L.A. Woman (13 page)

Taylor sighed, glancing at Sarah’s face. “You really had a bad day, huh?”

Sarah nodded, as they walked over to the bar and promptly took up residence.

“What happened?”

“Where do I begin?” So Sarah began with the phone call from Temps Fugit. Then the
other
phone call.

“Ooh, that’s a bad one,” Pink commiserated, taking a shot of tequila and then continuing to talk like she’d just sipped water. “I can’t tell you how many times things have gone shitty in my life and then suddenly, the phone is in your hand and you’re asking information for a listing.”

“I meant to yell at him, I swear to God, I meant to rip him
a new ass,” Sarah said. She was feeling the effects of her second shot like a slow burst of Novocaine. It was a preferable sensation. “And then he apologized…”

“Bastard!” Martika slurred.

“And then he asked me out to lunch…”

“Here we go,” Taylor said. Martika leaned against him, and he patted her shoulder.

“And then he wanted to show me his house…” Sarah rubbed her face with her hands, doubtlessly smearing makeup but at this point not really caring.

“And you did the deed.”

“And then found out that he was already
living
with someone. Living with someone! Named Jessica!”

She felt a tap on her shoulder, and she spun.
“Jessica!”
she yelled.

“Actually, it’s Kit.” Kit’s face was, as usual, unperturbed. “But you were so close.”

“Go way. I hate men.”

Taylor glanced at her. “Ahem.”

“Other than Taylor, I hate men.”

Pink shot her a quick, appraising look, then shook her head, as if deciding not to even try. Sarah didn’t know if she should feel relieved or insulted. She chose relieved.

“Hmm. I guess you wouldn’t be interested in dancing, then.”

Sarah glared at him.

“And a blowjob would be out of the question.”

Sarah stared. Then, traitorously, a bubble of laughter emerged. She tried to clamp down on it, but it came out in a sputtering wave anyway. Pretty soon all of them were laughing.

“So that’s the whole sordid tale,” Sarah concluded with a wave.

“Well, you listen to me,” Martika said, and she looked directly into Sarah’s eyes like she was a hypnotist. “You’ve had enough of that bullshit, okay? You’re only…how the fuck old
are
you, anyway?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Right! You’re just twenty-five. And you’re in Los Angeles. You don’t need to have all the answers. You don’t need a man. You don’t need a career path or a Palm Pilot or some fucking heathered oatmeal sweaters from Abercrombie and Fitch as you wait for your husband to give you fifteen precious minutes of his time to start two-point-five kids!”

“Diatribe, Martika,” Taylor warned. Kit grinned.

Martika waved a hand. “Oh, you know what I mean. All I’m saying is, you’re in a hell of a fun city, and if you play it my way, you can keep on having fun. Not worrying about what you’re
supposed
to be doing. Just doing whatever you want.”

“It sounds great,” Sarah said, “but there’s always a catch.”

Martika shrugged. “Yeah. You have to not care what other people think about you…and you’ve got to make your own decisions.” Even drunk, she shot Sarah the look of practiced, mischievous disdain. “Think you can do that?”

Sarah thought about it.

No more career paths and working late nights, paying her dues. No more waiting by the phone for a man’s call that would inevitably be disappointing.
No more.

“I’m willing to try,” she said solemnly.

“Then come on,” Martika said, dragging at her with both hands. “There’s a whole lot of ass shaking to do before you’re through
here
tonight!”

A couple of hours and many drinks later, Sarah was feeling no pain. This was better. Her ears were faintly ringing and had muffled the music to a nice, bouncy white noise, probably out of self-defense. Taylor was deliberately staying out, even though he had an early meeting, because he wanted to make her feel better. Well, she amended, because Martika told him he
had
to make her feel better, but nevertheless he didn’t really have to stay. And Martika was continually telling her that she loved her and that everything would be all right. Now that she thought of it, she herself had been randomly telling people that she loved them since, oh, about her fourth shot.

She was pretty sure it was her fourth shot. It seemed so long ago.

“We’re going home,” Sarah finally said, as the club started to wind down.

“Let me give you a lift,” Kit said.

“Gallantry!” Martika pronounced, lurching on to him.

Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “Did you drink?”

He shrugged. “Two beers. I don’t like drinking when I go out to a club. Too expensive.”

Taylor laughed. “Tightwad!”

“Come on, let’s go.”

Since Martika had come with Taylor, she fell asleep in the back, sprawled indecorously. Sarah sat up front of the beat-up old Camaro, with Kit. The engine roared.

“Thanks for giving us a ride home,” Sarah said dreamily, studying his face. It was like looking through frosted glass.

“No problem,” he said, glancing at her. “You’re pretty wasted, huh?”

She shrugged. “Let’s just say there’s been a lot of waste.”

“Do me a favor?”

She tried to focus on him, but the effort was too much. She closed her eyes. “Sure.”

“Take Martika with a grain of salt.”

“Huh?”

“She’s fantastic—she’ll tell you so herself,” he said, with his usual sardonic humor. “But think about what
you
want before you go in with any of her harebrained schemes, okay?”

“What are you saying?” Sarah’s tongue was thick in her mouth—the words came out slow and stumbled over each other.

He sighed, pulling over to the curb in front of their building. “I’m saying, you don’t have to be any particular
way,
to be okay. Understand?”

“No.” Sarah smiled at him. “Thanks for the ride.”

He smiled, then shocked her by lifting her netting shirt up.

“Hey,” she protested slowly, but before she could put her
arms up, he’d tucked something into her bra and let the netting top drop.

“I understand you’re looking for a job,” he said. “He’s a friend of mine, looking for a personal assistant. You might like him.” His grin was quick. “I’ll call you in the morning to remind you. I get the feeling you’re not going to remember this at all.”

I’m getting sick of interviewing.

Sarah scanned the streets. It was weird enough she was going to be working out of this guy’s house, she thought, but the houses themselves—she’d never really had reason to make it into Bel Air, the richest area of Los Angeles. It made Beverly Hills look like a relative slum, from a housing standpoint. She felt sure a lot of the residents shopped in Beverly Hills. Or maybe they sent their maids out to shop for them.

Or their personal assistants.

She sighed again.

The houses she was looking at weren’t really houses—they were mansions. One unlikely looking place had statues of Greek gods and goddesses, naked, flanking a long curving driveway. Others looked like they were imported from some lonely moor in Britain, sent stone by moss-covered stone. She finally got to the address: a large brick wall covered here and there with ivy tipped her off. She parked by the imposing iron gate and pushed the intercom button.

“Yes?”

“Sarah Walker to see Richard Peerson.”

The voice that replied sounded haughty, and there was a slight accent Sarah couldn’t recognize. “And this would be regarding?”

She fought the urge to laugh. “I’m here to interview with him. For the assistant job.”

There was a pause, then a reluctant “drive on up to the house” as the gate slid slowly open. She did as directed, seeing a brick mansion that looked…well, palatial. She stopped by a
Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce that was parked at the edge of the driveway. She wasn’t sure where the garage was. Somewhere else on the compound, she supposed.

Taking a deep breath and straightening her interview suit, she knocked on the door.

A minuscule Filipino woman answered the door. Scrutinizing her with squinted eyes, she nodded. “All right.”

Sarah didn’t know what test she passed, but was glad the woman didn’t shut the door on her. She got the feeling that was definitely an option. “I’m Sarah Walker,” she said, hoping to befriend this woman. “What’s your…”

“You go up to the top of the stairs,” the woman said, obviously not interested in exchanging pleasantries. “His office is third door on the right.” With that, she turned and headed to the back of the house. To the…kitchen? To her room? Sarah watched her disappear down a hallway. Okay, this was just getting creepier by the minute.

She slowly walked up the curving staircase, her hand trailing on the silky wood banister. It’s just a job. It would probably beat temping. And it certainly beat food service.

She knocked on the third door.

“Yes?”

She opened it, and gasped.

It was one of those old-fashioned libraries you always saw rich people owning in the movies or TV—a Batman-styled library, with books from floor to ceiling on every wall except one, which was dominated by a huge window. There was a large slab of desk in front of the window. At least, she assumed that was a desk. It was covered, every single square inch of it, with piles of papers. No
…drifts
of papers. Folders of every color peeked out through various pages. The chaos of it had taken over the desk, obviously, and—she took a quick peek around—it was making colonies on various chairs and a good portion of the floor.

“Hello there.”

She turned her eyes toward the man sitting behind the desk.

“I’m Richard. Huh. Guess you knew that though, right? Ha ha.”

Her eyes widened and a grin escaped. Yes, she could see this man being the creator of this mess. In fact, it made the mess seem more approachable.

He was in his fifties, possibly a very well-preserved sixty. He had a round face, that would have been jowly if it weren’t for a distinguished silver beard that was slightly darker than his mane of silver hair that just brushed the back of his collar. He had blue-gray eyes that twinkled, and a perpetual grin. He was wearing an awful gray-and-burgundy running suit with an abundance of zippers, and he wore a I’ve-been-bad smile as he gestured to his desk and shrugged. “Oh, well, I’m sure I’ll find that article eventually,” he said on a sigh. “Let’s clear you off a seat, shall we?” He wandered around the desk, and she saw that he wasn’t that tall…. Maybe five-eight, with a chubby tummy that gave him a sort of Santa look. She bit her lip, fending off a giggle as he took a pile of papers off of a chair, glanced around for another place to put them, shrugged and dumped them on the floor near his desk. He trotted back to his “interviewing” spot while she sat in the chair he offered.

“So!” he said, with an
oof
as he sat down. “You’re here for…”

She waited for him to finish the sentence, then realized that he was doing the same—waiting for her.

“An interview for the position of your assistant?” she said tentatively.

“Really?” He looked delighted. “Great! When can you start?”

She blinked. “Just like that?”

“Oh. Right. Can I, um, look at your résumé?”

She dutifully produced the sheet from her portfolio. He made a big show of looking it over. “What have you been doing lately? This last job ended a few months ago.”

“I’ve been temping,” she said.

“Why?”

She should have just taken the job, she thought with a wince. “I’ve been…this is going to sound lame,” she prefaced, “but I’ve been trying to figure out what I want to do.”

“And so you’re trying out being an assistant?” He wasn’t snotty, just genuinely puzzled.

She sighed. “No. I’m just trying to get a job where I can focus but I don’t have to bring work home,” she explained. “Would I have to bring work home here? Or work late?”

“Good heavens, no!” He looked appalled at the suggestion. “In fact, my old assistant, Ms. Honeywell, wanted to try to bring work home. She was…well, she was almost compulsively organized.”

Sarah frowned. “I’d like to think that I’m pretty organized—not compulsive, I don’t think I’m really that compulsive about anything.”

“Oh, I’d hope not!” he said. He was getting more agitated. “I don’t think I’m getting this across quite well. It…well, it
bothered
me.”

“What did?”

“I’d go in, and she’d practically
pounce
on me with my schedule for the day. She had all these calendars and things
everywhere.
” He sounded like a man who had been hunted down, Sarah thought with amusement. “You’d go in and there would be these yards of color-coded files.”

“Sounds horrific,” Sarah murmured.

“Oh, it was!” He shook himself, like a startled dog, shuddering. “Good grief. I had to type up a memo to get her to leave. I mean, firing her face-to-face was ghastly, and it didn’t quite work anyway. Said she wanted something official.” He looked at her, pleading. “Tell me. Do I strike you as an official sort of person?”

“Not remotely,” Sarah said, before she could think the better of it.

He smiled. “Precisely!” He then looked at her warily. “So. What did you have in mind for this job?”

“Honestly?” This was
definitely
the weirdest job interview
she’d ever been on. “I’ll do a good job for you, but I have to say—I have no idea what I want to do with my future, I don’t want to become the world’s best secretary. I’ll just do what you ask, and go home on time, and we’ll figure the rest out as we go.”

He smiled brightly, then reached over his desk. “You’ve got the job.”

“Great,” she said, shaking his hand in return. “Um…not to be too forward, but would it be all right if we talked salary?”

J
udith was waiting for Sarah at Harry’s Pub in Century City. She noticed she was chipping off nail polish, a nervous habit that was really beginning to up her manicure bill. She stopped, sipping her water instead.

She’d been trying to set up regular meetings—sort of “friend dates”—with Sarah, especially now that she’d broken up with Benjamin, a real source of stability in her life. She was still peeved about Sarah walking out of Salamanca, granted, but everybody knew Becky was no picnic, so it didn’t reflect badly on her, Judith, that much. Besides, since she’d gotten married, she had very few friends, real, female friends, to speak with. She worked too hard, or spent the rest of her time with David.

She chipped at the cracking finish of her thumbnail.
Or on the Internet,
she corrected internally. She’d been spending quite a little bit of time there, lately.

She realized what she was doing, and left her nail polish alone. At any rate, she was going to talk to Sarah.

If the subject of Roger just happened to come up…

Stop it, Judith.
There wasn’t really anything to talk about there, anyway. She was there to give moral support to a friend—and if she happened to nudge her toward some career counseling, well, that was just the concern of a friend.

“Hey there.”

Judith looked up. She still wasn’t used to Sarah’s “new look.” The frosted blond waves, the new clothes. She sighed, getting up and giving Sarah a hug. “You look great. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Sarah said, sitting down and motioning to the waiter for a glass of water of her own. “But I’ve got a new job. That’s something.”

“That’s good. Doing what?”

“You’re looking at the personal assistant to Richard Peerson, author extraordinaire.”

“An assistant…” Judith said, feeling worried. “This is just temporary, right?” Then she paused. “Wait a minute. Richard Peerson? The man who wrote
Being and Everythingness?
”

“Probably?”

“He’s a multimillionaire bestseller,” Judith explained.

Sarah shrugged. “Okay.”

That was so like her. She’s working for a millionaire, and all she can think of is she’s a secretary.

Judith looked askance. “So. You’re going to be an assistant.” She decided not to pursue that line of questioning. “So. Have you spoken with Benjamin lately?” She put a hopeful tone in her voice. “I’m sure he misses you.”

Judith watched as Sarah’s face grew taut. “Oh, I’m sure he does.”

“So you haven’t talked with him?”

“Actually,” Sarah said, sipping at her now-delivered drink, “I’ve slept with him.”

Judith blinked at that, then smiled. “You’re back together? Wonderful!”

“I didn’t say we were back together.”

Judith thought about it. “Oh. Well, they always say that rebound sex with your ex is better. And it’s new yet…at least you’ve got the lines of communication open.”

“Actually, the reason that we aren’t back together is because I discovered he already had a live-in girlfriend, just after I slept with him.”

Now Judith was aghast. “He did? He does?”

“I’m not getting back together with him.” On this point Sarah sounded firm. “Ever. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s someone who would…would cheat on somebody else!”

Judith bit her lip, thinking back on her correspondence with Roger and the slightly risqué turn it had taken. “Well, it wasn’t really cheating,” she said, thoughtfully. “I mean, you guys weren’t still together or anything, so it was more like he was seeing other people, and then decided to see you again.”

“He wasn’t cheating on me, he was cheating on what’s-her-name. Jessica,” Sarah said, her tone pained. “It doesn’t matter who he cheated on, actually. He’s just a big liar.”

“Maybe he’s confused…”

“Why are you defending him?” Sarah finally snapped.

Why
was
she defending him? “Sarah, I know you’re hurting over this, but I can’t help but think you brought some of this on yourself.”

“What?”

“Well, that came out wrong. I mean, if you’d just been a little more…well, if you’d been able to deal more with your work down here, instead of quitting in such a flamboyant manner—if you’d have been more understanding of his career needs…”

“If I’d have been more understanding of his career needs, I’d have been
Benjamin’s
secretary,” Sarah spat out. “Judith, I can’t believe you’re taking his side!”

“I’m not taking sides, I’m being practical.” Judith’s voice could have frozen vodka. “You’re the one who’s being unreasonable. Sometimes, I feel like I don’t know you anymore!”

“Maybe you don’t.” Sarah stood up. “Maybe you never did, Judith.”

Judith stood up, too. “Sarah, please don’t leave like this.” She paused, looking around, feeling the stares of the other diners like little physical pokes. “You’re causing a scene,” she added, in a hissed whisper.

Sarah’s eyes widened at that one. “You know what your problem is, Judith?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll keep me informed.”

“You’ve never caused a scene. With anybody.”

“It’s not something I’ve aspired to, no.” Judith sat back down. If Sarah was going to insist on acting like an ass, she wasn’t going to participate as well. “Thanks for your input.”

“I’m sorry your life is so sterile, Judith. If you can find a way over the wall you’ve put around your life, maybe I’ll see you around.”

Judith didn’t even grace that with a reply, just watched as Sarah’s frosted blond hair bobbed through the crowd and disappeared out onto the street.

“Why would I
want
to pick somebody up? Or get picked up?”

Martika, wearing a pair of low-slung, hip-hugging bell bottoms that showed off her new navel ring and a skimpy iridescent halter top that showed off her generous (but not new) boobs, eyed Sarah with an air of shock. “Why wouldn’t you?”

Sarah looked around. There was one guy whose appearance made him seem straight out of
America’s Most Wanted.
He eyed them as if they were appetizers. “Well, that man over there, for one.”

Martika shook her head. “Contrary to popular belief, there
is
a certain discrimination here. You’re not going for quantity.” At Sarah’s surprised glance, she huffed impatiently. “Well, okay, you are going for quantity…but only because there’s an expiration date on these things. Saying you’re going through men like Kleenex is a lot more realistic than saying you’re going to keep one Kleenex and treasure it for life.”

Sarah grinned, then gasped.

“What?”

Sarah checked as surreptitiously as she could. “Sorry. Ever since that
Will and Grace
episode, I’ve been paranoid that this water bra thingy you had me buy might spring a leak.”

Martika laughed. “Well, it gives you a chest. And men like chests. A lot. Don’t let the models fool you…especially not in this city.” She jiggled her rather ample figure. “Men don’t want to fuck a Popsicle stick, believe me.”

Sarah glanced down. “That might pose a problem, when they realize this is mostly Frederick’s of Hollywood and water.”

Martika waved a hand impatiently. “You’re jumping ahead. You’re not sleeping with anybody
—yet—
” and that last word was ominous “—but you’re going to have to learn the basics. Jesus. Didn’t anybody sleep around in Fairfax?”

“Fairfield.” Sarah shrugged. “Sure. They just didn’t have it down to a science.”

“If you’re going to do something, do it right.” Martika shrugged, obviously unoffended. She sat next to Sarah at the high table of the bar. Sarah forgot the name of it. It was a step up from 5140, definitely more of the chichi persuasion…but not that respectable. She doubted Martika would have stood for it. “All right. Let’s pick a target.”

Sarah glanced around the way Martika did, feeling like a buyer at an auction. Considering
she
usually felt like one being scrutinized for possible purchase, it was a nice switch. “How about that one?” she said, nodding at a clean-cut young man wearing a T-shirt and a pair of long shorts.

“Don’t make eye contact!”

Sarah quickly glanced away as the man was smiling at her. “Why not?”

“He’s got Westwood written all over him. College boy. Probably just left a sports bar and can’t find his way back.” Martika shook her head. “They’re more trouble than they’re worth, believe me. And they’re usually
lousy
in bed.”

“Oh. Right.” Like she’d know the difference. She wasn’t quite ready to have that conversation with Martika, though. “Okay, so what am I looking for?”

Martika smiled. “You want someone who screams ‘sex’ from every pore of his body and isn’t overly aware of it. You want someone who can make you feel like the center of the uni
verse—and it’ll be
all about you.
You want someone who isn’t stuck on himself, who can move his body, and who makes you feel like wrapping your legs around him just by smiling at you.
That’s
what you’re looking for.”

“And you keep finding that?” Sarah asked, incredulous.

“Hell, no!” Martika shook her head at Sarah’s naïveté. “But that’s what you’re looking for. What you hopefully wind up with is a guy who isn’t stuck on himself, who isn’t a one-minute egg, and who knows what to do with his hands. Or even better—” Martika grinned maliciously “—his tongue.”

Sarah couldn’t help it. She blushed.

“Man. You kill me,” Martika said, noticing Sarah’s pink cheeks. “Okay. There’s a likely candidate.”

The man was a dark-skinned Latino with eyes that reminded her of a Renaissance portrait. He glanced over at them once, bored, then looked away.

“Are you sure he’s on our team?” Sarah asked, noticing that his casual clothes were definitely in the expensive range—black slacks, a tight black T-shirt.

Martika snorted. “Trust me. I attract more gay men than the Pride Parade, ask Taylor. If I went into a clothing store in East Nutless, Alaska, the only gay guy in a fifty-mile radius would come up to me and ask me what I thought of the shirt he was planning to buy, I swear to…there!”

Sarah looked around, startled. “There, what?”

“Our target.” Martika’s voice was smugly satisfied. “He did the relook.”

“What?”

“He looks bored, but he glances back. He definitely notices us, and now he’s sizing up his chances. He’d like it better if one of us was alone…less likelihood of him getting laughed at. But there’s just two of us, so he might chance it.”

Sarah hadn’t really noticed any difference and wondered if maybe Martika were making it up. Then she saw it…the guy reached for his drink, laughing at whatever the guy next to him was saying—and he
looked directly at her,
his dark eyes almost
swallowing her up in their intensity. He sent her the smallest smile, like he knew something she didn’t.

Her heart pounded a little. This was like…like hunting or something. It was fun.

“Okay, now we’ve got a target. What next?” Sarah asked eagerly.

“Well, we let him come to us,” Martika said. “If you weren’t here, I’d probably be a little more blatant, or maybe go to him—guys do like that, and I hate waiting for shit, personally. But if we both go up…no. That’s a little too high school for my tastes.”

“Hmm. That doesn’t sound too bad,” Sarah said thoughtfully.

Martika quirked an eyebrow at her. “You want to give it a try?”

Sarah glanced at her, the fun leaving in a quick panic. “You mean now?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“I’m not ready.”

“You just said it wouldn’t be so bad,” Martika wheedled, and her eyes were glinting. “Just make sure your hips shake a little, act like you’re walking down a runway, make sure they notice you. Then ask him if you can buy him a drink. It should be pretty easy from there.” She nudged Sarah. “Go on.”

“I don’t know…”

Martika sighed impatiently. “You don’t have to take him
home,
for God’s sake. You just have to buy the guy a drink.”

“Um…”

“All right, just
say hello to the man,
all right?”

This did feel suspiciously like high school, Sarah decided as she started what seemed to be an interminable walk to the bar. He was sending more glances her way, she noted at least. She felt self-conscious about her walk. Until Martika had made a big deal about it, she hadn’t thought about it, but now that she was thinking about it, every movement felt awkward and
wooden. She successfully made it to the bar without tripping, at least, she thought. She’d work on sexy later.

Instead of walking straight up to him, she opted to be a little more subtle. She wasn’t Martika—but he
had
made eye contact with her. She walked behind him, leaning on the bar.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.

Sarah turned, surprised. “Hmm. What do you recommend?” she asked, trying to maybe make her voice sound more like Lana Turner and less like Blossom from the Powerpuff Girls.

The bartender looked at her.
It’s a bar,
his face said.
I recommend you order something or stop taking up space.

She looked over the sign. “I’ll…have a Blue Neon Fogcutter,” she said ambitiously.

The bartender smirked at her. “Just one straw?”

“Um…okay.”

He went to work, and she turned, wondering how she should start the conversation. He was talking to his friend about sports. About how badly the Dodgers sucked this year.
“Boy they sure do!”
No. She didn’t know anything about sports, and it might be a New York sort of situation—New Yorkers could make fun of their city, but when a stranger did, it was a humongous insult. So what else could she comment on.
I like your clothes? What are you drinking? Don’t I know you from somewhere?

She sighed, impatient with herself.
Hey, mister. Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?

This was turning into a disaster.

“Here you go. One Blue Neon Fogcutter. That’ll be twelve dollars.”

“Twelve…” She looked at the concoction he’d placed on the bar. It was in a martini glass—only the glass was the size of a small fishbowl. It was a shocking shade of blue and seemed to glow on its own in the black light over the bar. “Oh, my.”