorry, but you can't cry and say ‘please don't mind me.' It's rude.”

“I was just meditating, and sometimes when I meditate my eyes tear.”

Suddenly, she opened her bag and said, “I got you a present.” She took out the cologne she had bought for him.

“Oh no,” he groaned. “You're not going to shower me with gifts during the whole weekend, are you?”

“This is the only one I got.” She opened the bottle and sprayed some on him.

A wave of nausea swept over her. “Pull over!” she screamed.

He did. She stumbled out of the car but was not able to throw up. She took deep breaths of fresh air and tried to calm herself.

Finally, she got back in the car. Roland had rolled down all the windows, for her sake. “I don't think it smells so bad,” he said.

He started dialing a number on his cell phone, telling Lynn, “I have to call the hotel manager and let him know we're running late. He wanted the exact time we'd be arriving; otherwise, he said he might not be there to let us in.”

Roland got the manager on the phone and told him they'd be there in an hour.

Lynn pondered the fact that Patricia thought Roland could turn out to be the man of Lynn's life. She smiled to herself when she recalled having told Patricia about her secret name.

Lynn, herself, didn't really believe the story, but she did find it romantic.

When Lynn was about six years old, she was at the birthday party of a friend of hers, on Long Island, whose wealthy family had the luxury of hiring a fairy, Miss Tuttle, to entertain.

“Are you real?” Lynn asked the fairy.

“No. I'm a fairy. Fairies are not as real as people.”

“I mean are you a real fairy?” Lynn said, impatiently. “Can you prove to me that you're a real fairy?”

“How?”

“I don't know. You're the fairy. You should know how to prove it.”

“Okay, I'll tell you something a real person would never tell you. Think of a secret name for yourself. This will be your real name. And one day, your Prince Charming will come along, and you will recognize him, because you'll hear him say your secret, real name.”

“What's my secret real name?” Lynn asked.

“You have to decide for yourself. And it must be a name you've never heard before, a name you make up. And you must never say it to anyone.”

“Can it be beautiful?”

“Yes.”

Lynn thought about it for a while, and said, “Can it be Slittonia?”

“No,” Miss Tuttle the fairy said, thinking it sounded vaguely pornographic. She didn't want to be accused of having a bad influence.

“Why not?”

“Because you just said it to me. I told you that you could not say it to anyone. Including me. In fact, never say it out loud, even to yourself, not even in a whisper. Only in your mind.”

So Lynn chose “Airiella,” in her mind.

It was only when Lynn got older that she realized Miss Tuttle the fairy must have been down on men, down on love, and that she had given Lynn a secret message, which was: there is no Prince Charming; Prince Charmings are as unreal as fairies.

For where, when, and how would Lynn come across a man who would, within her earshot, utter her secret name—a name she had made up when she was six?

Lynn later learned that Miss Tuttle, the grim fairy, also worked in the neighboring town of Cross as a hairdresser.

When Lynn and Roland entered the tiny lobby of the inn, no one was there. On the front desk were two keys, with a note that said, “For Roland Dupont and guest: In case I'm not back, you can go straight to your rooms.—Max the manager.”

They went up. Lynn took the key to room six, and Roland the key to room seven. The door to room six did not have a number on it the way the other doors did, but since it was the only door between rooms five and seven, Lynn assumed it to be the right one.

As she pressed her key against the keyhole, the door gently swung open on its own.

Inside the room were two people having sex and talking about the weather. They did not notice Lynn right off, which was how she got to hear some of their talk.

The woman was lying on her back, on a desk, and the man was standing between her legs, thrusting. The man saw Lynn first and stopped. He turned red quickly, batted his eyes, but apart from that, was frozen. Lynn backed out, stammering.

The man pulled out of the woman and gushed with apologies. “Oh my God, I'm so sorry. Are you my new guests?”

Roland had joined Lynn in the doorway, and they were both speechless as the man grabbed his shirt off the floor and wrapped it around his waist. The naked woman had gotten off the desk and was crouching behind it, hiding.

“I'm really sorry,” the man said to Lynn and Roland, “this is so excruciatingly, exquisitely embarrassing. But the fact is, you made a mistake. The number on your key is six. This is room eight.”

“Room
eight
? But it's between five and seven! Where's room six?” Lynn said.

“Farther down the hall. The rooms aren't in order. This is only an inn,” the man said.

“Who are you?” Roland asked.

“I'm Max, the manager. Why don't you go to your rooms and make yourselves comfortable, and I'll be with you after I wash up.”

He found them in their rooms a few minutes later. “I'm glad you're here. Finally, some interesting people to rescue me! I have not been blessed by the guests here recently. They're so bourgeois.”

Their eyes were focused on his codpiece. He took Lynn's hand, kissed it, said, “Charmed,” and bowed low, his shirt ruffles sweeping the floor.

Lynn scrutinized him. He seemed to be in his late twenties. He was taller than Roland. He had better posture, was better-looking, and had long hair—a thing Lynn liked on men. And yet, somehow, through dress, mannerisms, and conversation, he was not as appealing as Roland, who was not that appealing himself.

“By the way, a Mr. Simon Peach called for you. He asked that you call him back,” Max said to Roland. He then turned around and walked out, saying, “If you need anything, just think my name. I have ESP.”

Simon Peach was Alan's code name. He had told Roland that the reason he'd be using a code name was that he wanted to reserve the right to call Roland at the inn as often as he liked without embarrassing himself in Lynn's eyes or having her suspect he was obsessive, or at least more obsessive than had already been revealed by his daily stalking.

Roland had promised Alan he'd call him as soon as they arrived at the hotel, but seeing Max naked had reminded Roland of Alan's naked photo, and now he no longer felt like calling him. After settling into their rooms, he and Lynn agreed to go for a walk. He would call Alan later.

Just as they were walking out their doors, a little man appeared saying he wanted to speak with them. They all three went into Roland's room.

“I'm Charles, the assistant manager, and I just wanted to apologize for what happened earlier when you unfortunately walked in on the manager having sex.”

“Yeah, that was unfortunate,” Roland said.

“It was no accident. It turns Max on tremendously to have people walk in on him. He absolutely relishes feeling embarrassed. He's sort of an exhibitionist. When he gets caught, he turns very red, really enjoying the sensation. The whole thing is painstakingly orchestrated. He doesn't allow himself to indulge in this favorite pleasure of his very often. It could be bad for business.”

“Why are you telling us this?” Lynn asked.

“Because that's part of his pleasure, having it revealed to his guests, in case they hadn't figured it out on their own.”

“But isn't he going to feel awkward dealing with us now?”

“No, he would love it if he did feel awkward, but embarrassment fades very quickly in him. That's why he treasures it so much. He experiences it so fleetingly.”

“He's jaded?” Lynn asked.

“And calloused. And blasé,” the little man said. “He has often described to me the pleasure he gets from embarrassment. It's a physical sensation, almost like being on drugs. As his face becomes red, he feels the blood shooting up, prickling the roots of his hair. He feels his pores opening. A warmth invades him. It's a rush. His aches and pains go away momentarily. And he perceives himself as more attractive, both physically
and
personality-wise. He finds embarrassed people very, very charming. He envies them. He thinks that their embarrassment reveals a kind of purity and innocence and often even goodness.”

“What if we feel dirty now?” Roland said. “And used? And sexually molested, sexually harassed? What if we sue him?”

“But I could be crazy. Everything I just said could be a lie. Don't you think we've already arranged some evidence to attest to my insanity?” Charles said, and left.

Roland and Lynn debated whether they should stay on at this inn, but they felt too lazy to find another one. They went to the garden and looked at the pool, then they went on their walk.

They walked in silence down a sweet little dirt road. Roland dropped a penny.

Since they had nothing to say to each other, Lynn decided to ask him questions about her stalker, Alan. She asked him what type of guy he was. In the process of describing him, Roland revealed that Alan was from Long Island.

“So am I. Do you know what town?” Lynn asked.

“Of course not.”

Tired of the topic, Roland asked, “What is it that you like about me?”

This was a hard question for Lynn, who did not like anything about Roland.

She was saved from having to make up too many lies by a hare, running across the road. She took a few steps after it, exclaiming in a high voice, “Ooh, a rabbit!”

Roland was disgusted that she would display her stalking tendencies, even here in nature, and asked her to restrain herself. “Do you absolutely have to follow things?” he added.

She detected the revulsion in his tone, and this awakened an interesting feeling in her. She wasn't sure what the feeling was. Perhaps a twinge of excitement. She pounced on it.

“Aren't you a little bit flattered that I'm interested in you?” she asked.

“No. Not the least bit.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't find you appealing.”

“Really?” she said. She had been so preoccupied by her own lack of attraction to him that she had forgotten that he was supposedly not attracted to her, either, and was forcing himself to be here this weekend as a favor to his friend Alan. He seemed more interesting now. She stared at his profile as they walked. “Are you sure, or are you just saying that?”

He looked at her, perplexed. “I'm sure. I could never, in a million years, be interested in you romantically. This weekend is a complete waste of time, I guarantee you.”

She was scrutinizing him, as well as her feelings for him, and was on the lookout for any further shift.

“Can you be more specific?” she asked. “List the ways. And tell me how much.”

“What?”

“The ways in which I don't do it for you. And just how much that's the case.”

“Why? Are you a masochist?”

Good question. She would have to think about that. In the meantime, she said, “I don't think so. Just curious. Come on, tell me.”

“Well, first of all, you stalk me.”

“That doesn't count. I assume there are real reasons why you could never, ever be interested in me, even if I never stalked you.”

He looked at her. “Yeah, sure.”

“And what are they?”

“I can't explain it. You repulse me, that's it, in brief.”

“Is there anything about me that doesn't repulse you?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

He laughed, which for him was something between a sneeze and convulsion, and said, as if only just realizing it himself, “No, actually.” After a moment, he added, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You're not, actually, bad-looking.”

“I assume you wouldn't be stalking me if you found me bad-looking.”

Lynn fell into a long silence while they walked, and Roland did not break it. Lynn thought she detected twinges of her own desire. And yet she barely dared hope this could be true. It was just that it was so solid, his disgust. So refreshing and exhilarating. He began saying banalities about the scenery. It didn't matter how banal he was—he didn't want her and that mattered a lot. And what was more, he made it sound like there was nothing she could do about it.

“You look smug,” he said.

She smiled broadly. How would she react if he made a pass at her, she wondered? But of course, there was no way he'd do that as long as he thought she was his stalker. She'd have to set him straight on that one, at some point. Or maybe not. Suddenly, inexplicably, she no longer felt the twinge of excitement. She looked at him. He had lost the slight appeal he had momentarily gained.

Back in the city, the thought of Roland and Lynn spending this time together was making Alan sick. Alan was grateful that Roland had agreed to talk to Lynn on his behalf and arranged this weekend exchange, but why wasn't Roland calling him as he had promised?

He tried to keep busy, went down the seventeen flights of his building verifying that all the stairwell doors were shut and went to a health food store to get some antistress herbs that might help him endure the weekend.

Lynn and Roland had lunch in the inn dining room. They were curious about the other guests. As they waited for menus, they glanced around and saw a man and a woman sitting together at a table, but could not detect any signs of unusually pronounced bourgeoisie or anything else out of the ordinary about them. Nevertheless, they could not help feeling flattered that Max had thought they were better than that couple, even if he was a madman, even if he was lying. It was always hard not to feel flattered by compliments, and doubly so if they involved being raised above other people, and triply so if the reason for the elevation was not at all apparent.