After Her (5 page)

“If you had just talked to me in a civilized manner, I wouldn’t have gotten so assertive,” she says. I storm toward the exit, heaving the door open. Vivian follows as I cross the parking lot, but lingers at a safe distance without saying a word. I peek at her through my eyelashes. Her lips pout purposefully as she concentrates on me.

“Do you intend to walk home?” she asks. “You’re free to leave. I won’t hold you against your will if you’re determined to get away from me, but I do urge you to hear me out. Decide then whether or not you want any more to do with me.”

I look at her, unsure of what to say or how to say it. I don’t have a rehearsed response for her like I do for my mother and Sasha.

“What do you want?” I finally ask though the words sound more desperate aloud than they had in my head. Vivian smirks, reaches into her purse and removes a carton of cigarettes along with a ring of keys. She tosses me the keys then saunters toward her Porsche.

“Why are you giving me your car keys?” I call out.

“You’re driving,” she replies over her shoulder. I scurry to catch up to her, but she’s already claimed the passenger seat, leaving me no choice, but to helm the steering wheel.

I saunter to the passenger side, poking my head in through the window. “Ms. Lynch, I can’t—”

“Rule number one,” she interjects. “Call me ‘Vivian.’”

“But I—”

“Rule number two, don’t second guess any decision I make from this point forward. If I want you to drive my damn car, you’ll drive it whenever and wherever I tell you to take it. Now get in, put the key into the ignition and drive, Cassandra!”

I flinch at her tone, like my own mother has just scolded me. I hesitantly obey. As she lights her cigarette, I start the car up and turn to her, expecting additional instructions. She takes a few heavy puffs of the cigarette and sits back against the passenger seat with a loud contented sigh.

“Oh, I’ve missed these things,” she says. “I was kidding myself thinking I could give up smoking.”

“Those things will kill you,” I say.

She chuckles, clearly unintimidated by my warning.

“We’re all going to die someday,” she says. “Some of us are leaving much sooner than planned.”

6

“Take the highway and keep driving until I say otherwise,” Vivian orders. I obey without stopping to think, stomping the gas pedal and veering out of the strip mall parking lot.

A heady stench of tobacco and rubber fills the car, making gas fumes coagulate in my throat. Breathing takes effort. Vivian’s lips pucker like a wound corset around that cigarette, exacerbating the wrinkles near her mouth.

“What kind of music do you prefer?” she asks while fiddling with the radio buttons. 

“Anything is okay, I guess,” I say and she turns the volume up until Madonna’s voice blasts from the speakers. Vivian sings
Like a Virgin
at the top of her lungs, as I remain hostage behind the steering wheel.

I don’t blink. I don’t even look her in the eye. I just drive. Going eighty on the highway, I listen to Vivian croon five songs in a row. She stops occasionally to give me further directions, but offers no explanation. I make note of the traffic signs and watch several exits disappear behind us.

The city livens around us, alive with a populace of cars and pedestrians crossing streets, jogging sidewalks and congregating in crowds like flocks of birds. A spotlight of sun soars overhead, reflecting a sepia glow onto skyscrapers in the distance.

Orange County always looks its best this time of day. When the sun peaks, every person, car and skyscraper, resembles those airbrushed photos from the tourism brochures. The beach looks a little brighter, the sky bluer. The water clearer. When Vivian is no longer watching me, I savor this view and wish I could photograph it. I grip the steering wheel tighter, feeling the car’s vibrations thrum against my palms. The faster I drive, I swear, this car has wings.

“You like this car, don’t you?” Vivian asks.

I nod. “But I can barely afford gas for my own car. There is no way in hell I can afford a Porsche.”

“You can if I give it to you,” she says.

“What?”

“I could give you this car,” she says. “It wouldn’t be an inconvenience for me. I can certainly afford a new one. Would you like for me to give you this car?”

I look at her and wonder if she’s serious. When she doesn’t withdraw any of her words, I remain speechless.

“Well?” she prompts.

“Why?” I ask. “You don’t even know me and you offering me a car?”

“Under a few…conditions, yes.”

“Of course,” I mutter. “There is no way a stranger would offer me an expensive car without strings.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” she says. “I haven’t discussed the terms with you yet.”

My eyes narrow as my suspicions take form. “What terms?”

“You’ll soon see,” she says beneath her breath. “Turn off at the next exit.”

“My apartment isn’t for another twenty miles,” I say.

Vivian looks at me as if I'm an idiot, babbling words in some foreign language.

“We’re not going to your apartment.”

“What?”

“Just turn off at the next exit,” she orders. “We are not discussing business in a car.”

“Business?” I ask, but she doesn’t respond. I continue driving. After exiting the highway, we rejoin metropolitan traffic and file in line behind an onslaught of cars cluttering the six-lane street. We drive further down the boulevard then pass a plethora of strip mall boutiques that I can’t afford to shop in. I'm unfamiliar with this expensive part of town. It’s always been like a secret society for those who belong, kept hidden from those who don’t.

“Turn into the parking lot up ahead,” Vivian orders. I pull into the private driveway then slow the car to pinpoint where we are—a beachside eatery, sharing the coast with a strip of several neighboring restaurants.

A large, pinstriped awning holds an unlit neon sign above the restaurant’s double glass doors. The sign, as I squint to see it, reads:
Tropolis Sushi Bistro
. Palms flank each side, towering over the restaurant, bent at their trunks like broken fingers reaching for the sky.

It’s a picturesque sight with a perfect view of the beach behind it. I’d be impressed if I weren’t so suspicious.

“Why are we at a sushi restaurant?” I ask.

“You like sushi, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but…wait, how do
you
know that?”

She finishes her cigarette and flicks the butt out the window.

“You’ll be joining me for lunch today,” she replies. “This time, I'm not taking ‘no’ for an answer.”

The unease in the pit of my stomach grows into a sinking sensation that makes my gut hurt.

“I’d like to go home,” I say.

Vivian chuckles and rolls her eyes, dismissing my request.

“You’re not going home right now, Cassandra.”

I reach toward the car door handle, seeking an immediate exit. Each door locks at once with a synchronized clicking sound. Vivian reveals a tiny remote control from within her purse with her thumb on the
lock
button. Her once expression morphs into something stern. She’s clearly made a decision about me that I'm not yet aware of.

“What do you want?” I ask in a firm voice, this time with no trepidation impeding me. Any small hint of fear I initially had of this woman is on the backburner. That fear is now anger. “Are you kidnapping me?”

“You’re the one in the driver’s seat Cassandra,” she reminds me. “If you didn’t want to come with me, you didn’t have to.”

“You ordered me to drive,” I retort. “How else was I gonna get home?”

Her composure remains intact, her face stoic.

“Once we enter the restaurant and order our food, I’ll explain everything you need to know, but I am a woman of business,” she says. “I can’t conduct proper dealings without an appropriate setting. I don’t prefer to explain paperwork in a car.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask. “What is this about?”

She sighs, obviously exasperated with me.

“Park the fucking car, Cassandra.”

I stiffen in my seat, startled by her harsh tone. Once parked, I remove the key from its ignition and watch as she retouches her makeup in the rearview mirror. She kicks off her casual sneakers then replaces them with a pair of blue stilettoes that she retrieves from the glove compartment.

As she abruptly begins removing her pants, I turn away for the sake of privacy, shielding my eyes behind my hand.

“No need to be bashful,” she replies. “You aren’t the first person to see me naked.”

I peek through my fingers to glower at her. Her lips curve into a smile as she wiggles her hips into a pencil skirt I’d seen her pull out from beneath the passenger seat. I can’t collect my focus. It remains elsewhere, traveling to the sight of her legs.

I have never seen human flesh the color of her thighs. Within those inner crevices are large areas of discolored varicose veins. Her skin is cobwebbed with them. I turn away, suppressing my startled reaction.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I wouldn’t consider it rude if you asked about them.”

“No thanks,” I say, wanting to appear impartial.

“My thighs aren’t what they were when I was twenty. Many things aren’t what they were when I was your age.”

I notice her smile, but I pinpoint some contrasting emotion behind them. This is what nostalgia looks like. I'm tempted to take her hand, to ensure her that I'm not revolted by her thighs when it’s so obvious how self-conscious she is about them, but I don’t. I have yet to uncover the logic behind her motives.

This isn’t some scheduled carefree get-together with an old friend. I'm not even sure whether I'm here against my will. I won’t jump to conclusions. I won’t allow myself to befriend her either. 

“Be grateful for your beauty,” she says after zipping her skirt. “Any day could be the day something swoops in to take it away. Sickness. Old Age. Anything could be the culprit. I learnt that lesson the hard way.”

She frees her hair from a ponytail and combs the strands with her fingers, fluffing them until they lay atop her shoulders. After swapping her sweaty tank top for a satin blue blouse, she’s fully dressed in business attire.

“Do you always keep formal wear clothes stashed in your car?” I ask.

“I never leave the house without a pair of
Christian Louboutin
stilettos,” she says. “Pretty soon, you won’t either.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask another question that she doesn’t answer. I'm starting to notice a pattern with her. My questions aren’t vital until she decides they are. That’s the only time she ever answers them. 

“Let’s get inside the restaurant,” she says after grabbing a small leather briefcase from the backseat. “I’m ordering for us both. Your only job is to listen to my proposal and decide whether or not you want anything to do with it.”

At this, I don’t question her. My words will inevitably fall on deaf or disinterested ear.

I don’t get the chance to speak anyway. She exits the car before I can respond. I follow. Vivian moves with a jaunty bounce in her strut, reminding me of a fawn. 

It’s something a woman could only learn from some private finishing school taught by authoritarian nuns with rulers to smack the spine of any slouching girl. I imagine Vivian’s back covered in ruler welts.

A man accompanying his wife into the restaurant stops midstride to hold the door open for us. I know he’s only being courteous for Vivian. I'm just deadweight that happens to be with the right companion.

Even once we’re inside, he remains in the doorway, leering at her. She must be used to this kind of attention. Vivian doesn’t acknowledge a single man that stops to stare. I should feel offended, jealous even, but for some reason, I'm not.

Vivian Lynch must have this effect on people. She’s either unaware of it or extremely modest about it. With her, I can't peg down a single certainty. I don’t know if her intentions are sincere or if she has something sinister in mind for me. Whatever the motive, my curiosity has latched on with suctioned fingers.

“Welcome to
Tropolis
,” greets our waitress after seating us. This waifish, wide-eyed blonde could use a couple downers. Her caffeinated version of impeccable customer service exhausts me just by looking at the girl. I'm certain she’ll soon balance a ball on her nose like a trained seal.

“What can I get you both to drink?” she asks. I open my mouth to reply. Vivian scowls at me until I remember the lecture she gave me in the car. 

“We’ll both have sparkling cider,” Vivian replies after a quick glance at her menu.

She and the waitress lock eyes. The poor girl blanches a few shades paler. Vivian either intimidates or astounds every person she meets without trying. There is no in-between with this woman. You either love or fear her.

The server scampers away. I imagine a tail hung low between her legs as she cuts through the center of the crowded restaurant. It’s an elegant venue with floral candlelight centerpieces atop each table, sleek bar stools for every patron and an oval stage in the center of room where two men entertain with classy music. One is on the saxophone. The other is behind a baby grand piano.

Looking around, I notice that this place is what I expected it to be—too rich for my blood. My clothes alone make that obvious. I fidget with the unraveling hem of my T-shirt, tugging at loose threads.

When I return my attention to Vivian, she’s thumbing through a pile of paperwork atop her briefcase and adjusting reading glasses over her eyes. Cobweb wrinkles frame her deep-set eyes, magnified by the lens of her glasses. I hadn’t noticed before. It’s rare that I'm reminded of her age when she visibly looks years younger than she actually is.

On any other woman, a couple of grey hairs and soft wrinkles would be a sign of graceful aging. On her, it simply enhances what’s already there. Vivian isn’t a victim to these things. Wrinkles and greys aren’t an affliction. She is a genuinely attractive older woman with or without them.

“I’ll begin by asking you a few general questions,” she says after the waitress returns with our drinks. I rattle the ice around inside my glass with my pinky, knowing I won’t drink it, but I need the menial distraction to take the edge off my nerves.

“Is this job interview?” I ask after realizing that she still hasn’t explained a damn thing.

She glances at me through the lens of her reading glasses as they slide down the bridge of her gaunt nose. “Sort of, yes.”

“Okay, then go for it,” I say, finally at ease. “I'm good with questions.”

She shuffles the papers in her hands then replies, “Where are you from?”

“
Hamilton,
Montana,” I answer proudly. “Born and raised.”

She smiles at my response. “And you were happy there?”

I don’t reply immediately because the question feels so random. Why is she interested in my home life? These aren’t the kinds of questions I’ve ever received from any other potential employer.

“Um…yeah, I was,” I say, scrambling for words. “I love Montana. It’s gorgeous every season. Cool in the springs. Mild in the summers.”

“Sounds like a pretty wholesome place,” she remarks.