Page 8 of A Loser by Christmas
Ireallydo.
“Go, Valentin.”
This repeat order is quieter, as if he thinks the contents of that egg is sleeping and he doesn’t want to wake it. He shepherds me out of my own boat and onto the mooring, where an icy riverbreeze nips at my nose and Christmas lights twinkle around the marina.
“If you text meyes, I’ll be back in a few days to explain.”
He closes the hatch, and sure, I could wait for that explanation, but I have zero patience. Never did and don’t now.
That only leaves one option.
I march around the marina, determined to find out even sooner.
3
Of course,mon père is the opposite of helpful when I ask for the night off in a noisy sales tent where the party has already started. Salesmen circle as Christmas classics boom over the sound system almost as loudly as Dad does. His question confirms he only partially heard what I just asked him.
“You want to talk to someone? Good for you, Valentin! I knew you had it in you.” He gestures around at tables set with glinting silver and sparkling crystal. “And yes, there will be plenty of clients to chat up between your test drives.” Before I can correct his misunderstanding, he hesitates. He also repeats that surprisingly sweet smile. “Unless... unless it was me you wanted to talk to?”
It wasn’t.
He slings a heavy arm across my shoulders regardless, his eyes reflecting the shine of party tinsel, and he’s a whole lot gruffer. “We can do that, if you’re ready to learn the real ropes of the business, like who to target and who to avoid at parties like this. Because true success in this business?” He leans in to share a pearl of wisdom. “It means never letting yourself get suckedin by people with no real money. Don’t lose time over a time-waster.”
That isn’t how I’d describe Calum Trelawney. I don’t yet know his motivation for hunting me down, but I do have evidence of real wealth that I could show Dad. And I would if he didn’t virtually have me in a headlock. I’d pull out my phone and show him Calum’s net worth, which was easy as pie to find online. I even have proof of what scored him a recent bump in earnings although I don’t show Dad the screenshot I took of Calum asleep between champagne bottles and a much bigger trophy than the one I need to win this Christmas.
He doesn’t need to see what I have to admit is an impressively muscled back and bottom. I also won’t show Dad the other image I found of a much younger Calum, because no matter what a narrow-eyed elf said about me being Calum’s type, I can’t ignore this fact—several women shared his bed in that sleeping photo taken when he was a rookie.
Dad says, “Speaking of losers,” and for a split second I think he means me for wishing I’d never seen that image. “There’s a prime example.” He points. “Look. Over there on the red carpet.”
I assume he’s spotted Lito, who is exactly where Dad suggested, doing his greasy thing with a smartly dressed guest. But it isn’t Lito Dad points at. He jabs an accusatory finger at someone I assumed was a VIP.
“Never let your first impression fool you.” For once, Dad reduces his ear-splitting volume. “Believe me, Valentin. He doesn’t belong here.”
Neither do I, but my worst attribute kicks in, curiosity activated. “How can you tell?”
Dad blinks, perhaps surprised that I want to know. He quickly rallies. “By looking closer. Underneath the surface.”
I could weep at him describing my actual vocation—looking below the surface is exactly my brand of documentary making.Tonight, I swallow that truth down because Dad isn’t done yet dissecting the guest Lito has hooked by the elbow the same way he did to me.
“Always do that, Valentin. Look under the surface before you waste a sales pitch on some chancer. Start right now. Look closely. What do you notice about him?”
That’s easy.
I spot sun-streaked hair and a great tan. This gala party guest is a golden reminder of the glow I last saw radiating from an incubator. Maybe that’s why I expect to see ice-chip eyes. Instead, I meet the turquoise warmth of tropical oceans.
Dad keeps his volume lowered. “What kind of person is he?”
That’s obvious.
“A rich one.” This guest has got to be wealthy to be at this invite-only gathering of moneymakers. “He’s successful.” And he’s confident enough to ignore Lito’s bullshit. I watch someone I believe could be a potential client shake off London’s sleaziest photographer. And I glimpse evidence that he’s at least rich enough to have also avoided most of England’s dismal winter—a suntan this deeply honeyed doesn’t come from a can. It takes time and dedication. “He’s wealthy.” Probably not as loaded as the hockey player I want to hurry back to, but rich enough that he might be in the same speedboat market.
Dad peers like I do, only at me instead of at this new arrival. And again, he’s uncharacteristically encouraging instead of flat-out dismissive. “You sure about that?”
I nod. This new arrival is the whole package right down to the cut of his?—
“Wait.”
Dad actually does. He holds his tongue instead of speaking over me like usual, and just like that, my opinion changes. “His suit doesn’t fit.” This guy shares my slim build. His jacket was tailored for someone bulkier than either of us.
