Page 68 of Wide-Eyed
Although, when I was soaking in an outdoor tub at a luxury spa overlooking the Queenstown mountain range, it was impossible not to think about my last bathing experience. Since that sexual triumph, I’d masturbated by myself successfully three times. Three! Hello empowerment! Later that same night, I’d masturbated again (this time I didn’t reach the same kind of peak, but that was okay because I still liked it), and I used the resulting rush of endorphins to apply for every fashion job in New York that I could find.
Cilla could have been annoyed at me for being a bit distracted as we took in some of the most amazing tourist experiences New Zealand had to offer. But she was a delightfully low maintenance companion, just happy to be along for the ride. At first, I’d had to twist her arm to get her to come with me—she’d baulked at letting me pay for everything, but I explained she’d be doing me a favor by keeping me company and helping me get footage. Cilla only had a stalled renovation project waiting for her back in Woodville, lucky for me, so she was free as a bird. Call me selfish, but I was glad of that. I didn’t want to be alone. Not now, and honestly? Not ever. I’d spent my whole childhood alone, and I was over it. The bravest thing I’d ever done was take off to the other side of the world without anyone with me. But as soon as I’d met people here, I negated my own milestone by latching onto anyone who showed me kindness, glomming onto them like the clam thingies that Cilla and I had eaten with champagne last night.
Some people just weren’t capable of being alone, and I was one of them.
I didn’t feel bad about maxing out Mom’s credit card to ensure I had company on my adventure. She didn’t care, she never checked her statements. And money was made up, anyway.
At first it might have seemed odd to my followers that my travel companion was a sixty-five-year-old woman, but Cilla, with her floral dresses and orange hair twisted in a chignon, matched my brand and looked great on camera. When we did an Instagram live from the balcony of our hotel, my followers fell in love with her, seeing her as a kind of fashion mother figure. (Clearly, I wasn’t the only fashion girlie whose trauma was maternally imparted.)
This was something Cilla picked up on.
She asked me about it over dinner at a luxury restaurant where the dishes were inspired by Aotearoa’s wild game and native plants.
“Are you in touch with your family, Lyssa?”
I would rather talk about Cilla’s renovation—I had an idea for using floral contact paper on the vertical risers of her stairwell—than I would about my family, but her expression suggested she wouldn’t be deterred.
I swallowed the last of my manuka honey and cheddar roll before I answered. Cheese rolls were a South Island delicacy, I’d learned. At the airport they were six dollars each, but this upscale restaurant had an expensive version that was worth every penny.
“We’re not close. She and my stepdad—he married my mom when I was three—still live in Connecticut where I grew up. Mom lectures there, and Charles is a poet. If you’re not text on paper, and preferably also very old or linguistically significant, you’re not of interest to them.”
“I’m not close with my family either,” Cilla said after a mouthful of her venison tartare. “They were deeply disappointed to learn bisexuality wasn’t a phase I would grow out of.” She licked her fork. “I tried to tell them. But bigots’ ears are painted on.”
“I know,” I said with feeling.
Cilla eyed me. “I looked you up on the interwebs. Lia showed me how. If you don’t mind me saying so, Lyssa, there are some very rude little cunts sending you comments.”
The party of German tourists at the table next to ours gasped and fell to a hushed silence. One older woman looked particularly aghast.
Cilla leaned across the chasm between our tables and patted her arm. “It’s just an expression, pet. It’s neutral. There are plenty of lovely cunts walking this Earth too.”
The Germans didn’t look reassured.
Luckily, our main courses arrived. I had slow-cooked wild boar belly with aromatic spices and plum, and Cilla had a manuka honey baked trout with roast kumara purée. Kumara was sweet potato, the waiter explained. Both dishes smelled divine.
“I’ve heard Kiwis say that word before,” I told Cilla. “The c-word. But it still shocks me.”
Cilla wasn’t listening, her eyes were wide after her first forkful of trout. “Fuck me, this is delicious!”
The Germans next to us looked newly scandalized, and I giggled.
When Cilla’s eyes finished rolling back, she continued. “I know you would have heard worse language staying with Mike.” Then she remembered he wasn’t my first Holliday—so to speak. “And living with Caroline!”
“Caroline doesn’t swear,” I told her. “She says old Hollywood stars’ names instead. It makes talking to her very distracting.” Especially for me. I’d always lose track of what she was saying. “But the c-word still makes my breath catch.” I took a mouthful of my own delicious dinner and savored the moment. “It’s thought William Shakespeare had a vocabulary of around 30,000 words, which was more than 6 times the average at that point in time. To the best of my knowledge”—with a nervous look at the Germans I dropped my voice to a whisper—“cunt wasn’t one of them.” I straightened. “But to be sure, I’d have to ask my mom, the Shakespearean professor, and that’s not happening.”
Cilla studied me. “You’re a sad soul in cheerful clothing, Lyssa Luxe.”
I ate quietly for a while, stunned by Cilla’s perceptiveness.
“No one has ever seen me so accurately,” I said finally. “Not seen me, seen me. They usually see my clothes.”
For example, when we’d arrived at the restaurant earlier tonight, the server called my earrings, which were Barbie heads sprayed with neon paint, “Memorable.”
I reacted like it was a compliment, but Cilla said it wasn’t.
“Tell me how you got started in fashion,” she prompted.
“I had a fashion blog when I was a teenager, and posted my outfits of the day.” My mind flitted back to the combinations I had styled—extravagant tulle fascinators with odd stockings, chunky knits and lace dresses. “Everyone in my school thought I was out of my mind, but it was haute couture, darling.”
