L.A. Woman (17 page)

“Then I want to give him a damned awful high bar to jump over, Barry,” David said. They did the secret-handshake-wink thing that apparently only lawyers understood. She wondered if
maybe they taught it to you after you passed the bar. Maybe included it in an instruction booklet with your test scores.

“Can I get you another drink, dear?”

She looked at Marta. Marta, Barry’s wife of God knows how many years. She was unusual, fancied herself a writer apparently. To the best of her knowledge, the extent of her writing was a series of voluminous letters to friends and families over the Christmas holidays and doing some sort of children’s books for her son, the same said son who was currently “acing through law school.” Their law school, not surprisingly. She had always seen Marta as pressed, polished, rather like one of the other furniture pieces. She’d overheard one of the law students (who had also indulged rather plentifully from the margarita pitcher) call her Marta Stewart. She’d laughed and felt ashamed, both of laughing and of agreeing.

“No, I’m fine.” If it got really bad, Judith supposed she could sneak a sip of margarita if the good son hadn’t gone through it all.

Roger would find this funny.

“So, Judy,” Dean Matthews turned his focus on her, finally and uncomfortably for her. “How is it at that little job of yours?”

To lawyers, it seemed like all other jobs were little jobs. “I’m a production supervisor over at Salamanca advertising…one of the youngest in their history, actually,” Judith said, hoping she hit the tone just right: just this side of bragging, emphasizing being important and accomplished enough to be David’s wife but to never have delusions of outstripping or outshining him. Like that was somehow possible.

She was getting bitter. Better that she not drink, she realized.

“Well! That’s got to be keeping you busy, especially with David working so many late hours. I know him—he was like that in school.”

“Yes, yes.” A Merchant-Ivory sort of grin of understanding—understated, speaking volumes. “I try to do what I can.”

“Of course, you’ll be giving that up when the baby comes,” Marta said.

The matter-of-factness in her tone surprised Judith. “Well, we hadn’t really discussed it. Maybe for the first couple of years…”

The three of them burst into laughter. More surprise, this time more discomfort. “Kids are a full-time endeavor. Believe me, I know.” Marta fluffed her hair, then nodded at Jeffrey, their soon-to-be-blotto son. “Once they’re out of the house, you feel like you’ve suddenly got more air to breathe.” When she noticed that the men had stopped laughing, she smiled, one as practiced and smooth as Judith’s own. “So you’ve got more time to devote to your loving, harried husbands, of course.” That got them laughing again, even though it wasn’t close to funny.

The look in Marta’s eyes wasn’t close to funny, either. More like a clerk at a convenience store, trying to somehow communicate that there was a man with a gun behind the counter.

Help me,
it said.

Get out, while you can.

“I was wondering, Dean Matthews…”

“Barry, please!” He clapped Judith on the shoulder, a little too hard. “After all these years, you can definitely call me Barry.”

“Well, then, Barry, I’ve got a hot project that’s going on at work, and I need to check in,” she said smoothly, linking her arm in his and gently leading him back toward the house. “Not to seem like too much of a workaholic, but could I jump online on your computer for just a quick minute?”

Sarah stood, dressed in a chic little white dress that left little to the imagination. The club was Moomba, which Martika had roundly denounced as “bougy” and a “chichi starfucker rat-trap.” Of course, as Taylor pointed out, Martika had made no such comments when it was the Love Lounge, hosting clubs like Cherry and Club 1980s. “She’s old school,” Taylor had
murmured, putting slight emphasis on the
old.
Martika had ignored him for the rest of the night.

She sipped at a drink while Jeremy, her date and “tryout,” was in the men’s room. She couldn’t help but wonder who was being tested here. She wished that Taylor, Pink or Kit were in the crowd somewhere, for moral support. Even Martika, even though she’d been snippy and hard to be around lately.

The crowd was rich, well-dressed…preening. It sort of reminded her of the Anais.com party.

For his part, Jeremy turned out to be a good dancer. They’d done a few slow bump and grinds, starting out about a foot apart and, before he’d gone off to the rest room, making it to, say, a millimeter apart. If that.

Unless he carried pepper spray in a front pocket, the guy gave Raoul a run for his money.

Sarah took a sip of her Cosmopolitan. Thankfully Jeremy was buying drinks—they were hellishly expensive in here.

He’d been saying things to her all evening—teasing her for being some kind of temp, asking her if she did absolutely everything.

“Whatever the job requires,” she’d replied, surprised at her own licentious streak. She’d brushed up against him, suggestively. It gave her a little charge, taking the initiative like this. She definitely had the reins, here.

“Having a good time?”

She jumped, then mentally cursed herself. Of course, she’d look a lot more in control if she’d just
get comfortable.
Just because this place wasn’t Probe or the World Club, or even Velvet…

“You okay?” Jeremy’s voice was a little more emphatic now.

“Sorry,” she said, thinking to explain. “I…this isn’t a club I’m used to.”

“Where do you normally go?” he asked, amused.

She told him. His eyes widened, and he laughed.

“Oh. More of the trashy circuit,” he said dismissively, caus
ing Sarah to cross her arms in a defensive posture. “Nothing wrong with that. Hell, if you’re broke, it’s the way to go.”

Now Sarah
definitely
didn’t like his tone. “My friends hang out there,” she said firmly.

“Don’t pout. Much as I like the baby-girl look on you, pouting is rarely attractive.”

She exaggerated the pout, then flashed a smile at him. “You could make it up to me,” she said.

His eyes went low-lidded. “You don’t say.”

She took a deep breath. Ignore his attitude—focus on the body and what he could do with it. She didn’t have to keep him. “You could always…”

The shrill beeping of a cell phone interrupted his request. He glanced at the number flashing on its faceplate, and muttered something. “I’ve got to take this. Let’s go outside—I think this place is pretty much done.”

She negotiated the steep steps that led out of the club while he yelled “Hello? Hello?” with his cell phone to one ear and his hand to the other. She stood at the base of the steps, watching as he wandered around the corner of the building, just before he disappeared down toward the end of the block.

Just when I was going to go for round two of the tryouts,
she thought. Probably not sex—she was going to insist on foreplay, and plenty of it.

Sarah was deep enough in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice who had approached her. The grumbling, however, tipped her off almost immediately.

“I don’t see why we have to go to this club,” a male voice groused. “We could have just gone to Islands, then rented a movie.”

“Honey,” a female voice wheedled, “we
never
go out.”

Sarah turned…and was face-to-face with Benjamin.

“Hello, Sarah.” He was wearing a suit—it looked lame, out of place in this very trendy nightspot. He looked like he was a Jehovah’s Witness, come to save some sinners. He also looked
uncomfortable. He was really more of a sports bar type. Moomba was going to be a poor choice for him.

Sarah’s gaze moved slowly to Benjamin’s companion. Tall, impossibly thin. She could probably hold a wallet in the side of her pelvic bone, Sarah thought uncharitably, thinking of the pounds she herself had put on through indulging in drinks and restaurants. The woman had straight chocolate-brown hair that curled at the ends in a slight pageboy. She wasn’t smiling at Sarah.

If I were her, Sarah thought, I wouldn’t smile, either.

He stood there for a second, awkwardly, with his—date? lover? girlfriend?—standing off to one side. “How’ve you been?” he finally asked.

Since I ran out of your house because you slept with me in the bed you slept in every night with your…Jessica?

She shot a quick glance toward Jeremy. He was still down the street, engrossed in conversation. She shrugged. “I’ve been fine. You?”

“Business is doing really well. They’re talking promotion, but I don’t know. I get a little sick of this city,” he said. “I might look for something else, something back up North. Without the smog and the weirdos.”

Sarah couldn’t help but notice that his companion didn’t really look pleased at this announcement, the frown making her attractive face look suddenly older. Sarah wondered how old the woman actually was.

“Have you got a job yet?” He actually managed to sound concerned. Hell, he probably
was
concerned. Walking away from a job that had career advancement to be a temp/secretary/whatever was probably tantamount to death to so-called normal people.
Was
death, she thought, or at least that’s what she’d been raised to believe.

“I have a job now.”

“Oh. Something with a future, I hope?”

Sarah shrugged. “I’m not really looking for something with a future.”

“Just something to get yourself some space? That’s probably a good idea—you’ve been so stressed.” Of course,
now
he was understanding. How convenient. Of course, he was now with someone else. As if just remembering that himself, he turned and said, “Have I introduced Jessica?”

So it
was
Jessica. And he’d managed to just ace her in one fell swoop, throwing Jessica into the mix with a broad and faintly smug smile.

Jessica smiled. It was probably supposed to be warm, but there was a shade of wariness there.

“No, you hadn’t introduced Jessica, but of course I figured, who else could it be? Hi, Jessica,” she said, gritting her teeth and holding out a hand. “I’m Sarah. I used to be engaged to Benjamin.”

The woman shot a pained look at Benjamin. Obviously, she didn’t know that bit of information. Instead of looking older, Jessica suddenly looked younger, and vulnerable. In that moment, Sarah hated Benjamin. She hated him enough for the two of them.

“Actually, I like my new job a lot,” she added carelessly. She could have mentioned their last time together, but wouldn’t. The woman would find out what Benjamin was like, soon enough. Chances were, she wouldn’t have cared. If Jessica had found out, what would she have done? Sarah didn’t want to think about it. “You could call what I do being a secretary if you wanted, I suppose. I’m a personal assistant. To Richard Peerson.”

His grin seemed indulgent. “Am I supposed to know him?”

She shrugged. “He won the Pulitzer for fiction and is a multimillionaire bestselling author. But you’re right—I guess not everybody would know that.”

She’d hit a sore spot, and she felt glad…and somewhat dirty that she felt giddy about his discomfort. She ignored that part.

“So, you get his coffee and change his toner,” he said, with a grin to Jessica that she returned uncertainly. “Movin’ on up, Sarah.”

“Sarah! I’m sorry, I couldn’t get him off the line. Why can’t some idiots leave their work at work?” Jeremy was slightly out of breath. He’d done a business-jog over to stand by her side, and the little motion had ruffled his hair slightly. He looked sophisticated in his casual but expensive ensemble, especially compared to Benjamin’s obvious conservative tastes. Jessica all but goggled, and again, Sarah felt that guilty little thrill of pleasure. “Am I interrupting?”

“No. This is my ex-fiancé, Benjamin, and his…um. Jessica,” she said. She wasn’t quite sure
what
Jessica was to Benjamin. Judging by Jessica’s frown at Benjamin after the introduction, Sarah guessed that the woman was feeling the same way.

Sarah sidled up to Jeremy, leaning close to his ear. “So. Still up for more…tryouts?” She tried to whisper it to him, but got the feeling Benjamin overheard.

“Unfortunately, I can’t.” To his credit, he looked genuinely disappointed. “I have to drive on back and go over some numbers.”

“So,” she said, ignoring Benjamin’s glare and now sending over a deliberately sexy smile. “Guess you’re one of those idiots, huh?”

Jeremy blinked, then laughed. “Guess I am. But trust me, we are doing this again.” He leaned down and kissed her, to her surprise, right on the lips, lingering slightly. “I’ll call you later. I’m really,
really
sorry to be rushing off like this. Are you going to be okay?”

“Of course,” she said easily. “Don’t worry…my car is just over there.”

He walked off toward where his car was parked, but not before shooting a sexy smile at her and winking. She felt warm, and happy.

She turned back to Benjamin and Jessica. Jessica had a satisfied smile on her face, until she noticed Benjamin smoldering, and then the smile quickly turned into a tight blank expression. Sarah got the feeling this was something Jessica had been practicing, probably for a long time.

“I’ve got to go. I’m going to catch up with some friends,” she said, her voice light. “But it’s been…” What? She fumbled for a proper description. Interesting? Vindicating? Unnerving? “I’m glad you’re doing well,” she finally said. “Anyway, I’ve really got to go.”

“I’d hate to keep you,” he said, and his tone was frosty.

“Don’t worry,” she said, and she couldn’t resist. “You couldn’t.”

S
arah had gotten used to the routine. She would get in, have breakfast with Richard in the kitchen, then leave him alone to type until he ambled in asking if she felt like lunch or she left for her extended break, around eleven-thirty or twelve. Then, in the afternoon, it was extended Internet research. Usually Sephora.com, looking at the new makeup offerings Pink had mentioned, or possibly Amazon, checking Richard’s sales ranking with a casual boredom. Not that she’d share what she found—numbers, as Richard always said, made him nervous. Then she’d jet out at four. The process repeated itself.

If somebody would throw in “a naked guy to pleasure her whenever she rang a small bell,” as Martika would say, it would be the most perfect job ever created.

The phone rang. “Sarah Walker,” she answered, in her best
I’m important
tone.

“You sound so much like a grown-up, it’s eerie.”

She smiled. “Kit.”

“If you’ve got the time for us peons, I was wondering if maybe we could do lunch—Taylor’s rounding the crew up, I mean. And then, of course, I’d drop you back to your fabulously important job, to talk to people who are far more interesting and socially acceptable than myself.”

“It’s not like that,” she protested. “My job isn’t
that…
”

The phone beeped—call waiting. This could be Oprah, she thought with a laugh, wouldn’t Kit think it was a hoot? “Could you hold on for a second?”

“No.”

She grinned. “Thanks,” and clicked over. “This is Sarah Walker.”

“This is Jeremy.”

The voice was too damned sexy. “This is a surprise.”

“Want to go out, have a little fun?” Was it just her imagination, or did he put a sort of Shakespearean emphasis on the word
fun?

“I’m sort of busy, Jeremy.” No need to let him think she was panting for him—she sort of felt that was her other mistake with Raoul, actually.

“You’re always sort of busy. All work and no play, etcetera.”

“I play.”

“Do you, now?” Sinfully sexy. Ridiculously sexy. Sarah felt flushed, for pity’s sake. “I wonder. I’d like to play with you, Sarah.”

“I’m sure you would,” she said, thinking of Kit on the other line. He didn’t sound like that at all, not this total seductive, complete
player
voice. Kit was just a friend. He was a relatively good-looking, relatively funny guy. She might like to try someone like him sometime—later. When the poison she was feeling toward relationships was out. Jeremy, on the other hand, was imminently fuckable and, conversely, easy to walk away from. And so damned
sexy!
“I’m not ready to play just yet.”

“Well, you’ve got my number,” he said. “I’ll keep calling you until you are ready, though. Bye, darling Sarah.”

She loved the way he said her name. “Sah-rah,” two long “ah’s.” It sounded exotic…less like bread-and-butter quilts.

She clicked back over to Kit. “Sorry about that.”

He paused. “That was a guy, wasn’t it.”

It wasn’t a question.

She felt her chin go up. “Maybe. What makes you say that?”

“Because I don’t think you get that breathless talking to re
porters.” She thought she heard a snicker. “Unless you’re more dedicated to your job than I thought, anyway.”

Strangely, she felt a teeny, almost imperceptible pang of—guilt?
Like hell.
“I’m sorry,” she said, mimicking Martika—so sweet, you almost didn’t feel the smack. Almost. “You know, of course, that they’re all just appetizers until I get to you.”

“Naturally,” he said, not missing a beat. “Unlikely I’ll get action, though. I’m a nice guy. In my experience, you’ve got to be a bit more of an asshole to get any in this town.”

“When was the last time you got some, then, Kit?”

“That’s sort of a personal question, isn’t it?”

She shrugged. “You don’t have to answer it.”

“Yes,” he said. “I know.”

There was a pause.

“Okay, that was weird,” Sarah said.

“What?”

“That whole conversation.”

Kit paused again. She knew he understood what she was talking about. “But it
was
a guy, right?”

“Does it matter?”

She could hear the shrug, she swore to God. Like the phone shifted. “I’m just curious.”

“Why?”

“You’re a friend of Tika’s. I’m a friend of Tika’s. We both know what she’s like with men. They’re the center of her world—briefly, and regularly.”

Okay, now she
really
didn’t like the direction this conversation was taking. “So, what?”

“So you’ve been taking a lot of cues from her lately,” Kit pointed out. Then, in a quiet voice, lower than his usual mumble, she made out the phrase: “I’ve been a little worried.”

“Worried about what? That I’m going to sleep my way across town? Is that all you guys think about?”

“You’re right. A guy thinking about sex. How unusual.”

“Yes, I’ve been screwing every guy that crosses my path,” she said, rolling her eyes, leaning back in the chair. “I’ve been
taking extra yoga classes for when the Third Fleet’s scheduled to come in. I’m giving out frequent user cards—after every tenth session, I buy the guy a sandwich.” She huffed impatiently. “Honestly.”

He paused. “Hmm. I’m always in the market for a good sandwich.”

“Screw you, Kit.”

“Among others, eh?”

She squealed in annoyance, then hung up. When it rang, she answered it. “Yes?”

“Hi, I’m your local navy recruiter, and I wanted to let you know the Third Fleet’s in….”

She promptly hung up on him again. She started laughing. Kit was—like the kid brother she never had. Or the guy in third grade who always threw rocks at her, little ones. He was easy to talk to, probably easy to cry on, and definitely harmless.

In short, Kit was a nice guy.

He was right. She didn’t want to sleep with a nice guy, either.

“I think I’m dying.”

Taylor leaned back on a chair at the Bar Marmount, watching Martika look at her drink. “Excuse me,” he said, gesturing to an invisible three-foot circle surrounding his seat. “This is a drama-free zone.”

“I’m not being drama,” she protested, sprawling back in her own chair disconsolately. “I feel it. I feel sick. I can feel it in my chest, in my stomach, in my head…everywhere.”

Taylor sighed the sigh of the much beleaguered. “Sure you do. So what does it feel like?”

“Like I’m going to throw up,” she said nervously, feeling nauseous just thinking about it.

“Girlie-girl, you’ve got a history of stress-stomach. Did they ever confirm those were ulcers?”

She frowned at him. “That was when I was working at the design house, Taylor.”

“You can’t say you’re not stressed out now, Tika. Sarah’s
starting to turn into a little diva with the Raoul incident, the fact that you’re rooming with a woman period, the fact that your design job is stepping up a notch, the fact that you’re turning thirty…”

She hissed at him, glancing around.

He rolled his eyes. “All sorts of stress lately. You’re not the only one.”

She knew he was referring to their discussion after Luis dumped him. She had tried to respect his need for space, or whatever. It had been short-lived. They had spent a few days apart, then they were back to normal. Normal for them.

“Well, and I’ve been having headaches. And I’ve been way bloated.”

“Tell me about it,” he said, glancing over her all-black pant-suit ensemble. “Time to go back to the gym, honey. That’s not water weight, that’s fat.”

“Don’t be bitchy to distract me,” Tika said, swirling her soda around. She sipped at her Pellegrino. She would’ve loved to have gotten drunk, but the last time she’d tried…ugh. She reminded herself of Sarah’s regurgitational ballet, that first night on Stoli. “I’m really worried.”

“Obviously. So why don’t you go to a doctor?”

“Because I don’t want to hear that I’m dying.”

Taylor sighed, then stood up and opened his arms. “Come here.”

“Taylor, what are you…”

“Don’t argue with me, woman,” he said, in his best butch-straight-guy voice.

She got up. He enveloped her in his arms, something only a man of his height could do. “You are
not
dying.”

“You don’t know that,” she said, muffled against his shirt.

“Shh. You are not dying, because it’s
all about you.
You are simply too fabulous to die. If you die, not only will the sorrow be too much for the world to bear, it would be pointless because the world would cease to exist if you weren’t dutifully standing
at the center of it, giving us purpose, telling us what to do. Giving us something to dream about.
You cannot die.
”

She felt tears welling in her eyes, and she hugged him a little tighter. They must’ve been a sight—standing like big hugging giants in the middle of a trendy bar in Los Angeles, looking like refugees from the death of disco, with an Amazonian club queen crying like an actor in some really bad drag dinner theater. She laughed at the image of herself, even as she cried, knowing she was going to look like a raccoon when this was all over. She felt Taylor’s broad hand smoothing down her shoulder in comforting strokes.

She thought of her father, inexplicably—how long it’d been since she’d spoken to him. Back then, she was still a giant, gangly fifteen-year-old. She ran away a little under a year later.

“Feel better?”

“Are you kidding? After that speech? I felt like you ought to have been playing the theme from
Patton
in the background.” She sniffled, sitting down in her chair. She mopped at her eyes, pouting at the thick black that came off onto the cocktail napkin. “Boy, I’ll bet I look gorgeous. But I will say this—my stomach feels a little better.”

“Damn,” Taylor drawled. “If you really do die, can I get your car?”

“Bitch. You drive like an old woman.”

“You drive like some ugly NASCAR driver,” he said, shrugging. “We balance. You know what you need?”

Her phone rang, playing a tinkling electronic version of “Animal” by Nine Inch Nails. “What do I need?” she said, glancing at the number that flashed in the display. She didn’t recognize it.

“Another trip to Pointless Party,” Taylor said, all but rubbing his hands together in glee. “We’re due, don’t you think?”

“Okay, I suppose. But no drinking…I’ll explain later. This is me, and you are?” she finally said, answering the phone.

“Martika?”

She didn’t recognize the voice. It sounded high for a guy, sort
of, and…well, vaguely familiar. Which narrowed it down to, oh, about five hundred men. Conservatively. “Yes? Who’s this?”

“This is Ray.”

Still no bells. “Ray…”

“From Pointless Party. From…” He lowered his voice, as if in uncertain company. “You know. The storeroom.”

The…oh. “Right! It’s been a while.” A few weeks, anyway. She shouldn’t have to remember everybody she’d screwed in the past few weeks. Actually, what with dealing with Taylor and enduring new diva-Sarah, she’d been off her game. Maybe she hadn’t slept with anybody since then. Maybe not. He was pretty good. “Strangely enough, I was just talking about going back there. Wanna come?”

Taylor was mouthing “Who?” to her, and she made a pantomime of closing a door, then moving her hips as if getting laid. He laughed, even as she noticed other patrons staring at her. She smiled sweetly at them. Ray still hadn’t spoken. “Can you talk?” he said, instead.

She frowned. “Of course I can talk. You’re hearing me, aren’t you?”

“I mean…well, this isn’t easy to say.”

She rolled her eyes. His story, as they say, was getting tiresome. “Try just spitting it out. Or try not saying it.”

“You remember that night?”

“Vaguely,” she said, just to be bitchy.

“Well,” he said, “I have a confession to make. I’m, well, married.”

She smacked the heel of her hand on her forehead. “I see.” She gestured to her ring finger on her left hand. Taylor started laughing even harder. “Well. Mistakes were made, consider yourself uninvited, and it was…well, uninspiring, to be perfectly honest. Have a nice life.”

“Don’t hang up!”

She sighed, throwing her head back in exasperation and star
ing at the ceiling. “You mean there’s
more?
What, are you married to a
man
or something?”

“No! No. Nothing like that. We’ve been married for a year, and I’ve been wondering if maybe I made a mistake. When you came on to me…” Tika winced at that part. “I wanted you. I wanted to see if I could have sex with someone other than April.”

“Fantastic. So glad I provided a useful service.”

“Well, the thing is, I was very upset, I was sort of plastered. I wasn’t myself. I had trouble with the condom.”

“I think I remember that,” she said. “I was fairly plastered myself.”

“Well, it broke, but I wanted you so much that I…”

“Wait a second,” she said, feeling her body go cold. “What do you mean, it
broke?
”

“I said I was drunk, right? I was clumsy, and impatient, and stupid…”

“Are you saying you had sex without it?”
Now the cold radiated from her stomach to her throat. That nauseous feeling was now clenching at her chest, like fire. Oh, the ulcer was in overdrive, who was she kidding?

“I told everything to April, naturally. I realized afterward that I wanted to be with her for the rest of my life, that I’d made a dreadful mistake…”

“Oh, fuck you,” she said sharply. “Why the hell are you calling me? What have you
done,
you dickless little twerp?”

“She wants you to get a blood test. She wants to know what you may have given me.” He sighed.

Martika’s eyes almost exploded with the shock. “What?”

“It takes six months for an HIV test to be absolutely certain,” he said, his tone high and mournful, like a teenager who’d been pulled over by a cop. “She doesn’t want to wait six months to figure out what’s going to happen to me, if she should stay or not. She thinks you ought to get tested…”

“Well, you tell your little wife that she can just wait it out
and deal with you,” Martika said in a low voice. “Besides, how do I know that you haven’t slept with anybody else? Idiot!”