L.A. Woman (12 page)

“Flaky?”

“You know what I mean. You never really settled on anything.”

“I settled on you!” She had to deliberately lower her voice, before she created a full-blown scene. “You were my
life,
Benjamin. I didn’t need to have a career—you were a full-time job!”

He was silent for a second.

She felt like crying. All this time, and he didn’t get it. He never got it. He probably never…

“I love you, Sarah.”

She blinked. Inexplicably, she felt tears welling up. “What? What?”

“You heard me. I love you. You made me feel…you really were devoted to me, and only after I lost it did I realize what I’d been missing.”

She looked at the walls, at the other diners—anything but him. “You can’t be saying this to me now.”

“Let me try making it up to you.” He’d paid for the check, and was looking at her with eyes that were dangerously persuasive. “Spend the afternoon with me.”

“Don’t…don’t you have to get back to work?” Sarah said, clutching at straws.
If going to lunch with him was a bad idea, getting anywhere where you might be tempted to sleep with him is a hugely bad idea.

“I don’t care. Work’ll still be there when I get back. In fact…”

Sarah watched in dazed disbelief as he called his frosty secretary and let her know he was taking the rest of the afternoon off. “Yes, really, I am,” he repeated. Obviously, the secretary couldn’t believe it any more than Sarah could. He looked at her. “Want to see my house?”

She was about to say no before she realized she was already nodding.

Alarm bells rang in her head, but she ignored them. The fact of the matter was, she missed him. Her chest was achy with missing him. Talking with him, walking to his car with him, feeling the brush of his hand against her shoulders…all of that felt
normal.
This was what she’d planned for—being with him, a happy team. Not what she’d been living, with the uncertainty of being a temp or trying to fit into Martika’s glam world. Sure, it was exciting, but it was temporary. All of it was temporary. Benjamin was solidity and stability and purpose. Benjamin was permanent.

By the time they got to his house, her stomach was fluttering in that nervous, vaguely-turned-on way that she hadn’t felt in what seemed like a long time. And best of all, no guilt pangs, no feelings of infidelity/insecurity. This was what she remembered, she thought as she stepped out of the car. This was
right.

The house was a generic stucco job in West Los Angeles. They had passed Westwood, and UCLA was not that far away. He let her in, and her heart felt a different kind of pang. This was what she’d been expecting, when she moved down to Los Angeles. All of his furniture was positioned in various rooms, taking up all the space. She would have had him put the TV on the other wall, she thought, and move the couch. She noticed that the dining-room table looked stark, probably would have gotten him a runner and maybe a centerpiece. She saw that the kitchen, what little she could see of it, looked barren and utilitarian.

“This is it.”

She sighed.

“Would you like to see the bedroom?” His eyes were low-lidded, and he smiled slightly.

Her conscience sent up one last warning.

She solidly ignored it.

“Honey? I’ve got to go…I’m supposed to do a business dinner tonight.”

Sarah stirred. She was sex-sated and sleepy. Make-up sex really was best, she thought with a smile. “Oh. Give me a minute to wake up.”

He chuckled. “That was pretty incredible.”

“Mmm.”

He got up, walking naked over to the bathroom attached to the master bedroom. She heard him shut the door, and then heard the running water of the shower. She got up, stretching, wincing at the discomfort she was feeling. It had been a long time since she’d had sex. She felt bruised, but not in a bad way.

She got up, stretching from one side to another, then slipped on her clothes. She’d be shame-walking. She hoped that Martika wasn’t looking for her, that she’d be home a little later…Sarah knew that Tika would not approve of this latest development. Especially since it looked like she was walking on the road to reconciliation. Tika would just have to deal with it, Sarah thought with a determined nod. Besides, maybe she’d just move in with Benjamin…she was pretty sure he was renting this house, and it wasn’t like she had a lot of stuff to move. Maybe Tika could just take over the lease.

The phone started ringing. “Want me to get that?” she called out.

Jam obviously couldn’t hear her over the shower. She debated, then decided to just let the machine get it. She wandered out into the hallway, wanting to see how his home office looked.

She was halfway down the hallway when she heard the recorded greeting echoing loudly from the answering machine.

“Hi. You’ve reached Benjamin and Jessica. We’re unable to
come to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number, we’ll get back to you as soon as we’re free. Thanks.”

It was Benjamin’s voice, she thought.

Who the hell was Jessica?

She quickly turned. Her heart was racing, her stomach’s quivering turning to queasiness. Everything was Benjamin’s…she recognized the furniture. She shot a furtive look at the door to the bathroom. The shower was still running.

She went to the closet: there were two sliding doors. She opened one and saw a row of suits, neatly lined up. She shut it quickly and moved to the other one.

Dresses.

Relatively petite dresses.

I love you, Sarah.
The words rang in her head.

That bastard, she thought, feeling numb. That lying, cheating
bastard.

I
t was a Thursday night. Judith sat at her home office computer. She was wearing her nightgown—it was getting late, and David was still at work. Strangely, she still had her makeup on.

Judith stared at her computer screen, watching the chat transcript of the “Busy People” Room scroll slowly up the monitor. She was waiting for Roger to log on.

It’s simply the Internet,
she reminded herself. Silly, to feel like she was having an illicit affair simply because she had friends in cyberspace. And that she e-mailed one friend more than the others, maybe.

She had been getting e-mail from Roger steadily since she’d posed her “am I happy?” question in the “Busy People” Room, and they’d been growing steadily more—intimate. Not, as Seinfeld would say, that there was anything wrong with it. They were just kidding around. It was nice to talk to someone (even if it was type-talking) who understood her, that knew when she was having a bad day, that made her smile. She never felt like she could reveal the fact that she was having a bad day to David, for some reason. No, not for some reason—she knew precisely why she felt like she couldn’t. Because compared to law,
nothing
was that important, or bad. If she was having a client giving her hives, he had a client who was going to lose $100 billion in fraud and was raking him over the coals. If she
was stressed because of something related to the house, or balancing his home environment and her job and being the perfect wife, then he was even more stressed, bringing in the huge amount of cash that he felt she needed to have for the life she’d become accustomed to.

If she mentioned she was late in getting her period, she felt sure he’d somehow announce he was expecting triplets.

“So how are you, beautiful?” the instant message came over.

Judith sat down, inexplicably straightening her hair with her fingers, letting it tumble rakishly over her shoulders. “How do you know I’m beautiful?” she typed back.

Roger: You’re Judith, aren’t you?

She smiled at that. “Charmer.”

Roger: Probably. So how’s it going?

“Terribly.” She sighed, leaning back farther in her office chair. “Work has been hellish, husband has been out a lot.”

Roger: Not to be forward, but he should pay more attention to you. You sound tired. Whatever he’s doing can’t be that important.

She shrugged, even though he couldn’t see it. “Nature of the business. Lawyerlyness is closer to Godliness.”

Roger: I thought that was just us doctors. :)

She smiled. “One of those rich, good-looking George Clooney look-alikes, right?”

Roger: Yup. The type your mother wanted you to land, if you couldn’t land a lawyer.

Judith felt anger burn in the pit of her stomach. “Of course,
I was targeting an occupation more than a husband.” There was a pause before she got a response.

Roger: I was just kidding, Judith. Just a joke.

She immediately felt badly, and oversensitive to boot. “Sorry. Trophy-wife disease.” As soon as she hit Send, she regretted it.

Roger: I’ve always wondered how they fit you gals on those little stands with the engraved plate.

She knew he was trying to make her feel better for her gaffe. “I wouldn’t say I’m a trophy wife. David and I understand each other, and we care about each other very much.”

Roger: You really don’t need to tell me his name.

She blinked at that. “Why not?”

Roger: Because then I’ll feel bad for him when I go to L.A. to sweep you off of your feet and have you live a life of naked splendor with me in Atlanta.

She glanced over her shoulder, inexplicably. “Bad man.”

Roger: LOL. It’s been mentioned from time to time.

She pictured him, a tall, blond-haired doctor type, taking time from his busy day, probably feet propped up in surgical scrubs (Was he a surgeon? Did it matter? This was her fantasy.) as he typed away at his keyboard with an impish smirk on his face. He was probably picturing her to be a blond bimbo with big breasts that may or may not be real, complaining about her old lawyer husband. They were both fantasies, she decided. Even she was, in this case.

Roger: Let’s get even badder, then. What are you wearing? (Lascivious leer)

She bit back a grin. It wasn’t real, she reminded herself. “Oh, the usual. Little pink teddy that matches my nail polish. That’s about it. You?”

Roger: Gets hot in Atlanta. I’m not wearing anything at all. :)

She gasped at that, then started laughing. “Sure. For all you know, I’m an eight hundred pound albino wearing that pink teddy.”

Roger: Being naked and all, you’d see how I reacted to that last remark. Does the term “turtle” mean anything to you?

She laughed even harder. “Yuck! That’s disgusting.”

Roger: Says you, oh 800 lb Victoria Secret model.

She imagined the two of them in a room together, laughing like old friends. “I wish I could see you,” she wrote back. “You seem so nice.”

Roger: Wait a sec. I’ll send a picture.

She almost told him no. Stop. She didn’t want her fantasy to have a face. She didn’t want him to seem more real. But she couldn’t bring herself to, because she
was
curious. Maybe he was ugly. Or maybe he just wasn’t her type. She was getting really drawn to this imaginary man she had created while her husband was off working. Maybe this was an antidote.

“You’ve got mail!”

She quickly clicked out of IM mode and looked in her mailbox. There it was…an e-mail from Roger’s address, with an attachment.
Serve me right if my computer got a virus.
Wouldn’t you know it, she thought as she clicked on the icon to reveal his picture. I’d get a cybersexually transmitted disease.

The picture slowly came into focus, to show a man with dark
brown hair. He wasn’t George Clooney, but his face was terribly appealing. She knew he was thirty-seven, but his age didn’t really show. He looked as she suspected…impish.

And he had some nice pecs, she noticed as the picture continued to “develop.” And…

Oh, my God.

From the looks of it, he was naked.

She stared in fascinated semihorror, waiting for the rest of the photo to load up. The chest was magnificent, lightly tanned. She could see why he was grinning so mischievously.

The Instant Message rang over the image.

Roger: Got it yet?

“Shut up. Still loading.” She clicked it back and waited impatiently. It started to show the naked curve of his hips, and then…

A big, white block, with a sentence in a flourishing script font.

IF YOU LIKE THIS, YOU SHOULD SEE THE REAL THING.

She rocked her head back and laughed, louder than she could remember in a long time. The word bubble was placed strategically over his…well, over his nakedness. She quickly e-mailed him back. “You nut. I can’t believe you had a picture made like that.”

Roger: All these women were e-mailing me saying, “Send me your picture!” and I got tired of it. They were interested in sex and wanted to see if I was a candidate. I was joking with a friend, and she dared me to do this.

Judith felt a burst of ire. “So you’ve sent this photo to lots of women…” She stopped typing, hit the backspace key. “So you’ve sent this photo to lots of people, then?”

Roger: Too chicken! ;) You’re the first.

The heated anger cooled into a very comfortable warmth between her breasts. “Oh. Well, it’s cute.”

Roger: You should see the real thing. Hypothetically speaking. :)

“I’m sure it’s all it’s cracked up to be and more,” she answered.

“Judith?”

She spun. David was in the hallway.

“Honey, I’ve been yelling to you from downstairs. You’ve been laughing like a loon. What’s so funny?”

He started to enter the office, and she quickly tried to shut things down. She hit the Instant Message, and his naked picture popped up, with its sly grin and saucy message. She gasped, trying to shut it down. “Oh, nothing. Sarah sent me some jokes.”

He glanced at the picture, shaking his head and grinning ruefully. “Single people. How’s she handling breaking up with The Benjamin?”

“Not so good.”

She closed the picture file, but before she could shut down AOL, an instant message popped over:

Roger: You’d have to test it to find out. It feels even better than it looks…or so they tell me.

She almost unplugged the computer in her haste. The program signed off, and she turned to David, feeling a heated blush on her cheeks.

He wasn’t even looking at her. He was rubbing his temples. “I had a really, really shitty day today. And I’m starving. Do we have any leftovers?”

She took a deep breath. “I…I haven’t eaten.” She shut down the computer, breathing thankfully as the screen went dark. “But I’m sure I could pull something together for you in no
time. Why don’t you change your clothes, come downstairs and tell me all about it?”

He smiled tiredly, kissing her on the cheek. “Thanks, Judy. You’re the best.”

Sarah called Martika’s cell phone.

“Martika. And you are?”

“Tika, help.”

“Sarah?” Sarah could barely make her out over the obvious club noise. “What’s wrong? Where the hell have you been?”

“I got fired.”

“Is that all?”

“And I slept with Benjamin.”

“Oh, fuck.” Pause. “I take it you didn’t enjoy it?”

“It would’ve been better if I hadn’t found out he was living with someone.”

“Double fuck.” A long sigh, counterpointed by the beat in the background. “What do you want to do? The boys and I can come get you in a second.”

“I want to go clubbing,” Sarah said, looking over Martika’s closet. “I want to go
out.
Can I meet you?”

“Sure!” Martika’s voice sounded surprised and happy. “Why not. We’re over at Probe. It’s eighties night. We’ll get you drunk, and in a few hours it’ll all seem like a bad dream.”

“My life is a bad dream.”

“Now, now. Save the maudlin till you get here. So much fun!” Martika’s voice turned matronly. “Call a cab, sweetie. I don’t want you driving, ’kay? You’re too upset.”

“Okay, Martika,” Sarah agreed. “Oh…can I borrow an out-fit?”

Martika’s laugh was loud enough to drown out the latent club noises. “Borrow an outfit? Honey, borrow any damned thing you want! Oh, I can tell this is going to be fun! I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

“Okay, Martika,” Sarah repeated. “Bye.”

“Byee.”

Sarah hung up the phone, and surveyed Martika’s crowded closet. She wasn’t up for vinyl, but she felt…mean. Dangerous. She felt ready to kick the shit out of somebody.

She wound up going with the same short plaid skirt she’d been stuck in the first night she went out, and the black netting top over a black bra. She also pulled on a pair of Doc Martens boots that Martika had stuffed in the back of the closet. They were a little scuffed, and looked like they’d seen some action. She liked that. She went to the careful pile of makeup she’d gotten under Pink’s tutelage—pale Christian Dior concealer to hide her tearstained eyes, Urban Decay over her lids and cheeks and “lip gunk” in the promising color called “Slash” across her mouth in a scowling pout. She dusted the whole thing with Lorac, and added a healthy rim of liquid eyeliner. She looked like a reject from the Sex Pistols, but the look was violent, and that was her statement for the night.

The Judith-angel-voice had gone conspicuously silent, she noted. The Martika-devil simply looked on approvingly.

She phoned for a cab, and spent the next forty-five minutes, waiting and pacing (after stuffing the toes of the Doc Martens with toilet paper and adding a second pair of socks). She had her short blond hair sticking up like the fiery character in some old Claymation movie she’d seen. It was all she could do not to kick things—set things on fire.

She suspected the cabbie recognized this when she got in. He didn’t look surprised or shocked—cabbies rarely did—but when she gave the address, he didn’t try for any patter or flirting. Sarah was glad, and disappointed. She felt ready to roll, as Martika would say, with anyone…and not the sexual way, either.

He let her off in front of Probe, and she walked up to the bouncer. A huge man, shaved bald with a small goatee, glanced at her license. She grabbed it, then stalked past him, going in, paying her cover at the small window before entering the club itself.

It was different than the other club Martika had taken her to. It was smaller, more intimate, and unfortunately, more happy.
Wham! was blaring out of the speakers, insisting that she wake somebody up before she go-go’d.
Or got out of the shower,
she thought, with that terrible rage.

It took another song (this time the more pleasing “One Night in Bangkok”) before she finally found Tika, Taylor and Pink, huddled in a small balcony, smoking clove cigarettes. “Sarah!” Tika gave her a huge one-armed hug, holding the lit cigarette carefully away from Sarah’s spiked hair. “Honey, how are you?”

“Shitty. I’d like to get hammered.”

“And hammered you shall be,” Martika said, putting out her cigarette with a flourish.

Taylor wrapped a companionable arm around the two of them. “All right, ladies, it’s an early night for me…”

“No, it isn’t.”

Taylor looked at Martika imploringly over Sarah’s head. “Tika, I’ve got a meeting in the morning…”

“I don’t give a shit,” Martika said, as they entered the club again, getting hit with Siouxsie and the Banshees’ “Peekaboo.” The kids in black clothes did as close to a Goth cheer as the impassive group could muster. Sarah didn’t know what weird attraction eighties clubs had for Goth people anyway. “Our girl needs us!”