"You! Were! Awesome!"
Manel, the host of the show, has trouble finding words that express his emotions. Or perhaps his Spanish is better than his English, as he goes on in Spanish, telling the audience what they just saw, telling the jurors what they just saw, letting the jurors express in Spanish what they just saw, until even Chelsea (whose Spanish isn't muy muy bien) believes this was the best act since the show started, seven years ago.
I know it's not like that. TV is an act. It's all show. This leaks water everywhere. Deep inside, everybody probably feels depressed about the complete failure, but they sell it as we've all just witnessed a miracle on ice. Never mind. It's all water under the Stamford Bridge now. It's useless to look back and think about everything that went wrong; we have to move on and make sure we'll do better next time.
Serena puts her dripping hand on Chelsea's soaking shoulder, hugs her, and whispers: "You were wonderful. We're a great team."
That's easy for her to say. Serena is a natural black. Her beauty stays on her face; no sweat or involuntary swimming can change that. Chelsea suffers from the low budget, low quality LSD make-up that makes her look like a drowned Kung Fu panda with freckles. It's amazing that, under these circumstances, she still smiles. Spotlights have that effect on people. The show must go on, and the show does go on, so we say goodbye. With applause, we return to the dressing room, for a towel and some soap, to make her decent again. I check my watch. We have to hurry.
On her way to the towel, Chelsea licks her lips: "That water tastes salty."
I explain: "It's a new technique. Chlorine harms our environment. They use sea salt to keep the pool water clean. Sea salt also clears the skin of acne. A dip in the sea is best, of course. For some reason I never understood, it has to be an early dip, before breakfast. A daily sea bath makes your acne disappear in less than a week. Look at my face. I don't have acne because I take a swim every morning."
"In December? Are you crazy?"
"Beauty has its price, dear. If you want to be beautiful, you have to do what it takes. Once you're in the water, it isn't cold anymore, and «brave» is my middle name."
Ten minutes later, Chelsea returns from the dressing room, playing with her imPhone: "Did you see this, Arse? I have 500.000 followers on my Facebook!"
"Nice, but right now, we don't have time for that. We have to hurry. If we want you to be successful, we have no time to lose. Get into the car. Sevilla is our next stop. They're waiting for us."
I drive off and hope that #2, The Nerd, has arranged for the local police to look the other way during the 0,1 second we pass them. The tight schedule for our afternoon and evening events doesn't allow us to respect speed limits. The world is in danger and I still haven't found out if that maximum speed from the folder is just a fake argument to sell this car. Never trust an Italian, they say, but when the needle on the dashboard passes the promised 280kph while the wheel feels still steady, I smile and think…
Half a million followers on her Facebook?
"What did you just say?"
"I said I have half a million followers on my Facebook. Five. Hundred. Thousand. Isn't that awesome?"
Awesome is that you can still hear what your passenger shouts when this car goes so fast.
"Why are we driving so fast?", Chelsea shouts.
She's right. This is crazy. Fun, but crazy. I slow down to 220. We have time enough. This isn't a mission to give me my best-day-ever; it's to please Chelsea. She doesn't seem comfortable when we go that fast. Also: we should talk. Show and tell.
"I don't want us to arrive late at our next appointment. We have three more things on our planning list for today. They're all in Sevilla, the biggest city of Andalucía and the number four city of Spain. To translate this into American terms: Sevilla has the size of a shopping mall."
"Cool. What are we going to do?"
"Well? What were your wishes when we left this morning? You wanted to be a singer, an actress and a model. We've seen you as a sports star at a jet-set event, we've seen you as a model in a photoshoot for a magazine, we've seen you as an actress in a cooking commercial, and as a singer in the most popular TV show of the moment, so…?"
"So all my wishes have come true?"
"Not exactly. Real actresses don't get Oscars for their performance in cooking commercials. We want to see you on the big screen. But that's our second appointment. First, we have… the catwalk waiting for you. It's the ultimate day of the Fashion Week. You're part of today's presentation of the latest collection of Alan Toulalan. You're going to be an authentic model, showing next year's hottest dress to the world. Do you like that?"
Chelsea makes faces like she's laying an egg: "Catwalk?"
"Don't worry, dear. The professional models do all the hard work. You only have to show one dress. Get dressed, walk the strip, smile at the cameras, turn around, walk back, and that's it."
I overtake a lorry, a bus, and some other cars. We're getting closer to Sevilla now, and there's more traffic. I lower my speed to just below the maximum. We're not on a closed circuit, and all those other drivers didn't have my training. It's nice to save the world, but it's more important to avoid traffic accidents. We have time enough.
Something is bothering Chelsea. Was it something I said? Quickly, I rewind my latest words and replay them in my head: she wanted to be an actress and a model, and now she'll get her chance on the big screen and on the catwalk. I thought it was a dream coming true, but her reaction was… "Catwalk?"
Doesn't she know what a catwalk is? Of course, she does. When she sees her dress for the show…
Her silence worries me.
"Is there something wrong, dear? If you don't want to, we can skip the catwalk. We can walk a dog, on the bridge over the river Guadalquivir, if you like."
"It's not that. It's…"
The next silence isn't strong enough to blow away the fog of insecurity that covers our conversation.
"I thought you enjoyed being a supermodel, so I arranged a place on the catwalk for you, hoping to make your dream come true. Don't worry. This is «Show, Don't Tell». You'll forget your doubts when you see the dress you have to show. Don't worry, dear. It's normal to be nervous in front of such a big audience."
"I'm not… I'm not like other people, Arse. I'm not… You know… Normal."
"When you're unique, it's normal that you're not normal. Do you prefer to be normal? Or do you want to be unique? Being both at the same time, well, that's impossible."
"It's not about what I want. It's about who I am. I didn't choose that; it just happened."
Finally, a spark of sunlight beats the clouds of doubt away: she's afraid the daughter of such an important man won't be accepted in a world of normal people like supermodels and world-famous fashion designers.
"All those models didn't choose to be a model either, dear. If you're all skin and bones like them, it isn't easy to find a normal job, you know. They won't eat you, that's for sure."
Anger and sadness fight for priority in Chelsea's eyes: "You don't listen. I said I'm not like them. I'm not normal. You're making fun of me."
Rostov! She's talking about her body. She doesn't look like those walking skeletons, and she feels… inferior to them. They are called «models» for a reason: girls like Chelsea see them as their ideal, as something they want to be. Chelsea, with her over 90 kilos on a 1,69 frame, isn't looking forward to being looked down upon.
"Is this about your physical appearance?"
Silence.
"Do you feel bad about not having the same body as those women?"
"They are models. They are… well… beautiful, perfect and successful. I'm not like them. I'm not normal."
I let escape a deep sigh of relief. If that's everything, it's a piece of cake.
"You shouldn't compare yourself to them, Chelsea. Look at yourself with my eyes. What do I see when I look at you?"
She doesn't answer. Fine. It was a rhetoric question anyway: "I see you as a mentor. I admire you. Did I ever say something about your physical appearance that made you feel uncomfortable? Never. Not one word. And I never will. Do you know why? For me, women are more than just objects who fulfil the carnal desires of men. I admire women for their looks and their minds. You are my supermodel, Chelsea. I admire you as a person. On top of that, just trying to be honest, with no intention of seducing you: I like women with a 42-39-56 full figure like yours. I like to cook, I like to eat, and I like to cook for a woman who likes to eat. Imagine I'm cooking my ass off for three hours, and my supermodel says: «All I want is a leaf of lettuce, dear. I'm still full of that apple I ate last week.» Is it fun to go out with one of those walking coffin nails from Fashion Week? I'd prefer a date with you. I don't care what you look like. You're fun to be with. That's the truth. I'm a spy; I never lie."
Chelsea isn't convinced yet: "You are just saying that to make me feel better, Arse. Talk is cheap. Words don't mean a thing. When I step on that catwalk, it's the numbers that count: size 10, 9, 8, 7, 6… Nobody is interested in the IQ inside those dresses. Everyone wants that 36-24-36 figure, and those seven figures on the price tag of the surrounding dress."
"And why don't you have such a body?"
Rostov! Wrong question. I bite my tongue, hard enough to taste the iron flavour of my blood. Will I never learn? No criticism! Chelsea feels terrible about her oversized-undertall statue. She needs no motivation to lose weight. My stupid question only gives her a feeling of failure, for not being part of the model group she wants so desperately to accept her.
Her reaction is predictable: first, she'll get mad at me, and then she'll start defending herself, which is an American-English synonym for attacking others.
"You don't know me. I've done everything, absolutely everything, to be as healthy as those supermodels. I was on my knees for days, begging my father to solve my problem. He sent me to the best doctors money could buy, but they all failed miserably: not one of those one hundred and twenty-three medics could give me the right pills to lose weight. We went for second opinions, third opinions, and a whole lot of opinions more, but we couldn't find one doctor who would just operate on me to make me three feet taller and seventy kilos lighter. Do you know what they did? They advised me to do a sport. Can you believe that?"
"There are many girls who do a sport, Chelsea. I spend time at the gym, I enjoy jogging, cycling, hiking, football, and—"
"You don't listen, Arse. I'm a girl. I don't like football. Do you really see me playing FIFA Sucker 2018, or Stop Evolution Soccer 2016, or Super Blood Bowl XI, or Bad Ass Basket Brawl, or Horror Hockey, or Bloody Baseball Bats? I'm a girl. Zombie Killer VI is my game. Thanks to playing it 60 hours per week, I'm in the World Top 1.000. Do you know how important that is? Those doctors have no idea. Duh!"
I try to interrupt Chelsea, but it's no use; she's getting madder and madder. Zombie Killer VI has that effect. My parent's generation spent 10.000 hours of childhood on the streets, playing with other kids, learning social skills and training their bodies with Hide 'n' Seek 2.0, Skipping Rope 1967, or Throw The Ball To Me. The Chelsea generation spends 10.000 hours of their childhood on a couch, watching commercials that train them for Perfect Consumer 2025, playing video games to train them for World War Three, eating fast food and drinking BrandiX cola to work on their perfect body. And… Chelsea is right. My parents are the past. The majority has decided that Chelsea's way of living is humanity's future, and the majority is always right.
I see a parking spot and pull over. Chelsea doesn't even notice that we've stopped. She just goes on, raging, blaming everyone and everything, getting in exactly the right mood to play Zombie Killer VI and reach the World Top 1.000 ranking. This is an emergency. But… HA! I'm a professional. I've prepared this mission. To solve this crisis, I have exactly what it needs, in my backpack. That's why I stopped. I can't drive a 50 million dollar Ferrari in Sevilla traffic and at the same time search my backpack behind my chair for several small objects.
Here they are.
Show, Don't Tell.
But I Tell anyway, just in case: "One can of BrandiX cola, one bag of cheese 'n' onion crisps, one king-size chocolate-peanut candy bar, one strawberry cheesecake roll with whipped cream frosting, and one menthol cigarette. Which do you prefer first?"
My distraction works. The furious attack on me, the doctors, and all the zombies in the world disappeared into oblivion. The words stop when Chelsea attacks her World Top Zombie Killer trophies. It gives me the time and space to clear up a little misunderstanding about the word «model».
"You were right, Chelsea. If you would have let me explain, you would have saved yourself all these angry words. Your numbers are the same as those Fashion Week palm trees: they are 7 feet tall and 1 foot wide, which makes 8, while you are 5 feet tall and 3 feet wide, which makes 8 too. Supermodels are dinosaurs. The world is changing, but they deny it. Look around you. No, seriously. I mean it. Look around you. Do you see anyone who's 7 feet tall and 1 foot wide? Does anyone here fit the model of your parents' generation? And how many 5-feet-tall-and-3-feet-wide people do you see? I see lots of them.
» Who's the model here, Chelsea?
» It's you.
» I see you as a mentor, as my role model. It's about time the world of fashion starts seeing you, themselves, and the rest of the world, with my eyes. The younger generations always face a wicked world that refuses to change, but youth comes with energy, and every younger generation made a change to the world they grew up in. You're no different from all those others. You're just as normal as everyone before you: they all wanted to be different. You are the future generation and the living proof that skinny isn't healthy. Women have a right to live, eat and drink, and to carry the weight that comes with it. You are America's Next Top Model. I want you to walk that catwalk with the confidence and the satisfaction of someone who knows: this world needs a change, and Chelsea is the model who's showing it. Do we agree here?"
Chelsea is stunned. She even stopped chewing. I can't believe she's listening, but… she does.
"You're not on that catwalk to tell a story. You're a model. Modelling is «Show, Don't Tell». You show what you know. The message of every commercial consists of 93% body language. Words only contribute 7%. Talk is cheap and words don't mean a thing, just like you said. You have a whole lot of body for the body-language message you stand for, dear. Believe in yourself and show the world what it is to be unique, to be THE most unique. That's what I want from you. Are you prepared to give it your all? Do you think the world is prepared for it? Should we stay or should we go now?"
Chelsea nods: "We should go now. No need to waste more words, Arse. The message is clear. I'm an intelligent woman, you know. I only need half a word."
I start the car and mingle with the traffic. A deep, deep, deep mental sigh escapes: that was close. I almost started on the wrong foot. After knowing Chelsea, I thought this new generation of hers was only interested in themselves, in playing games, spending money and telling the world on Facebook how awesome they are. Their social apathy came from growing up in a world without problems. All they had to do was ask, and they never learnt to work for what they want. They wanted love and got a new computer game. That's what I heard. I was wrong. Chelsea is unique. All the other kids are not like her. I did learn something today.
I was only a brain-spark away from explaining Chelsea the scientific-medical side of the case. How wrong would that have been… I visualise my Superior Teacher vs Inferior Disciple monologue:
«You have a choice. You can stay on that couch and eat yourself to death, or you can get up and dance. Your body is the result of your actions. If you were a bank account, you'd be a fat bank account: your income is too high and your spending is too low. Eat less, eat healthily and move more. Short-term solutions like pills, operations or diets don't work. Change your way of living, one step at a time. It's easy. Everybody can do it. First, you take a selfie. Write down how much you weigh, and make a list of how bad you feel. You'll need those «Ground Zero» markers to motivate you. Never forget where you came from.
» Then you make a list of goals, of small, achievable, positive changes. Pick tiny goals, like «walk to the other side of the street instead of taking the car», like «eat whole-wheat bread instead of white bread», like «drink coffee without sugar», like «walk for 30 or 60 minutes every day», like «take the time to cook and take the time to enjoy eating». On the first day of the month, you write the start date behind one of your planned changes and change your habit. Stick your «Have Done list» on your refrigerator, where you'll see it every day, to remind you of all the positive changes you've achieved, to make you proud of what you do. It's discipline. You can do it. You can drink coffee without sugar. After 21 days, you'll notice how your change has turned into a habit. You no longer care for sugar. You even like the bitter strong coffee taste better. One month after the first step, you add a second step. And one month later, you add a third one. And so on, changing your habits from awful to awesome.
» Diets don't work. When you start a diet, you motivate yourself with the final result, 10 kilos less on the scale. You're prepared to torture yourself as hard as you can, as long as it takes, for that one result of losing weight. What happens? You train your body to live on a tight budget for a while. Your body learns fast: when the diet is over, your body learnt to save energy for the next budget cut. Every diet trains your body to grow fat. And you will grow fat. Skinny people eat more than fat people because skinny people don't torture their body with unhealthy and unnatural behaviour like diet-stuff-diet-stuff-cycles. People who diet get fat because of their diet.
» Only one thing works: change your habits. What holds you is your fear to change, but you've changed when you adopted all those bad habits. Those habits of sloth and gluttony are our animal instincts, our subconscious relics from a time when our species was a brainless beast. Sloth and gluttony are virtues that help animals survive in a world of hunger, but they cause mortal danger in our human world of fast food and sofas. You're not doing yourself a favour, sitting and eating and eating and sitting. The keyword is «balance». That balance should go back to where it belongs: Sunday = Sinday, and the rest of the week, you do what's good for you.
» The other keyword is «fun». Every change becomes a habit in 21 days. First, you'll think «I don't feel like taking a walk today, it's cold and rainy», looking for an excuse to stay lazy, but after three weeks, you'll notice that you'll look forward to it. You'll think: «First, I'm going for a walk in the park; that stupid report can wait». Being active is a reward, not a punishment. Punishment is sitting on a couch for the rest of your life, like a prisoner in a cell, longing for a pleasant walk in the park.
» You write every step forward on your Have-Done list. Every time you look at it, you'll feel proud of yourself. Don't focus on losing weight; focus on winning a more active and interesting life. Flip the switch. Push the button. Turn the key. Where do you find that button? It's on your TV. It's the one that says «off». After you've pushed that button, a universe of opportunities is waiting for you: take a walk, visit a friend, read a book, take the bike to work or school, learn to play the trumpet, turn your garden into Eden, follow cooking classes, or learn how to dance the foxtrot… Go out and meet other people. It's not a punishment. It's a reward. We're social and intelligent species, not designed for brain-dead sofa-consumption. Leading an active life, without any torture but full of fun, will make you lose weight and feel healthier. Even if you didn't lose one gram, you stopped the process of getting heavier.»
Perhaps I would even add my own story, tell her how I had a dream of becoming a spy, how I worked every hour of my childhood, how I studied seven languages and got a grade in Economy, how I learnt to dismantle an atomic bomb before I left High School, only to discover that the LSD didn't reward my effort with a job. But I didn't give up, and I was lucky: a real spy showed up at my parent's butcher shop when nobody was there, and he happened to die on the spot, giving me the chance to take his place. It was pure luck, but without all the preparation and study I'd done, I wouldn't have been able to grab that chance. Working for what you want doesn't guarantee that your dreams come true, but it feels good that you've done your best. Caterpillars don't wake up one day to see they've become the butterfly they've always dreamed of. Growing up is a process of learning and training.
That's what I was about to tell Chelsea. But I didn't. Words don't mean a thing. Chelsea feels superior to the rest of the world; she would never listen to someone she doesn't look up to, and she would certainly not discuss the easy living she grew up with. Physical labour and healthy food would give her a fake illusion of losing weight and a guarantee of bitter-sweat and sour. Chelsea wants sugar and fat. She wants her MTV.
I showed her the highway to success: don't change anything except your worldview. Changing her physique would have taken years, decades, without any guarantee of success. Changing her way of looking at herself had a positive effect in seconds.
Facebook is a fast-growing contagious disease. The designers confessed their goals were to create addicts. When we spend all our time with Facebook friends, we don't have time left for real-life friends. Why are we hypnotised when complete strangers tell us they like us? Words don't mean a thing. Facebook gives us numbers of likes, so we can compare our success with others and feel superior.
Believe in yourself. Give up excuses and give up fear. You can do it with acts, training, showing the result of years of hard work. Or you can do it with words, telling yourself in seconds the same story. Both are nothing but tools. If you feel good about yourself, if you give up the fear, you can do anything. I wanted Chelsea to feel good about herself. It wasn't even a bunch of lies I told her: in the 1980s, 15% of humanity was overweight and in the 2010s, it's already over 30%. Chelsea is humanity's future. I'm the dinosaur on the border of extinction.
It makes me sad, but life's hard; I have to be brave and accept the truth.
Chelsea interrupts my deep thoughts with a superficial question: "How can I be normal, a model for others, and still be unique?"
"That's easy, Chelsea. The word «normal» means «being like all the others». All the others are, like you, unique persons, so it's normal to be unique while it's rare if you'd try to be normal. It's a language-kind of thing."
"I see. Is it easier to be unique? Or is it easier to be normal?"
"It's not easier or more difficult. It's just different. If you're a unique person, you have unique problems. All those doctors give the same advice to everyone because they think everyone is the same. As you already found out, that doesn't work for you. For being unique, you can't count on others to help you with your problems. Like you said many times today: nobody really knows you. When others don't know you, they cannot possibly help you solve your problems. You'll have to solve them by yourself. That's not a problem. It's just different. When you depend on others to solve your problems, they will only disappoint you. Solving your own problems is a lot easier: you can always count on yourself and, for being unique, nobody can do a better job than you. Just believe in yourself and give it your best. Accept there will always be things that don't go the way you plan, but when you concentrate on the most important things, you can make it happen. That's how I became a spy. Impossible? Ha! Did you see what I did yesterday? Did you see what I did today? Imagine what I'll do tomorrow."
"Did you see what I did today?"
"I did. You were awesome. Too bad I have another mission after midnight because I would love to see what you can do tomorrow."
I'm not sure if it was the sugar and sweet I stuffed into her system, or if it was our small talk to kill the time during the trip, but Chelsea cooled down after her ravenous ravage of raving rage. She seems almost happy now: "I like talking to you."
"Talk is cheap, Chelsea. Action speaks louder than words. It's what we do that counts."
Rostov! I bite my tongue. This is, again, such a male reaction. I've read «Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus», twice, and what did I learn? Women talk. Men act. Mankind is «Show, Don't Tell» and womankind is «Tell, Don't Show».
Women use words to create positive feelings. Mothers tell their children everything will be alright. Girls feel great when they exchange secrets. Women are excellent teachers. If it wasn't for male ambition, which values power and money over friendship and love, women would take the seat of every male CEO and President, thanks to their natural female superiority. Men, like Chelsea's father, work hard to show their family how much they love them, but a daughter like Chelsea just wants him to tell her he loves her. That's how we're designed. Men show. Women tell. I should not judge Mother Nature; I should admire her for making us different, and I should learn from her: «Show AND Tell».
I correct my mistake immediately: "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. You are right: talking is important. I like talking to you too."
It's not even a lie. I like talking with Chelsea. it's much better than her shouting orders, with me acting to follow them up, the way we started this day. I decide to share my little secret with her: "I told you I admire you and see you as a mentor, right? This is why. You make me think differently about things. Without thinking, I said «talk is cheap» and for being you who said it… I thought about it and I changed my mind. You have that effect on people. Perhaps the world does need a woman to lead us instead of a man."
At that moment, Chelsea gives me a perfectly clear example of female non-verbal communication, but for me and the male half of humanity, it's an enigma as big as the cryptogram in the London Times: she gives me «a look». What does that mean?
Is it just confidence? Is it satisfaction? Is it perhaps an outbreak of deadly superiority mixed with pride and glory for winning this intellectual battle between a highly gifted female speaker and a hardly developed caveman? Or is it…? Fear, no, panic takes over. This can't be. I must be mistaken. Am I?
Rostov! She's in love with me! That look of her tells it as clearly as a Hollywood movie: «The spy who loved me, the Bond Girl». Women are all the same: all they think about is sex, sex, sex. How do I talk her out of that? Show, Don't Tell? That won't work. I have to find the right words, telling her I agree with her, that I'm awfully attractive, horribly handsome, and sensational sexy, but in a relationship, there's more than just physical attraction and carnal pleasure. I mean, I like a little carnal pleasure now and then, but for me, the basic word in a relationship is «trust» and not «lust». A relationship, for me, is about friendship, about support, being there when the other person needs you. How do I explain that without disappointing her? How do I avoid she'll become mad, crazy, rageous, outrageous, when I say she can't have me? Envy, the desire to have everything and never be satisfied, is Chelsea's major point of character, and it's deadly dangerous because if she doesn't get what she wants (I've seen that more than once today), she'll call her dad and orders him to start World War Three. Picking the right words is crucial now. I can't allow myself even the tiniest mistake.
I say: "You know you're a fifth-floor woman and I'm a first-floor man, right?"
"And what do you mean with that?"
Oops. The Look, the non-verbal communication, rings all the alarm bells. It's not a look of not understanding; it's a look of disappointment. You can't always get what you want…
Thanks, Mick. Your poetic advice is exactly what I need here.
"You can't always get what you want, Chelsea."
"But you can try, and sometimes you get what you need, Arse. If I have to solve my own problems, I will, but… I know it's against all the rules, and I know I should not ask you this, and you'll probably say «no», and I understand, for you being a spy and me, like, being the daughter of an American politician and all that stuff, but…"
I'm at the point of interrupting her with an authoritarian «you know my answer will be NO…», but I hesitate. I should let her talk. Talk is cheap. Words don't mean a thing. Let her say she loves me, that she's deeply in love with me ever since she first saw me, that she can't live without me, and that she will do anything for me… I'm a professional. I can handle this. Turning off my feelings was in my training program. I can act like Samuel L. Jackson, the coolest guy in Hollywood, telling her one thing and doing the other. My mission is all that matters. I take what I want from her, use her like a puppet on a string in an international conspiracy, and feel no remorse.
"… but what?"
"I just thought… Perhaps you can give me your phone number, so I can call you when I need someone to talk to. I don't have any real friends, you know. Nobody takes the time to actually listen to me. I know all those Secret Service rules forbid contacts between rival countries and all that stuff, but… Duh! I would like it if I could call you sometime. If you're not too busy with saving the world, of course."
Rostov! Rostov! Rostov! Male communication of «Show, Don't Tell» is a terrible way. This is exactly what happens when you think like a woman with the brain of a man: you aren't just on the wrong track; you're on the wrong planet. Fortunately, I bit my tongue at the right moment. Chelsea isn't in love with me. She's not impressed by my gorgeous body at all. She sees me like I see myself every morning when I look in the mirror: a man nobody looks twice at, short and bony, a chauffeur or a chamberboy, perfect to blend in the crowd without being noticed, perfect to be a spy. Sean Connery, Roger Moore, Pierce Brosnan, Daniel Craig, and Matt Damon, they all give this profession a poor reputation.
"You want us, I mean, you and me, to be… friends?"
"Well… sort of… Like, I know you see me as a mentor, and I know I'm light-years above you and all that stuff, but, well, you know… When today is over, we'll probably never see each other again, and that's okay, as you have your job and I will probably be busy being the next President and all that, but, you know… I would like to have your phone number. Perhaps we can call each other.
» But if you don't want to, that's fine, I understand, I'm in no position to ask such a favour of you."
Which brings me into a position to ask a favour back… I'm flabbergasted. All today's action was invented to get Chelsea in a good mood, so she could do me a favour, and the LSD, and the entire Middle East. I've prepared this day for two weeks, doing the impossible to get Chelsea in every Spanish spotlight available, all to get one tiny favour back. And now she offers me my favourite favour on a plate, with my phone number as the only thing she wants back for it?
I can't believe this. After all those mistakes I made, after all those disasters I created, my mission is just one question away from success. All I have to do is pop the right question. All I have to do is download the Samuel L. Jackson attitude, look cool and say: "No problem, babe, but I want you to do one thing for me… I want you to tell your father…"
I glance at Chelsea, her hopeful green eyes, her freckles, her carrot hair, those craters at both ends of her smile. She means nothing to me. She's just an awful, arrogant, American child. Sam Jackson wouldn't give it a second thought…
"No problem…
"I don't want to hear no speech, Arse. Words don't mean a thing. It's numbers we're dealing with. Your number, my number, that's all. Don't become sentimental. I didn't ask you to marry me or whatever. I just asked you to be my friend. No big deal. If you don't want to, that's fine, you know."
"No, no. Friends is fine. Friends is more than fine. I'd like it to be your friend."
It's much better than being your enemy, that's for sure, but I don't tell her that, of course.
I tell my spiPhone: "Lovely Sweet Dear. Record message. To: Chelsea. Number:…"
Chelsea tells my phone her number. I complete the message, something to remember: "… Words don't mean a thing if you don't practise what you preach. Shakin' hands and makin' plans. A little souvenir of a perfect day with your friend Arse. Stop message. Send message. Save number, new contact, name: Chelsea."
BEEP BEEP
"Now you have my number and I have yours. Amigos para siempre, right?"
I stick out my right hand.
Chelsea confirms the deal with a handshake and a smile: "Shakin' hands and makin' plans. Amigos para siempre. Thanks for being my friend."
"And thanks for being my friend. I don't think I will forget this day for the rest of my life. Best-day-ever, right?"
"Best-day-ever. And this day isn't over yet. I'm going to catwalk myself into the heaven of high fashion. How's that for a 17-year-old from Boston?"
«Leadership is communicating others' worth and potential so clearly that they are inspired to see it in themselves.» I didn't learn that from Chelsea, by the way. It was in a book by Stephen R. Covey. But I did learn the meaning of those words today, so I hope Stephen won't sue me for using his words without his permission.
"I can only think of one word that comes close, Chelsea: Awesome."