Matchpoint (11 page)

“I’ve been called worse,” Bridget said, pushing her glasses up on her nose.

“She didn’t know she was on fire for a good minute, minute and a half,” Lucy explained. “She kept arguing, and the flames kept growing around her head. It was a biblical sight, excuse the expression, Bridget.”

“That’s when the screaming started,” Bridget said. “Not mine, theirs. I didn’t know I was on fire yet. I just thought they were making s’mores nearby.”

“Sixty-five stampeding PTA moms,” Lucy said. “It was a fearsome sight, worse than Bridget on fire.”

“Holy crap, it’s a miracle you’re not hurt,” I said.

“I tried to get close to her to put her out, but the stampeding school moms got in the way,” Lucy said.

“That was the terrible part,” Bridget said, staring far off as she relived the memory. “Wave after wave of yoga pants, running toward me without pity. And they’re in shape, Gladie. Solid. I was no match for them. I went down fast and then it was me dodging sixty-five pairs of merciless platform shoes.”

“That’s what put the fire out,” Lucy explained.

“Holy crap,” Holden said.

“We’ve been wandering around for an hour, looking for you,” Lucy said. “I’ve got to get Bridget home.”

“Why didn’t you drive?” I asked.

“Oh, Lucy’s Mercedes is in the lake,” Bridget said.

I gasped. “The PTA moms pushed your car into the lake?”

“Oh, no. That happened hours before the PTA showed up,” Lucy explained.

It took some convincing, but Holden left me at the lake while he drove Bridget and Lucy home, since there was only enough room in the truck’s cab for three. I assured him I would be fine by myself, which, in light of Bridget’s smoking hair, was difficult to say in the least. In the end, though, his chivalry made him side with Bridget and Lucy, who were truly damsels in distress. If only there hadn’t been an invasion of a thousand lunatics, we could have called a taxi, but the town’s two taxis had more business than they could handle right now.

Holden’s jacket was good protection against the night chill, and I didn’t need a hat like Grandma had suggested. The evening had taken on a nice party atmosphere, with bonfires and music and the smell of steaks in the air. I stood back under a tree and enjoyed the solitude.

It had been an intense couple of days, and I had a lot to think about. But the most pressing was Belinda’s match. She expected at least a name by tomorrow and a real date by Saturday. And I had no ideas. Nothing. Bubkes. Even Penis Pipe Tim was nowhere to be seen. Good idea! I would look at the hospital the first thing in the morning. There had to be single men at the hospital, I reasoned, and they probably couldn’t get away, which would improve Belinda’s odds.

It was a clear night, and the stars were putting on a
breathtaking light show, but it wasn’t a full moon like I had suspected. It was such a clear night that I was shocked when I felt droplets on my head. Drip, drop, they landed on my head and dripped down my face.

I could have sworn I heard whispers of “The Arrival, the Arrival” above me, along with a few giggles, and then the stream fell on me like a waterfall. The giggles intensified.

And then it got weird.

Holly from Bliss Dental dropped down from a nearby Winnebago, spotted me, and walked over. “You’re being peed on,” she said.

“I’m what?” I asked.

“You’re being peed on. The cult kids are in the trees. They’re peeing on you.”

I jumped forward out of the line of fire. My hair was dripping pee down Holden’s jacket.

“At least it isn’t a dead guy on you,” Holly said, no hint of humor in her voice.

“I can’t believe they peed on me,” I said.

“They’ve been doing it all day,” she said. “Or so they tell me.”

I shook out my hair. “Thank you for warning me,” I said.

“No problem. Quite a week, huh?” she said. “Not all bad. At least the dentist is finally dead, right?”

MY BODY shot straight up, flinging my hair back and throwing a stream of urine behind me, making an impressive
thwack
noise as it hit the tree.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“Simon, the asshole,” she said. “The dentist. No tears shed for that lowlife, am I right?”

“Uh,” I said.

Holly pulled a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket. She lit one up, took a drag, and let out a long line of smoke. “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

She took another drag. “So, what’s your story?” she asked.

“My story?”

“What was your relationship with Simon? You ballin’ him?”

“He was dead most of the time I knew him,” I said.

“Yeah? How could you tell?”

“Well, he had no face.”

“Serves him right,” she said.

“Holly, you are creeping me out,” I said. “See the lines on my forehead? They are indicative of being creeped out. You probably don’t recognize facial expressions anymore, being out of practice yourself.”

“Meow,” Holly said.

I stomped my foot. “What’s with all the meow talk all of a sudden? I don’t meow.”

“Whatever. I say the jerk got what was coming to him.”

“He had no face.” Was I the only one impressed by that detail?

“Okay, fine, don’t believe me. I’m just saying he wasn’t all that nice.”

“Thanks for the info.” I couldn’t warm up to Holly. She wasn’t a nice person and wasn’t really all human anymore. More plastic than anything else. But maybe I was allergic to silicone. “I have pee in my hair,” I told her by way of an apology.

“You have pee all over you,” she said. “You smell like the men’s bathroom at a football game.”

Suddenly we were lit up in the lights of Holden’s truck as he stopped at the curb and cut the engine. His door opened, and his work boots hit the pavement.

“Holy God,” Holly said. “Who the hell is that?”

“That’s my boyfriend.”
Eat your heart out, Wax Woman
.

“How did you swing that?” she asked.

“I held him off as long as I could, but he wore me down,” I lied. I was so going to hell.

Holden put his arms around me and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Sorry I took so long,” he said. He looked at his hand. “You’re wet.”

“She was peed on,” Holly explained.

“She was what?”

“Holden, this is Holly. She’s the hygienist at Bliss Dental,” I said.

Holden put out his hand, but then changed his mind, probably because his hand was covered in pee. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

“Not as nice as it is to meet
you
,” she said, shaking her hips. “You can find me most nights at the Bar None. I’m what you’d call a good time.” She traced her finger down the buttons of his shirt.

His expression was unreadable, a lot like Holly’s. I had less success hiding my feelings. I wanted to do the ladylike thing and scratch out her eyes.
How’s that for
meow,
beotch?

Holly got the picture and stepped back, and Holden guided me to the truck, opened my door for me, then closed me in. “Do you mind if I open the window a crack?” he asked me as he drove out of the parking lot.

“I smell like the men’s room at a football game, right?” I said.

“After halftime, when the toilets back up,” he said.

“I’m sorry about your jacket.”

“I wanted to get a new one anyway.” Holden was understanding and protective and pretty much perfect. He even smelled good, although it was hard to catch his scent through the cloud of urine stench.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve made dinner plans for us,” he said.

“Good, I’m starved,” I said. “But I should get cleaned up first.”

“The place I have in mind has a bathroom. You can get cleaned up there. I’m talking about my house.”

“Your house?” I asked, as surprised as if he’d told me boys in trees peed on me. “I’ve never been in your house.”

“Really?” he asked, turning the corner to our street. “That’s strange.”

I had been trying to get into his house for nearly a month. Holden was still much of a mystery to me, and now he was inviting me into his fortress of solitude, his bat cave, his Holly Hobbie Dream Dollhouse.

I caught myself rubbing my hands together in anticipation.

“Do you like duck?” he asked.

“Daffy or Donald?”

WE PASSED Grandma’s house and parked in Holden’s driveway. Grandma’s house was lit up. It was time for the Wednesday night Single No More class. The week before, I co-hosted it with Grandma. But when she got Janet Schwartz and Tiffany Jenkins to practice their sexy walks in the participation part of the class, I unintentionally guffawed, and they got offended and ran out. Since then, I was banned from the class. “Just until I get Janet and Tiffany matched off,” Grandma assured me.

Holden unlocked his front door and waited for me to enter first. I had imagined the inside of his house on more than one occasion. In my fantasies, it was alternately a one-room log cabin with a ratty couch, a large bed in the corner, and a bear rug on the floor in front of a roaring fire, or a stone keep with medieval tapestries on the walls and Holden’s shiny suit of armor in the corner.

The reality was somewhere between the two. I entered
right into a large, open great room, the living room, dining room, and kitchen all in one. There was a lot of wood, and it was tidy. Oriental rugs covered the wood floors, and overstuffed, comfy-looking furniture faced the large fireplace. The kitchen looked original—not as old as Grandma’s, but predating Pearl Harbor. Not a drop of stainless steel anywhere.

“You can use my bathroom,” he said. “Down the hall, the last room on the right. There’s a clean robe on the hook on the back of the door. I’ll start dinner.” He walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

I stared at him with pity. Poor man, he really shouldn’t leave me alone in his house to wander wherever I pleased. Didn’t he know I was a no-good busybody? Who would stop me from rooting around in his underwear drawer and his night table? Who would stop me from hacking his computer?

Who was I kidding? I didn’t know how to hack a computer. I hadn’t even checked my email in weeks.

The hallway was lined with paintings of what I recognized to be Indian mythological figures. I had worked in the gift shop at an ashram in Cincinnati for two weeks. I had thought the job would help with my chi, but the politics of the place was dog-eat-dog. I had to move on quick, and luckily, I fell right into a job at the local methadone clinic, where the atmosphere was much more laid back.

Holden’s paintings looked more expensive than the Xeroxed pictures we sold at the ashram. Hoity-toity.

I sneaked a peak at Holden’s bedroom as I reached the bathroom. It was clean and spartan. There was a homemade quilt on his bed. I pushed back the desire to sniff his pillow.

My skin was starting to sting. The cult boys must have had very acidic pee. Probably too much junk food.

I turned the light on in the bathroom and closed the
door. The bathrobe was hanging there, as promised. It was plaid, just like most of Holden’s wardrobe. The bathroom was clean and tidy and very small. No dried toothpaste in the sink, no splatter behind the toilet. Holden was like a Greek god. I was the dirtiest thing in his house.

I bundled his jacket and my clothes in the sink and turned on the shower. It was no-nonsense, no massage jets or anything. Holden used all-natural shampoo-and-soap-in-one, but it was the expensive kind, the brand they sold at the snooty organic store in San Diego.

When I was done, I didn’t smell a bit like pee, but my hair was mad. It didn’t appreciate all-natural shampoo. I searched through his medicine cabinet for hair products. All I found was aspirin and a small jar of Vaseline. Holden was old school and obviously looked gorgeous without the benefit of men’s beauty products. I, on the other hand, needed all the help I could get.

Taking a deep breath, I put on the robe and stepped out of the bathroom. The house was filled with delicious smells and jazz music. The living room was lit only by the light of the fire in the fireplace and the lights coming from the kitchen. Holden’s back was toward me as he stood at the stove. Lucy was right. He was a tall drink of water. I watched his muscular shoulders move as he cooked.

“Smells good,” I said.

Holden turned, surprised. His eyes traveled up my body from my bare feet to my quickly frizzing hair. I looked down to see if the robe had melted off my body. Nope, it was still on. Damn that expensive material.