Fortune Is a Woman (22 page)

“Oh, I can drive it all right,” she said, climbing over the door and placing herself behind the wheel. “I’m out of here,” she said, starting the vehicle and revving the engine. “Right now!”

The translator was beside himself and the guide, inconsolable, ranted off in the distance while onlookers discussed the scene amongst themselves and shook their heads reproachfully.

“Is forbidden, miss…the women…they do not drive. Cannot.”

“Really? Is that right?” And they cannot vote either she had learned only yesterday.

He nodded profusely, relieved that she seemed to be able to comprehend this. “Yes, sorry. Do not.”

“So what you got here isn’t so much a country as a country club, right?”

“Yes, yes,” the man answered emphatically, not understanding the distinction and deceived by her smile.

“Just one big happy fraternity,” she added.

His eyes narrowed. “Fra-tern-ity?” He wasn’t sure of that word. He reached into his robe for a pocket dictionary.

“And it would be a good idea to have you all neutered. Yes, yes?”

“Oh, yes, miss. Yes, yes,” he mistakenly agreed. “Fra…tern…ity…
f
…
r
…
a
…?”

She searched the glove compartment for a pencil. “Here,” she said, writing “neutered” out for him. “While you’re at it.”

He didn’t know this word either. “Ne-yu-ter-ed?”

“See ya,” Venus said, leaving him to ponder her lines in the sand.

_____

“Principles? Screw your principles, Angelo! You should have kept your mouth shut and asked to be driven back to the hotel. Now it’s a goddamned international incident! And after I just saved your scandalous hide, how could you?”

“Paula, I–”

“And you even put your insults in writing? What’s that, huh? Arrogance? I’d say so. You’re not a tourist on holiday, Angelo. You’re a goddamned ambassador!”

“Paula, she–”

“I’m not through here, Ms. Beaumont. I haven’t even begun.”

_____

She would have to resign or be fired. It was preferred she resign because it would make Soloman-Schmitt look bad otherwise. Like maybe they were chauvinists or something.

_____

“Damn, girl. Ever heard of
In Stone Magazine
?”

“Sebastion, not nude I won’t.”

“Not nude, Venus. We’re thinking hot, though. Seven veils.”

“You’re shitting me?”

“For real, baby. Tasteful yet challenging. Like you.”

_____

“Did you give her my number?”

“I haven’t had a minute to devote to it. My tour and all.”

“Helaine! What’s the woman’s address?”

_____

“Jasmine?…yes, of course it’s fine…no, just surprised…no, call anytime…yes, I really mean it, what did you think of the coat?…you did?…to charity…Jasmine, you gave it to…yes, Mama said…oh, that…ummmm, fired essentially...you are?…well, I appreciate it but…hah…yeah, I kicked ass all right, and ruined myself in the process…well you best believe it, it’s true…I don’t know yet…don’t know that either…is Mama, I mean how are they taking it?...yeah?…that’s good, right?”

_____

“Paula Treadwell line two, Dr. Kristenson.”

“Uh-oh, I’m not up to that, Jenny. Tell her I’m with a client.”

_____

“Greetings from the corporate doghouse, Dr. Kristenson.”

“Venus! I’m so delighted you called. Are you okay?”

“I guess. I’m fired, you know? Cleaning out my office. Can you use an executive director right now?”

“We’d be honored, Ms. Angelo.”

“We?”

“Being everyone. Absolutely everyone.”

_____

“So you come to Marais–d’accord?”

It was a puerile notion so characteristic of Claudine. Venus laughed into the receiver.

Yet there was something refreshing in her logic, the idea that they could just climb into bed and pull the sheets over their heads and in a few weeks everything would be fine.

“So simple, isn’t it?”

“Certainement!”

It was not so simple; Venus had lost her anonymity and reporters were lurking everywhere. Claudine would not be a secret pastime for very much longer if Venus couldn’t shake them off the trail. “Not yet, Claudine. Soon, though.”

“Too bad for your demimonde. Poor Claudine, how she aches for a cruel Américain! Tell me of your woman.”

Talk about Lydia Beaumont and her unpleasant pleasantries, those clipped good mornings, those brusque hellos, those dispassionate goodbyes? “Tu es ma femme,” Venus lied.

“I am? Oh, Venus, je ne suis pas. But you are very sweet to say it. À bientôt.”

_____

They sat by the pool without speaking. Dickie never knew what to say when Paula got like this, he was only happy that it didn’t occur often.

The hum of the pump and the gurgling water was soothing to him and he thought if he lay his head back and feigned to nap that she might follow his example and give herself a break for a few hours, but even with his eyes closed he could still feel her disquiet, still hear the anxious
scritch, scratch, scritch
of her pencil and eraser, the truncated obscenities she intermittently muttered under her breath as she undertook to do violence against yet another of her ridiculously complicated word puzzles.

_____

“Mr. Ackerly, I am prepared to tender my resignation if the board refuses to intervene on her behalf. I want her exonerated.”

“Ly–Ms. Beaumont–you consulted with Paula about this?”

“I did not.”

Whenever Joseph Ackerly was overwhelmed the cowlick on the back of his head raised up. He felt for it now and pressed it down. “I–it’s an international incident.”

“Over a filthy piece of rag. Would you wear it?”

He ducked that one. “But we do a great deal of business with the Saudis. It’s…just their custom.”

“Coercing women to hide their faces is not, among better people, considered just a custom, Mr. Ackerly, and Soloman-Schmitt will lose in the court of public opinion if it fails to stand behind Ms. Angelo’s objection to it.”

“But the case for firing her has already been made. It’s settled.”

“The case is thin–do you want my comb?”

“No, I…thank you, no. Vice President of Overseas Ops has demanded her resignation.”

“Vice President of Overseas Ops is caving into pressure. It’s nothing he wants to do. He only wears that title, you know.”

Chairman Ackerly was having a full blown bad hair day now. He had a vision of every high ranking female executive employed at Soloman-Schmitt handing in her resignation in protest, and then every mid-level employee, every secretary, the ladies in the cafeteria, even the night shift that cleaned the building, all those indignant women, their spouses, their partners, their families, and hundreds and hundreds of angry protesters and ex-shareholders lined up outside his door, the press corps egging them on. He could see Silas Goodman grinning like the devil himself, saying I told you so and winning after all.

“We’ll figure out something,” he said. “What do you propose?”

_____

“We’ll figure out something, but we may have to bail at the last minute, taking into account the growing tensions in that region. It’s a historical conflict and I predict it’s about to blow.”

Too many tensions in the world for scheduling a goodwill tour, Dr. Kristenson could see. No-fly zones over large portions of the Middle East, North Africa, and Southeast Asia. China and Taiwan at fisticuffs.

Most of the plans had been finalized, flights, hotel accommodations, but there remained those infinite little details, those maddening minutiae that can bog a person down and ruin traveling abroad before ever stepping foot outside the door and she would rather be spending her precious time with her wife who was clearly suffering at this point and needed her attention.

She felt lucky to be able to place responsibility on someone else’s shoulders for a change. Carlos Montague, her newly appointed personal secretary, was a competent and knowledgeable man with an impressive resume and a penchant for details. In his late fifties, he might have thought about retiring from private service having been at it for over thirty years, but he loved being involved in people’s lives, especially those people who chose to live full lives, and he knew that full lives frequently required a great deal of organization, which was his specialty, his calling.

“That means Beijing is out?” she asked.

“Only if you recognize Taiwan. It’s, as always, one or the other, not both. Only things are worse than ever with warships in the East China Sea.”

“Warships, Carlos? Does this nonsense ever stop?”

“Hey, look, you dress up a ten-million-man army with nowhere to go, you better think of something for them to do on Friday nights. You got an e-mail today. The Chinese are forcing you to decide.”

“What do you recommend?”

“Neutrality is the best policy, Dr. Kristenson. Unfortunately.”

“Dr. Kristenson? Lydia returning your call.”

“Thanks, Jen. What line?”

“One.”

“Excuse me, Carlos–Lydia, I’m almost finished here.”

“Can you talk?”

“Home. You got my message?”

“Yes. Emergency I hope?”

“Be careful what you wish for, darling. Can you leave work early?”

“Leaving right now.”

_____

It would be a shell game, Venus realized, juggling the numbers around in her head. The penthouse, her parent’s home, Jasmine’s tuition, the credit cards...and the directorship at the foundation was only a temporary position, not to mention that it paid only a fraction of the salary she was presently earning at Soloman-Schmitt.

Would the corporation offer her a decent severance package if she discreetly resigned? Would she have to dip into her retirement fund? When would she have to cash in her other investments. The T-bills, the stocks, the bonds? How much money did she actually have in the bank and how many months could she live off her savings? What did
In Stone Magazine
pay for an exclusive interview?

“Thirty grand and that’s not chump change, Venus.”

Not too bad for a one-hour interview and a cover shot. She was not too keen on the veil motif, however.

“We’ll get you sketches, some artistic control,” Sebastion assured.

“Before I agree.”

“Before you agree.”

_____

“Who is it, Dickie?”

“Who’s calling, please? I see. Just a second, please.” He hit the mute button. “A Joseph Ackerly?”

“Give me that. What’s up, Joe?”

“Paula, sorry to distur–”

“You’re not. Has something happened?”

“Recent developments. Ready?”

“Shoot.”

“Vice President Kendle Overseas has submitted his resignation this afternoon. Early retirement, good severance–why not, I guess he thought.”

“And?”

“And the board has, five to three, approved appointing Ms. Angelo in his place since she has assumed so many of his duties already and could guarantee the shareholders a smooth transition. Cheer you up any?”

“Yes–why’d you do it?”

“Well…it seemed like the right thing to do.”

“Yeah! But really. I want to know.”

_____

“Got any heroes, Angelo?”

“Heroes–is this Paula?”

“It is. Who are your heroes, I asked.”

“I don’t have any. And you?”

“Annie Oakley and Mary Tyler Moore.”

(Never heard of them.) “What’s this about?”

“I’d like to speak to Vice President Angelo, please.”

“Vice Presi–of what?”

“Overseas Operations–where are you?”

“Downtown, skating. What are you talking about? I thought I was fired?”

“Now come on. You were never fired.”

_____

“What is that sound?”

“Oh, god, my cell phone.”

A terrible inconvenience. “Darling, where’d you get that?”

“Paula, for my birthday. Hello?”

“Nice work, Ms. Beaumont.”

“Paula, hi. It worked?”

“Like a charm.”

“Did she accept the promotion?”

“Yes–what are you doing?”

“None of your business. Gotta go.”

By Force

It’s a popular myth these days. That you are in control of your own happiness, master of your own feelings, that no one else can make you unhappy.

“Angelo–get out of my way.”

Venus had woken in an extraordinarily good mood this morning. All that had seemed broken in her world had been surreptitiously fixed. “No, I want to talk to you.” Emboldened by her good fortune, she had decided to grab the tiger by the tail today, waiting until the afternoon meeting was over and there was just the two of them left together in the conference room. “Can’t we talk? I want to talk.” She felt behind her and locked the door, too young, if only by a few minutes, to recognize the folly in this strategy.

“Unlock it. I have absolutely nothing to say to you.”

“Lyd–”

“Let me out of this room, I said! I don’t want to hear it!”

“You don’t want to–fine–that I’m sorry?”

“No–I mean yes.” She felt her lips quivering. “Yes. I don’t care,” she said, her eyes flickering with anger. She made a motion for the door and Venus blocked her.

“Lydia.” Venus uttered this like she had on the night they slept together, as she had all through that night. She saw Lydia redden at the sound of it, clench her jaw.

“You bastard,” Lydia whispered. “How dare you? How fucking dare you?”

“Because I’m…I’m just heartbroken.”

“Good. You deserve that.”

“I do, Lydia? Then why did you help me?”

“Why? Because that’s–that’s business–this is–something completely different.”

“Not business? Pleasure?”

Lydia was burning. She brought her hand to her face and dropped it in exasperation. “I am your president, Ms. Angelo. Open the door.”

“Business and pleasure, Lydia? Why do I deserve to be heartbroken–because you’re married?”