7.

Bar-ce-lo-na, Janice types into Google. Just because her father has neglected to invite her doesn't mean she can't visit. She's wondering whether Peter might like to come with her, so they can hang out in neutral territory, rather than always being around at her place. She knows things are not running smoothly with him. Maybe away from Manhattan, the viewfinder of his camera, the exclusive camaraderie of his friends, they can start afresh. Throw tomatoes at the running of the bulls. Drink fino in a flamenco bar. And she needs to escape her mother, who keeps calling her, importuning her with her wedding plans, wanting Janice to feel included—maybe she could be a page 165bridesmaid? How about reading a Shakespearian sonnet during the ceremony? (Come on, sweetheart, your tutor always said you had dramatic talent.) Tonight she's meeting her mother and Bradley for dinner, and she's dreading it.

'We'll go somewhere fun,' her mother promised. 'How about a tapas restaurant?'

Janice gets 17,800,000 hits. Overwhelming. She Googles her father's name instead. And there he is, featured on the websites of a few dealer galleries. One in Barcelona, one in Paris, one in Brooklyn, NY, one in Seattle. Wow. He's doing okay. She types in her own name. Nothing, although sites come up for people with the same name. Someone with a PhD in gerontology. A beagle enthusiast. A gestural drawing teacher. She Googles Peter. And there is a similar smattering of pages. An English politician, a blog about death. And what's this: Notes on Etiquette? She clicks the link. She goes to a home page dominated by type. Peter Pike … video artist … postmodern explorations … surveillance—what the fuck? Download clips from Peter's latest projects. She follows this link. And there, is it? Is that her? Swinging the golfclub? But it's not just her: underneath the heading Golf there are a number of little clips to be played. She clicks on a couple and they pop up in their tiny windows, chirruping. A blonde, anaemic-looking woman with a hooked nose explains the rules of golf. A redhead in a twinset and pearls discusses the finer details of the follow-through. The brunette, who looks just like her, has her fist thrust down the hole to retrieve the ball.

Fuck. He'd said it was for an indy short film. She'd envisaged it debuting at the Tribeca film festival, before something ground-breaking and feature length. She'd imagined herself in the Village Voice, a break-out box, the new it-girl. How was she so easily duped? Why hadn't she asked more questions? Is this her fault for meeting him through an internet dating site?

She closes the windows, click, click, click, like Pandora, trying to squash all the bad things back into the box. She sees a link for comments underneath each video clip, and next to her name is the number 56, but she doesn't want to read that she's fat or hot or inbred or fuckable. She dials Peter's mobile.

page 166

'Hi Janice,' he says. He has allocated a special ring on his phone for her. And she thought it charming.

'I found the site, Peter.' She sounds calm.

There is silence. Then, 'What site?'

'You know what I'm talking about: Peter Pike, video artist. Your postmodern … etiquette … surveillance site.'

'Oh.'

'So, when were you planning on telling me about it?'

'When it was finished. It was going to be a surprise.'

'Really? Don't you need my permission for that kind of surprise? I mean, shouldn't I have signed a model release form or something? It's on the internet for the whole world to see. I could fucking sue you.'

'Uh, your response, it's really interesting to me. Can I swing by your place and film it as part of the project?'

'No. I'm changing my locks. I may even move. What was I, just another standard-issue blue-blood? Wait, are you Bluebeard?'

'No, no, of course not. I like you, Janice. You really stand out. Everyone agrees—did you read the comments?'

'No.'

'Well, you should, you're a star. The other girls, you shoulda read a few of the outa-line messages. Hey, come round to my apartment. I'll clean it up specially.'

'What, are you crazy? I don't ever want to see you again. And you are going to take me off your website or else I'm going to report you to the police.'

'I'm not taking you off. You're an integral part of my project. Don't you want to be famous?'

'Yeah, but not like this. Are you still seeing those other girls? Was sex the part of the project that I need a credit card number to download?'

'Come on, Janice. Don't be like this. Lighten up. Why don't you come out with some of my friends tonight? We're going to that bar on West Twenty-first and Broadway. The one with the red glass windows and the octopuses in tanks. Did you know that octopuses are really smart?'

Janice can't believe what she's hearing. The turnaround makes her page 167feel seasick, pitches her overboard. 'What the fuck? Do I care about this shit?' she yells.

'Well, they are. I heard that they climbed out of their aquariums and arranged the tumblers into a pyramid formation. Now they have to put chicken wire over the top to stop them from escaping.'

'Stop it. Is anything you say real?'

'I'm in hedge funds, what do you think? So are you going to come?'

'I'm meeting my mom. And you should know, asshole. You always accept the first invitation.'

'Do you want me to come with you? I know you've wanted me to meet your mom for a while.'

'I don't want to see you again. Do you hear me? Of course you're not coming along. Arrgh!'

Janice's head is full of static, her vision a fractured kaleidoscope. She doesn't know how to break the loop so she throws the phone across the room. It hits the brick wall and splits open, revealing its wiry intestines.

She opens her wardrobe, screeching the wire hangers along their rack. She selects a white dress and lays it on the bed. She picks up the phone, gathering the shards of plastic, stuffing the wires back into its hollow cavity. She wonders whether she can glue it back together again. She goes to the computer again to check the address of the restaurant. West Twenty-first Street. At Broadway. Damn.