To Love And Be Loved

Chapter 3

Victor woke up to a ruckus. It had started as a faint, insistent clanging that was loud enough to pierce through his deep, dreamless sleep, but not enough to rouse him. He was faintly aware of movement somewhere around him and suddenly there was a loud chorus of things, metals probably, hitting the floor. It sounded like a waiter had upended the contents of his tray.

Victor dragged his eyes open. He was sunk in the middle of a large, white bed. To his left was the pinkish glare of a midday sun. The only thing stopping the heat from coming in was the thick floor to ceiling glass. A few moments later, he realized where he was. His loft. Segun must have carried him from his car and up.

There were more movement and some cursing; the voice was a woman's. Victor tried to sit up, but he felt weak, befuddled, like he had aged a hundred years. A slight headache pulsed somewhere at the base of his skull, and he ached in places he didn't know could ache. He felt some apprehension at the stranger in his loft. What if it was an assassin, he wondered. He had surely pissed a lot of people through his lifetime. Especially that guy he'd made fun off at a night club some months ago. Victor remembered his threats were very vivid and colorful as the club bouncers hauled him out.

"Who is there?" said Victor. His voice sounded rusty, like he hadn't used it in ages and he imagined his breath was the kind you encountered if you worked around sewers.

"Oh," said the woman. Victor smiled in relief. It was Yvonne. He could already smell the sweet strawberry of her perfume. He sat up and tried to rub the grit off his eyes. Yvonne sat at the edge of the bed, just by his feet, wearing white jeans that hung onto every curve she had, and some kind of scrunchy sweatshirt that stopped just below her midriff. Her hair hung in long, elegant curls that somehow accentuated her very dark skin. Yvonne took one look at him then said, "You look like shit."

"I'm quite delighted to see you too," said Victor tying up his dreads into a bun. It was hard to qualify what Yvonne was, even gossip column writers and some of his fans were conflicted. Yvonne was the best party planner he knew. All it usually took was a couple of phone calls to her friends and within the hour there would be a mad crowd ready to party. And her parties were wild. The kind of wild where the music attempts to break the sound barrier and everyone was sloshing wet with alcohol.

Yvonne was his drunken companion of sorts. Parties usually had a lull after midnight when the rave had died down and everyone had either passed out or headed home. Victor had spent countless of these moments with Yvonne, flat out drunk, succumbing to the whims of their drunken senses and laughing all about it the next day while suffering an epic hangover.

Victor had stopped trying to make head of Yvonne's lifestyle. She was a model and Victor knew, from his ex-girlfriend, Sophia, a French model, that in that line of work, body image was everything. Sophia was almost obsessed with her body. Her diet was planned to the calorie by her nutritionist and she spent an awful lot of time at the spa and gym. Yet, Yvonne balanced her work and lifestyle with almost nonchalant ease. She could be at a rave, dancing at 11pm at night, dead drunk by 3am, and by 9am she'll be driving to a photo shoot, clear-faced, like she had a normal night like the average person. Whether it was some secret detox regimen or an unusually high alcohol tolerance, Victor couldn't understand it. Regardless, her free spirit was what endeared her to him. Having her around felt like the world was just a long road and he could tour it all in his car with the hood down as the sun kissed his face.

Yvonne was sipping from a cup, her grey painted fingernails looked delicate against the white ceramic. "So I have to hear of your arrival on the news, right?"

"I'm sorry. The past couple of days have been hectic. I arrived sometime in the early afternoon yesterday and the time difference really messed me up." Victor yawned, and took one look around his apartment. It seemed like it had been cleaned before his arrival. Down at the other end, on the tiled counter where the kitchen space was, the contents of a white cellophane bag had been upended. Several tins of milk were scattered on the counter, a yellow bag of margarine stood precariously on the edge, and beyond all of that, the fridge was slightly open, a slice of the yellow light spilled out.