Chain Smokers

Los Angeles, 1984

Briana Foxwell, a moxy name for a journalist, is what I thought when I first laid eyes on her. Her hair had been windswept, and bouncy, now it's in a soft wavy spiral over one shoulder, tucked neatly behind one ear, no longer disarray. Her lips a full pouty smirk, painted ruby red. Her clear blue eyes meet mine, and she smiles.

'Chain smokers,' she says, and the two words send a thrill through me, partly from the memory of smoke itself, and the soft may the words comes out of her straight white teeth.

Alright, I'll bite.

I didn't plan on biting, I was too old for that. When she turned up at my door early that afternoon, like a movie heroin, hair flipped in the wind- it's the California windy session, December if I'm correct, or is it January- I was planning on being nothing but nice. I invited her in quickly, not knowing who she was, or why she was there. She was a damsel in distress it seemed, her knock, too, quick. It was a rash, and foolish decision. The problem was, I saw straight away that she was English. I blame it on nestalgia. She made me miss home, which was a bad sign. Five years to date since I left England, leaving nothing behind but the two other Mrs. James' that took a chunk out of my money each month for alimony. I wander for a moment if it was racist to send an English girl, just because I'm English. They likely thought I'd feel more comfortable, or at the very least spill my guts.

I nodded in greeting. 'Go on then, I don't bite,' I said.

She smiled, as if it never happened, held out a perfect white hand and said, 'Briana Foxwell, I'm with the New York Press.'

I know, I should have seen this coming.

'Dru James,' I said with less enthusiasm, compare to her egger smile, 'but you already know that.' When the smile remained I took it as an answer. 'Right then,' I said, deflated, 'Come along.'

'Mr James, it's a pleasure to finally meet you,' she went on, following behind me, unaware of my dark mood. They always did that, as if they were doing you a favour.

'Yes, well that makes one of us,' I mumbled inaudibly.

I led her to the terrace, there she sat down on the wicker chair, legs crossed in jeans, black wedges peaking from beneath whitewashed fabric, and a a highneck red bould that went well with her lipstick, with a dainty deep brown leather jacket over it, and a smile on display like chocolate chip cookies. English New York, quite a breed.

'What would you like to drink,' I asked her.

'Water, thanks,' she said, accent northern, definitely slight and refined.

'Nothing stronger,' I asked, it was noon, but it's never early in California.

She arched her perfect brow. 'I was under the impression you were sober, actually,' God bless her, her pale cheeks flushed. She kept her smile slightly in the eyes, and the slanted corners of her straight red lips up.

'Well, it would seem you people know more about me, than I do about myself.' I didn't say this with any sort of plastered polite manner, I bloody well hate media, which meant I was going to hate her.

'Well, after such a very informative book,' she said, taking out her copy, and placing it on the table in front of her. 'I mean for years you've been privet about your life, you have written some of the greatest novels our generation has ever read, seventeen novels, three series, and thirteen modern photography pieces, of people you said where derived from your imagination...'

'It's not an autobiography,' I said, cutting her monologue off with a shaky laugh. Oh she's English alright, I bet she has read the whole bloody thing, most likely every book I ever wrote. I licked my lips slowly in thought. Could it be personal, it wouldn't be the first time a reporter formed an obsession, or maybe someone from the past coming up to steak claims. I remembered Benny with the twitch and looked away. Well she certainly didn't look familiar.

'You have acknowledged yourself in the story,' she pointed out, I remained impassive, and waited for her to take the hint. Now that would be a very English thing of her to do.

I looked back at the house, inside a bottle of whisky sat like an insult on the glass table, it had been there for two weeks, a gift from an enemy and friend.

'Are we beginning now,' I asked, my foot taped slightly, I tried to keep it still without looking like an addict on acid after ten years sober.

A real smile touched her face, finally. 'If you like, yes.

Give us a sec,' I said, standing and heading for the kitchen.

I went inside, poured her and myself a glass of water- I decided if I'm sober, I won't give anything away-then joined her finally. I took a seat opposite her, my own smile in place, she took a sip, leaving a red half-moon on the rim of her glass. She opened her bag again and pulled out a tape recorder, placing it between her glass and mine.

She met my eyes.

'This will be on record, some of the tapes will be used on radio as well, for your issue promotion, and I'll edit the rest of it for my article,' she smiled again, 'Shall we begin?'

I looked at the tape recorder, thinking. I haven't done an interview in twenty years, I thought, in vain I suppose, that I was on a role, I planned on an all-time record, too. It would have been death. If this didn't work, Ruby was going to kill me, though I might beat him to the punch with an attempt at suicide.

She sat up and crossed her legs, looking me in the eye. I nodded sullenly.

' Right, off the record first, if you don't mind,' when I nodded. 'You experienced all of these things,' she gestures to the book as if it where the bible, 'This book means you lived everything you wrote.' It's best to say nothing, I told myself. I drank my water instead. She sighed impatiently. 'But the story isn't about you.'

Does she really think she can call my bluff so early in the day, who does she take me for? She has clearly lived, too, long amongst the Americans.

'I'm in it,' I shrug, 'but ultimately, no, not really.'

She tilted her head slightly, 'From the beginning , you go into many details, details I suppose you couldn't go to with an autobiography, or a lot of people would be in jail, including yourself, by book two most likely.'

I stared at her, is she daft.

'Then why would I ever tell you, off the record or not.'

'You're a renowned writer, New York Times bestselling author for every word you ever wrote, you're rich, you have been married twice already, very young girls too...'

'So?'

'So, I think you're a celebrity, and celebrities are prone to extraordinary circumstance, without consequence.'

I laughed lightly, well she's got guts, I'll say as much, bloody feisty, but if jail wasn't a problem that I faced, I would have admitted it a long time ago.

'This isn't for the public's benefit, alright,' I ran my hands through my hair. 'My stories affect the people I know.' I fumbled, shocked by her oddesity.

She sat forward, eagerly grasping to any form of truth. 'Why is that?'

Shit, I thought, maybe I should have a drink.

'I don't know, their fucked up stories, it makes them worry,' I shrugged. 'You people...'

'People?'

'In the media, you make everything so twisted, and by the time you're done,'' we were lying about our lives,'' or ''someone is having an affair,'' or ''we were feuding the whole time.'' You say you want the truth, but the only version you know is your own.'

'I don't know the truth, that's why I'm here.'

I bit my lip, I should tease her at the very least, and a reporter loves a good tease.

'Where would you want to start?'

She bit her own lip, then pulled it out quickly, making up her mind.

'Chain Smokers.' she said, and that's when shit went down.

A claver woman, there's nothing quite like it. My fair share of them came at an overload, at a tender age no less. If you're given just one, too, early, you're most likely fucked. I didn't even see it coming when it happened, and it was a damn shame, my mum was fairly simple, and kind, so I was unprepared. I should have my fill, for my ego more than anything, honestly, but they keep coming up!

I look now at the tape recorder on the table, it's still off.

'Don't you want this on record?' Maybe I'm taking this too far, but I haven't had my fill it seems.

'Oh, no, I have questions prepared,' she said, and I smiled, despite myself. Oh she's dangerous, 'This one is more of my morbid curiosity.' So it is personal, maybe.

'Are the questions prepared substantial enough for your paper?'

'Magazine, The New Yorker,' she tells me, 'Rolling Stones has been recruiting me, but Time has always been a dream of mine, I want to see who can handle my form of journalism before I make any commitments.'

Very dangerous.

'So it's not about the money.'

'Any real journalist will tell you, it's never about the money.'

'But the integrity isn't all there ether, is it.'

'Define integrity,' she sips her water once more, slowly. That should be a whisky, or maybe wine.

I shrug. 'Say your virtue is on the line.' I didn't look in the mirror today, I couldn't remember if I combed my hair.

She laughs, a light one, then meets my lazy gaze. 'If there's a reporter out there that hasn't had sex for the job yet, tell me about them, they might be an imposter.'

I gulp thickly; I think I need a drink. 'How do you like America, then?'

She smiles again. 'I miss the rain,' her eyes widen in embarrassment, 'Who would have thought?'

'Yes, it gets quite dry here, but New York has the chill of London, or so I've heard.'

'I should be asking you those questions,' she says, with a gentle laugh, 'They warned me you were cunning, and persuasive, a little deflective...'

'They,' I questioned.

'The few before me.'

'Just how much do you know about me,' I ask, reaching for my glass of water now.

A blush betrays her finally, and I think she might not be so snotty. 'Well, not nearly enough, you haven't done an interview in twenty years,' she places the book on her lap and taps it lightly, 'And as I said, this book is very informative.' Alright, I'm going to fuck this kid, mentally first, and if she's nice…

'I like hearing about these theories, you are not the first of your kind, and you won't be the last.'

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear…

And for a moment I'm in Mexico, with the sun beating down on my neck, music a constant standby in my thoughts. She walks over to me and hands me a cold bear.

'Is there such a thing as shade?' she asked me, tucking a strand of her favourite blond hair.

'Dru,' Briana says, she was talking, and I hadn't heard a word she said.

'I'm sorry, what did you say.'

'I think we can start,' she says, eyes still glowing.

'Alright,' I sand up, 'Just give us a another sec, if you would.'

She nods, sitting back, there's a satisfaction to it, too. Well, at least I have her where I want her. I rush inside and head for the bathroom down the hall, I shut the door, turning on the lights and facing my reflection. I got old, I thought, well not too old, but old enough. Forty years in three days. So far the inspection has come away with salty dark curls, a slight ginger beard, and long-time pothead slanted hazel eyes, barely visible in the red rimmed heavy lidded peepers, and a weak smile, with alcoholic energy. Yes, I don't seem like much of a prospect, but I am tall, and thank God, have not been cursed with a bear gut, I have a few tattoos, too. They may be the same, but I am still willing to bet I have a sexy accent, and all I have to do is open my mouth, which is all a writer ever needs to do, really.

I exit in a better mood, I head into the kitchen and get us that drink. My dear Scottish insult.

'Are you on the rocks,' I call out, she looks at me through the French doors, I hold up the bottle as I locate the glasses.

'Rocks, please,' she decides after a moment.

I wouldn't be surprised if she is on to me, but that would only bring me a step further than she is, so I am still winning anyway. Or, and it's a big or, she might pull a sly, and I end up in bed, in love with her, spilling, and confessing like a killer in confessional after a murder spree, just because I decided to have a drink, after fifteen months of being sober in California. But if I'm lucky, which I used to be, then this drink will take me back enough to investigate her, find out what she wants, and be done with this. I'll keep my promise, I am not a hypocrite. I put two cubes into her glass, grab my own, and join her once more, with the bottle in hand. She watches me all the while,making an analysis, fishing for answers before they are answered. I set her glass before her, and my own before me, they sit beside our ominous glasses of water.

The ice crackles at its touch of whiskey, intensifying the moment, I pour my own neat, and the dark liquor resembles the colour of large eyes, looking back at me in charred gold.

'You make me so happy,' her voice echoes in my mind, still so clear, I can hear the music behind it, I can hear the laughter…I set down the bottle, and bring the glass to my lips. I'm glad I smoked this morning, because if this girl is as dangerous as I think, then I might wake up an alcoholic tomorrow, and I can't go back home until I fix this.

She takes her glass and takes two sips, staining the rim of her glass again, when she sets it down. She presses record on the tape, and sits back with a silent sigh.

'Thank you for having me here today, your home is beautiful by the way.'

'Yeah, it's a rental.'

She chuckles, naturally, but I can see her surprise in my willingness to speak on record, I could have just been silent, sip my drink, it's what I have always done. 'How do you like, California.'

'It's unbearable.'

She holds back laughter, pressing her middle and index finger to her lips. 'Are you missing home, then?'

'I miss the rain, who would have thought.'

Her chuckle escapes her this time, she twist her jaw in disapproval, then sits up straight, to compose herself. 'Well I'm sure Britten misses you, too. Do you think you'll go back one day?'

'As much as I miss her, I think we need some time apart.'

She nods. 'It's been fifteen years, is that not long enough?'

'If never is too soon,' I shrugged, leaving it there.

Her eyes gleam with the snippet, she runs with it. 'Does this derive from your story then, your last days in London?'

I stiffen slightly. 'The story is fiction, but as a writer, I derive a good amount from life, I suppose.'

I could see the disappointment as if it were a scar across her beautiful face. 'You where distraught then, to an extent, it seems.'

'In a way.'

'The book is also pretty explicit.'

I shake my head, running a hand across my neck. 'It was the seventies.'

'Right,' she says, nodding in understanding, 'Would you say it was a good time to be young?'

'Odd question, that.'

'I just mean, you refer to that time, in the first chapter, as a personal depression, and sudden golden era.'

'It was a narrative, a reference to the feeling or time of adolescents and young adulthood, I can't say for sure.' But I do know, I'm already seeing the flash of blue and red Christmas lights, and marijuana smoke.

'The opening line in Chain Smokers is ''They were the best kind of people...'' a play on the words ''It was the best of times" of Charles Dickens, A Tale OF Two Cities.'

'I didn't think anyone noticed that,' I admit, this pleases her.

'Well I read both books, they both share the same reminiscent feel to them, both great, and woeful adventures and tragedies, strong, long lasting friendships, good and bad, and of course, let's not forget their reference to political events.'

I smile. 'Tell me what you want, Miss. Foxwell.'

'Who are Fanny and R, and all the other characters, from Mellow Green Madness, you're first novel, all through to Chain Smokers,'

'Well that would take hours.'

'The readers want to know,' she says, almost apologetic.

I take another sip, sitting back and parting my legs. I really do hate California, the sun is constant, it's depressing, but in that way you hate your new beautiful wife after two years, because you realize you have to sleep with only her for the rest of your life, and then you wake once in a blue moon, with an erection, and she's there to take care of it, and suddenly it's not so bad anymore. But it's no way to live, I can't remember when I really lived, without the sugar bullshit, but just the shit, in its destructive beauty.

'It's all fiction,' I say, finally.

'They don't believe that anymore,' she says, as if its news, I realize its sarcasm, and feel the blood rush down my body, and between my legs.

'Do you,' I ask, her eyes hold mine, but she is silent, then she says.

'I believe…' she bites her lip, she isn't going to give herself away that easy either, 'I believe you tell stories in colourful ways, so it's always a lie, as well as the truth,' she says finally.

'I believe you've just quoted me,' I say, satisfied, 'That is called fiction, love.' She gritts her teeth a little miffed and I take it as my opportunity.

'I met R first, or rather, I was dumped on his lap,' I said as I reach out to take my glass slowly, holding her blue eyes. 'It was my childhood friend, David, who unceremoniously introduced us, and the rest as they say... well, you know.'