Ocean Of Need

20 Cocaine & Friendship

7th May

You've been gone four days. Maybe this is just how it is now. We have mind blowing sex, I feel so close to you that love balances on the tip of my tongue, and then you disappear.

If this is who we are, is this who I want to be?

It's lonely in the room without you. Yet still I come here. I've never been in this situation before. Back in London I shared a studio with Ruby, Maisie, John and Elena. There was always something going on. And even though they never knew my real name, or anything about my criminal activities with Jameson, I still felt close to them.

They called me Deborah. Jameson chose that name. I always thought it was a bit old for me. But he'd already paid for the id before I had a say in it. I keep my passport hidden. I'm not sure if Freya knows I'm not called Amber. But if she finds out I'm not called Amber, or Deborah, she might start digging.

I haven't told you any of this. I will not put you in danger just so you can know my real name. Even Jameson doesn't know my real name. He thinks I'm a secret. He doesn't know I'm a secret inside a secret.

The things you run from will always catch you in the end. If you are meant to be a criminal, even if you run away from your own family to avoid that path, you will end up as part of another family and fulfill your role. I never wanted any of this.

I wanted to be an artist or a poet. Those are the things I am in my heart, and now, here in this room, with you, I feel like I could really be one of those things in the real world. Like Frida and Diego, we could lift each other up.

San Francisco has been great so far, but six weeks in, and I'm starting to miss my old routine. Today I feel a blue much darker and deeper than the ocean. I drag a pillow from the bed and my typewriter from my desk, and make a nest inside your cage.

I sit cross legged, clacking away at the keys, writing my sad sensual poems, that I just cannot get right today.

I've been clacking keys all day, and produced nothing of any value. I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look like a lunatic.

'Fuck this,' I mutter, and climb out of the cage, reaching for my phone.

'Freya. Do you fancy getting plastered?'

'Plastered Darling?'

'Drunk. Completely fucking legless. Astronomically fucked?'

'Oh Amber, Darling, I thought you'd never ask. I'll meet you at Johnny's bar in an hour.'

*

Johnny's bar, is cool. Everything Johnny Jones does is cool. I met him back in London, he goes out with Maisie from my art studio. He's from California, but his Dad is from San Francisco, and even though he never met his Dad, when his Dad died, he left him this place. When I told my studio friends I was coming out here for a 'last minute holiday,' it was Johnny that told me about this place. It's the only place that me and Freya come to where she actually has to pay the bill.

I sit at the bar, nursing a gin and tonic as the bar gradually fills up with the evening crowd. Freya's twenty minutes late so far. It's not unusual. I really should try and make some new friends here. All the people I've met so far have been super friendly, but they all belong to Freya, one way or another.

I hear a hubub of New York accents, and turn towards the door. Freya is in the middle of a crowd of what I can only assume are actors. Or maybe artist. Maybe both.

She breaks free from the crowd, and walks towards me. 'Amber, Darling. I brought some friends. I thought it was about time you met some more people. Widened your horizons. You've been spending far too much time with your Sir. You need more.'

Wow. She's more like Jameson than I thought. How does she always know what I need? A rainbow cloud of people my age walk towards me and I am swamped inside the heart of them. They all throw names at me, and tell me how much they adore my British accent, then order drinks and snacks.

I am dimly aware that someone is holding my hand. I assume it's Freya, but when my hand is squeezed I see that the hand in mine is attached to a tiny arm, which is attached to a tiny girl, with an enormous cloud of red hair. On top of which bobs a gold crown.

The tiny girl smiles at me. Her smile is as huge as her hair.

'I'm Roxy.'

'I'm Amber.'

'I know.'

'Yes. Sorry.'

She peels with laughter, 'You just said "Sorry," for nothing! Oh my, Amber, you are so British!'

'Yes,' I say, then don't know what words I should follow it with to make a conversation. 'What I really need is a line of coke.' I say more to myself than anyone else.

She laughs again, 'Oh, you are too funny. Come with me.'

Roxy drags me from my stool, across the bar, into the ladies, and straight into one of the cubicles. Finally letting go of my hand, she pulls a large wrap out of the pocket of her tiny lilac dress.

'This what you want?' she says in a London accent, her eyes sparkling.

I giggle, 'Sure is,' in an American accent, and she hoiks up her dress, pushes down her knickers, and sits on the toilet. She puts her phone on her knees and chops out two fat lines of coke on the screen as she pees. I've always admired multi-taskers.

She hands me a rolled up hundred dollar bill, and I snort the coke off her phone, hand her the bill, and watch her do the same. Then we both lick our fingers, scour the phone clean of coke and rub it on our gums.

'Waste not, want not,' we say at the same time, then laugh. I feel like I just made my first girlfriend since I got here.

'Are you coming to Freya's club?'

'Freya's club?'

'Yes, her members only club. Unleashed. Don't tell me she hasn't taken you there yet?'

'No she hasn't.'

'Please come, we'll have so much fun together. I'm bored of these people, I already know everything about them. I need some new blood!' she says as she wipes and flushes, then follows me out of the cubicle.

We wash our hands and carry on our conversation through the mirror as we apply lipstick in the same motion, and smack our lips together at the same time. Our eyes sparkle as we talk.

'What kind of club is it?' I ask.

'A special club. You know the kind,' she winks.

'A special club?' What the hell does that mean and why is she winking at me like that. Bloody Americans, it's another language.

'It's a club for people with special interests,' her eyes widen and she nods towards me.

'Special interests?'

She blows upwards and her fringe lifts off her face. 'Wow, you English! Do I need to spell it out?' she laughs. 'It's a club for Good Girls, like you, and for Daddies, Sirs, Masters, and Mistresses. Like me.'

Jesus, do I have a neon sign flashing above my head saying Good Girl? How the fuck does everyone in America know what I am?

Roxy runs her hand along the back of my neck and under my pony tail. 'You have a bruise here. The only thing that leaves a mark like that is a collar.'

My hand automatically goes to the back of my neck, reminding me of you, and how I belong to you. But do I actually belong to you? You haven't been here for four days, and I've had no word from you...

'Fuck it,' I say, 'I'd love to come to the club.'

Roxy squeals and jumps up and down as she claps her tiny hands together.