Dixie was dressed in black. Black heels, black latex leggings, and a black sweatshirt with a scooping collar, which with her pale skin and red hair was stunning. Ana stared at the black bead necklace that hung over her cleavage.
‘You like them, Ana? I thought you might, though they’re not actually anal beads… but if you’re in a fix.’
Dixie liked to try to embarrass Ana, but she failed.
Ana’s attention had been caught by a profile on the TV and the first bars of a song. It was vaguely country and western, but more commercial, pop-country, was that a thing? What disturbed Ana was the face and the voice. She knew he’d released a new single, but—
‘Holy shit,’ exclaimed Stella, her eyes now following Ana’s to the screen. ‘Is that?’
Stella squinted. ‘It is! It’s what’s his name. That Yank, the one you… Joel Abelard!’
‘He. Is. Hot,’ said Dixie.
Ana was gripped by a kind of terrified excitement. Her stomach churned and her legs were hollow. She wriggled along the bench, closer to the screen so she could get a better look.
‘This is good,’ said Dixie, throwing her arms around to emulate a hoedown, until Ana’s glare told her to take a pew.
Ana had met Joel in Maine eight years ago. While working for Sotheby’s in New York, Ana had been sent to meet a client whose old colonial-era house was crammed with Victorian British classics. She’d found herself in a two fishing-boat town for two nights. Her hotel had a garden with live music, and Friday night was country night.
She was perched on a high stool in the little bar trying to get phone reception, holding her phone as high up in the air as she could, reaching it up towards the satellites, hoping this would help. Stretching higher still, her stool toppled and she fell backwards, legs akimbo. Shocked and embarrassed, she stared up from the floor into a gorgeous smiling face with wicked deep brown eyes, and longish hair swept back behind his ears.
‘Hello, angel,’ he said, ‘and what might you be doing down there?’
‘Funny man. Here, help me up, for god’s sake. Thanks,’ she said, as he pulled her to her feet, flushed and flustered. It was a Friday so she’d brushed down her red Victoria Beckham skirt.
‘Nothing damaged that can’t be replaced,’ he said, laughing. ‘Did you get your phone working?’
‘You do realise this is a new season VB?’ she said, checking her behind for damage.
He positioned his Stetson on the back of his head with a mocking grin. ‘And this is a timeless classic.’
Ana tried to laugh, but she was regretting that her Friday red was exaggerating her embarrassed blush. She couldn’t remember what knickers she’d put on. She wasn’t expecting any sex, she’d had sex the day before, she’d diarised the entry that morning, so it might have been the comfy M&S knickers or the new silky Victoria’s Secret ones. The irony was that Joel now knew, but she didn’t. She wriggled on her seat, but still couldn’t tell which pair she’d chosen. She’d have to find a restroom and check: a smart girl does not go knickerblind into a one-night-stand.
Joel’s smile said he was amused by her awkwardness. With a musical Southern twang, he drawled, ‘It always makes me laugh how girls think if they hold their phone closer to the sky, it will work… I honestly don’t think it makes any difference. It’s not an altitude problem or guys like me would always have better coverage than girls like you. What are you, 5’3” in heels?’
‘In tights, actually, Mr Long Dog.’
‘In my humble opinion, if your phone has no reception, it’s for a reason: it’s so I can buy you a drink and we can get to communicating in the good old-fashioned way.’
‘I don’t believe in fate, but I do believe in letting a man buy me a drink, so sure, I’ll have what you’re having. What exactly does “communicating in the old-fashioned way” mean?’
The PA system came alive with a hiss: ‘Willy B. Goode to the stage, please.’
‘That’s my cue. Medium of song, honey. Hey, Nathan,’ he called to the barman. ‘Get the lady a Coors Light on my tab.’
‘Sure thing, Joel.’
‘Actually, I’ll have an Old Fashioned.’
He gave her a surprised look.
‘An Old Fashioned then. One, only, for the dark-haired beauty, Sue Ellen Ewing.’
Back then Joel had been a long-haired strip of a youth in battered Stetson with a passion for Van Morrison covers, especially ‘Have I Told You Lately’. He was living hand to mouth on the coast. Willy B. Goode was his stage name, which was both ironic and puerile, Ana was to reflect when she knew him better.
‘Look at her face!’ laughed Dixie pointing. ‘She’s bright red. My god, are you about to come, Ana!?’ Dixie was in pieces, pointing and laughing. ‘My god, she’s gotta be wetter than Marti Pellow. Do you need a towel, Ana?’
‘Leave her alone, Dix. Poor Ana has never got over her Reverse Cowboy phase. She just can’t put it behind her!’
Now they were both in hysterics.
‘Hang on, wasn’t he the one who wouldn’t—’
‘Exactly! Who’d have thought the way to Ana the Fox’s heart was NOT with a cock!’
‘I am going to the bar,’ said Ana, dismissively. ‘When you two have calmed down, I’ll return. Same again?’
‘What are you having?’
‘Old Fashioned.’
‘What the fuck, let’s go hard and go home early,’ laughed Stella, a glint in her eye.
When Ana returned, Joel’s country pop chart-topper, ‘Brown Eyed Girl’, had finished, and the ever-excitable Dixie– Stella combo had moved on to the respective arts of the hard and fast blow job versus the long and languorous.
‘Girls, can’t we talk about something other than sex and men?’
‘How,’ said Dixie, ‘can we talk about sex without talking about men?’
She looked at Stella for confirmation. For a split-second Stella looked a little vexed, then nodded. ‘Sex and men, yes, like wine and cheese, tea and toast—’
‘Tea and a muffin is a perfectly good option. You two are drunk. Can we not spend a bit of time on us? We haven’t planned this year’s trip yet? I’ve got to be honest, I need a little tour.’
‘A tour,’ shrieked Dixie. Now clearly drunk and perhaps high, thought Ana. ‘A little Eiffel “tour”.’
‘No, Provence. I thought biking in Provence. There’ll be wine and cheese for you two. And I might find a spicy local saucisson, you know, just for a little variety.’
And then they all guffawed. Ana knew the jokes were clichéd, and repeated every time they met, but this was the consolation of friends, this was the ritual of re-establishing the foundations of their relationship. The jokes might not be funny, but they were their jokes, and they were going to enjoy them.
‘Biking… biking? Do you know who we are, Ana? There’s only one thing I’m gonna be riding when we go away and it has balls, not wheels.’
‘I’m serious. We all love Provence. We can spend a night in St Tropez and then get out into the countryside and really enjoy ourselves.’