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 that they can hang out in neutral territory, rather than always being around at her place. She knows that things aren't 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 at 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 bridesmaid? 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 Tom 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 a few dealer galleries' websites. 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...post-modern 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 golf club? But it isn't 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, like timely cuckoos. A blonde, anaemic woman with a hooked nose explains the rules of golf. A redhead in a twin set 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 a 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 duped? Why hadn't she asked more questions? Is this her fault for meeting him through the 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.

"Hi Janice," he says. He has allocated a special ring on his phone for her. And she found 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?"

"Um, 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 been able to sign 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 think 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 especially."

"What, are you crazy? I don't 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. And 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 Street 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 turn-around makes her feel sea-sick, 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 splinters into pieces.

She opens her wardrobe, screeching the wire hangers along their rack. She selects a white dress. She 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.

8.

Tom has had his teeth capped. They are bridal in their whiteness and they contradict the lines on his face. Janice wonders whether he is going to have botox for the wedding. He is fit and taut in a desiccated way, as if none of the sweat he lost in his exercise regime has been replaced, despite his Evian-stocked fridge. Janice wonders whether he is petrified, a fallen tree in the forest. He shakes her hand and his is dry and rough, like bark.

Janice scans the menu, and her mother deflects the waiter with the bread basket. "No carbs for me, thank you. Not until the honeymoon,"

"But I want carbs. I like bread," Janice says.

"I can see," says her mother, casting her eye down Janice's T-shirt wrapped torso. Then she looks up.

"Hey, Janice." Janice lurches. Stops herself from adopting the brace position under the table.

It is Peter. Janice's mother is expectant.

"I was just passing, on my way to the bar, and I saw you in here."

"Allow me to introduce myself," Janice's mother busts in. "I'm Veronica. This is Tom, my fiancé. And who might you be?"

"I'm Peter, I'm Janice's boyfriend."

"No you're not," says Janice, teeth so tight they creak. But her mother is cooing. "So pleased to finally make your acquaintance. Why don't you join us?" Her voice is louder than Janice's, and before she knows it, Peter is sharing the sangria, congratulating himself on the strawberries that have plopped into his glass, recommending the gambas al ajillo, and inserting the I'm-so-charming CD he played the night they first met. Janice's mother cannot help but be seduced.

Tom notices Janice's displeasure. "Why the long face, dear?" he asks, as if he's her stepfather already.

"Oh don't mind her," says Janice's mother. "She's always been moody."

"Hey," says Peter. "I have my camera here. Would it bother anyone if I took your picture?"

"Oh no, not at all," says Tom.

"Get the hell away with your camera. I don't want to be in any more of your stupid movies," says Janice.

Janice's mother is fixing her lipstick. "Do I have anything in between my teeth?" she asks Tom.

"You look beautiful," says Tom, and Janice wants to be sick. Peter has already flicked open his digital camera and has pushed record. Janice has to do something. She pushes Peter with both of her hands. "Did you hear me?" she says. "Go."

Peter stumbles backwards. Janice kicks his shins, and his camera catches flashes of her pointy toes, her sharp little heels, but remains steady in its resolve. "Don't you have any boundaries?" she yells.

Peter shrugs, aims the camera at Janice's face. "It's been great meeting you, Veronica, Tom. But I think I better leave. The boys are waiting for me." He walks backwards out the door, his camera still pointing at them. "By the way, Janice, I got some great footage here. Thanks for cooperating."

"Why did you have to send him away, Janice?" her mother asks. "I liked him. He was dishy. Not like your other boyfriends. Disasters, every one. Do you think he could film our wedding?"

All of a sudden, Janice wants to pour the jug of sangria over her white dress. She has no scab to pick. "He won't be filming your wedding, Mom. And neither will I, because I'm going to Barcelona."

"You are? When did you decide that?"

Janice shrugs. She picks up her bag.

"Wait, you can't go! Who will be my bridesmaid?" her mother calls after her.

Janice walks out the door. She fumbles for a cigarette, the emergency break-up one stored in the secret compartment. Damn, no matches.

"Spare a quarter, Miss?" a homeless guy calls to her from the street corner.

"Sure," she says, "if you've got a light."

And he does. She gives him a dollar. She takes a drag, emitting a dragon's nose of smoke.

"Feels good, huh?" says the homeless guy. "Do you have a spare?"

"Sorry," says Janice. "This is my only one." And then she disperses, walking south, trailing grey ribbons behind her.