Fortune Is a Woman (18 page)

Lydia had tried to reach her, too, but there was no answer at the apartment, just Helaine’s voice on the message unit. She had debated leaving a message, but dawdled too long at it. The machine hung up on her both times.

“Beaumont, relax. Be presidential.”

The conference call Paula was trying to coordinate was nothing Lydia looked forward to and she wasn’t even sure of what Paula hoped to accomplish by it. She wondered if it was typical for Venus to be so hard to find. She had never had to look for her before.

“If you know where this woman is, you owe me to say so.”

Lydia hesitated. She knew where Venus was supposed to be. “Is she attending her meetings?”

“Yes, it seems so or I would have heard otherwise. But the hotel–”

“Well then, technically she’s where she’s supposed to be. Right?”

“Ms. Treadwell?”

“Go ahead, John. You have her?”

“No, I–she doesn’t answer. It’s not the same time there, you know? Maybe she’s–”

“I don’t care what time it is! Give me her cell number. I’ll call her myself.”

He gave her the number.

“See you tomorrow morning, John. Hang up, please.”

Lydia felt sorry for John. “Why don’t you call him by his last name, Paula?”

Paula pounded out Venus’ phone number and it rang in distorted tones over the speaker. “Because I don’t remember his last name. Stay focused here.”

Five rings. Six rings. Seven rings. Eight–
“Allô, already! Qui est là? Who, who?”

A pretty French voice on Venus Angelo’s private phone.

Lydia went pale. Paula was too pissed to notice. Someone on the other end had the wherewithal to disconnect.

_____

“Claudine, that was not cool.”

“Cool? What is this word?”

Venus clutched her cell phone. That was probably Paula. “Très mal,” she muttered, “not cool.” Or worse than Paula, it was Lydia.

“Put it down,” Claudine demanded. “Or you go. Tu comprends? You go?”

The phone rang again. It couldn’t be Lydia. Why would she call?

“Non!” Claudine was completely exasperated by now. It had been tweeting like this for nearly an hour. “You tell them for me you cannot fuck and talk! You tell them this!”

Foock, cannot foock.
Rrriinng.
Venus suppressed a laugh. Love is supposed to be a rhapsody, not a scherzo. Right?
Rrriinng
. Was this Paula or was it Lydia? She weighed the questions and the implications while protecting the phone from the wrath of Claudine.

“Fermez la bouche, Claudine…s’il vous plaît…I said please, Claudine…Yes?…Claudine, please…merci…thank you…Yes, Angelo here.”

“Treadwell here. I’m going to hazard a guess that that’s not your secretary.”

Treadwell, thank god. “No, I–”

“Don’t bother. Where are you?”

Venus sighed and covered the mouthpiece. “Where am I, Claudine?”

“Where are you? Aiy!” She left the bed in disgust. “Marais.”

“Marais, Paula.”

“Is that still Paris or should I get a world map?”

“No, it’s…it’s still Paris. Are you, um, is this priv–”

“NO. And you are an absolute fool, Angelo, if I understand things right. Now get your ass back here.”

FOOCK. She put her head in her hand. “When, Paula? Now? I’ve got fourth-round negotiations tomorrow.” She lowered her voice. “Is the joint presi–”

“Finish them up. How many days–say two? Finish them up in two days. We’ve got a situation here that requires your complete and rapt attention.”

What kind of a situation could that be? “Can I talk to her?”

“Does it concern the corporation?”

“It’s…well…no.”

“Then I don’t think so, but I’ll check. Ms. Beaumont, do you have anything to say to the Assistant Vice President?”

Venus waited in anguish.

“No, it doesn’t appear that Ms. Beaumont has anything whatsoever to contribute to our conversation. We’ll be expecting you in two days, then. E-mail your flight schedule so we can have a car waiting for you.”

Venus listened to the hum of the dial tone and watched Claudine from the corner of her eye lighting the gas stove, nude in front of her open windows. This was not a bashful woman. She threw on a shirt and joined her in her small kitchen.

“Claudine–”

“Non. You will be saying to me now, oh, Claudine, I must go, my work, I am so very important. And you know what I say? Allez-vous en–go! You don’t know how to live, Madame Angelo. Je m’en lave les mains. Au revoir.”

Venus laughed despite her predicament. “And you weren’t going to say foock me?”

“Oui, I was. I was going to say fuck you, but why should I say it when you know it is the thing already I am thinking? Have some chocolat.”

Venus took the cup from her.

“I will find an Américain on vacation,” Claudine stated. “Some woman who doesn’t love work too much.”

“Okay, Claudine. You do that.” The creature was selfish and conceited, made for just one thing. She liked her fiery eyes and the insolence of her, her immodesty. She was the exact opposite of Lydia. Except for the hair and her height. That mouth. Those blue eyes and–

“Or how about I find that woman you whisper to? She is also on vacation, your woman?”

“Who?”

“You know, when you fuck me. ‘
Lydia, Lydia.’
Does Lydia vacation, Venus? I go find her then, hmmm?”

“Lyd–what do you mean?”

“Who, who. What, what. Look at you embarrassed. Don’t be, Venus. I don’t mind. I get what belongs to–hah, you look away. You are shy Américaine!”

The chocolate was too sweet, as sweet as wedding cake. Sickly sweet and hot on the back of her throat. She set it on the counter and left the kitchen.

“Venus…?”

“Claudine.”

“Oh, Venus…it’s nothing,” Claudine assured, tugging at Venus’ shirtsleeve. “Really, Venus. It’s nothing at all.”

It’s nothing at all to Claudine, Venus could see, but then she would most likely be the exception. Exceptional Claudine. What would Venus have done if Lydia had called her Helaine? That would be no small thing to exceptional Venus Angelo, being called anything but Venus or love or baby or even Angelo. “Okay,” she was glad to agree. “It’s nothing, Claudine. I understand.”

“You, stay?”

Actually Venus was thinking of leaving. Going for a long walk or a fast run.

“You stay.”

But she was compelled to stay, too, and she would be leaving soon enough, she reasoned, returning to a city a lot less forgiving than Paris, to a land of women very different from Claudine.

“For a little while.”

“Bien...merci.”

That cell phone was a nuisance, Venus realized. She turned it off and put it in her briefcase for safekeeping.

“Young Venus…so young.” Claudine pulled at her shirt again. “I am sorry about the telephone.”

“It’s nothing, Claudine. It won’t bother us now.”

“Tell me of Lydia. I feel her. I see her, too. So many times.”

On the other hand, Venus suddenly thought, maybe she should go. There was the apartment on Rue Saint Séverin, a small affair, but that could be a good thing. It wouldn’t take too long to pack.

On the chair in the corner of the living room, Claudine’s cat had fashioned a bed for itself out of the clothes that Venus had accumulated there in the past two weeks. She had not spent anytime to speak of at Rue Saint Séverin since first meeting Claudine. She had felt more comfortable here for some reason.

“Tell me about this, Venus.”

Still maybe it was wise to go there now, to collect herself in peace. The night had become so heavy.

The cat lifted its head and gave her a haughty look, full of feline insight and disdain. Venus never cared for cats and this one was the worse one yet. A spoiled little thing, chubby, arrogant, and petulant. It would, she realized, take hours to get all that hair out of her suits.

“Come,” Claudine beckoned, pulling at her sleeve.

The cat began a cough that threatened to produce a hairball, if necessary. She would leave in a little while, she decided, feeling yet another tug on her shirt and seeing the look in Claudine’s eyes.

“Come, Venus.”

Venus surrendered, captured by a cat, a woman’s whispers, her shirttails.

_____

“Beaumont, you’re white as a ghost. You want to talk about this?”

It was more than a pinprick. “No thanks, Paula.” It was a knife stab. “I’m going home.” Of jealousy.

_____

They were on the bed again. Claudine lay across it. “She does things to you that you cannot do to yourself, non?”

Venus winced at the bluntness of it, the crude and awkward English Claudine often used to inevitably express things so well. It was strangely endearing. She wished she had met her first.

“I am wrong about it?”

“No, Claudine.”

“Oui,” Claudine announced triumphantly. “C’est vrai. I know about such things.”

Venus ran her hand along the smooth white thigh. She was contemplating making love to her again. She was thinking also about other things.

“Tell me, Venus. Your Lydia? She is beautiful also?”

“Claudine, she is not my–okay, yes.”

“Yes. I knew yes. Here.” She removed the shirt Venus still wore. Venus shivered in the chill air.

“Quel âge?”

She gave her a critical look. “Quel âge as-tu?”

“Trente-sept.”

“She’s forty-two, but she doesn’t look it. You don’t look thirty-seven.”

Claudine wrinkled her nose and laughed. “You Américains. What does thirty-seven look like?”

Venus shrugged. It looks like–

“Lydia…this Lydia. She is not your woman, yes?”

Lydia, Lydia. “Yes, she is not.”

“Ah…so beautiful Lydia is married and Venus wants to sleep with her. I think to have her. Oui? This woman with…what…blue eyes…brune hair? This woman with legs like mine? Yes, I know already this, too–feel me here.”

She felt her there.

“We feel the same, Venus. Bon chance pour moi, d’accord?”

“Clau–”

“Feel these too. Même chose. Just like mine, I know it.”

Venus pinned her to the bed and debated her next move. She should never have said yes to Dr. Kristenson. She should never have made love to her wife. She was a girl competing with a woman. Non? The woman beneath her embraced her again, like she had for weeks.

“Almost the same, aren’t we, Venus? I know.”

“You are a tart–you know that, too?”

“Mais oui!”

“You’ve heard that before, I see. At least once.”

“Oui, oui, Venus. More than once. And tramp and whore and demimonde. It’s good, our difference? The real difference between Lydia and Claudine? Good for you. Good for me.”

Her eyes blazed with daring. Venus reached past her for the shirt.

“Non! You make love to her,
maintenant
. You fuck her now, Venus, because she wants you to. Parce qu’elle est dans le besoin…feel her there…
there
, oui.”

She pressed Venus’ hand to her sex. Venus dropped the shirt.

“She is there, votre dame. You feel her, non? I know you feel it. Nothing is wrong,”

“Claudine–”

“She needs it now…elle est dans le besoin, Venus…maintenant…you see her?…ah, you do…feel her here…ici…ici…”

She could feel her. Perfectly.

“See her here, Venus. Her eyes? Elle est ici…ici…
je suis ici
…”

She saw her eyes. She could smell her perfume mingling with Claudine’s in the bedroom, smell it in her hair. Her hair was hanging in her eyes like it had the night at the hotel on her birthday, after she had finished off two martinis for liquid courage. She brushed it out of her face. She was near her mouth again. No gin on her breath tonight. No wife in the shadows. The same mouth, the same shade of red, the same soft and wet of them, the lips parting the same as they had. Même chose.

“The same, Venus.”

The tongue was teasing just the same as she would. Venus bent over her. What do her eyes say tonight? She says yes. Or does she say no, never? No she says maybe, maybe, maybe. Always maybe.

“Elle est dans le besoin.”

Her soft, wet mouth. It was too soft, too tender not to touch again.

“Venus.”

She had them to herself now. Two teasing lips. Too teasing. Venus parted them with her fingers and moistened them with her tongue. She had been so tender to these lips, lips that couldn’t bear to kiss her or speak her name, lips that might never speak to her again. She did not want to return to that, to angry Lydia. She could feel her fuming across the sea, plotting exile. For what reason no one could say. For a wrong that the woman could never legitimately claim.

Venus closed her eyes. She had been so sweet to her, so gentle in her mouth. She lay her cheek against it. It was just as soft as she remembered. She had the desire to crush it now, and an awful sense that she was, for the very first time in her life, floundering in the universe. A hand reached out for hers. She clasped it. There was no ring on it tonight, nothing cold.

“Maintenant, Venus. Now…now.”

She put her hand over her mouth and entered her.

_____

“Trouble at work, darling?”

“It’s…I can’t discuss it, Helaine…rather complex.”

“Indeed? Is there anything I can do to make things rather less complex?”

“You’re doing it.”

_____

“Ah, Venus. Aimer…à demain. It is oh-kay, non?”

(Ah, Venus. To love until tomorrow. It is okay, no?)

Boldly

You know you’ve screwed up your romance when all the mystery and uncertainty you’ve come to depend upon suddenly evaporates from it and you’re left instead with a pile of absolutes you never wanted to know about. Like here’s the answer to: I wonder when she’ll call me again? NEVER. And here’s the answer to: I wonder if I should call her? NO.

But look on the upside. You’ve finally got the answers to life’s most frequently asked and certainly most plaguing questions. You and 39,538,316 other human beings on this planet.

It’s funny, though. It’s not the kind of knowledge people tend to share.