The Heart Goes Last (32 page)

Charmaine stirs, stretches, opens her blue, blue eyes. Stan sticks his head into her sightline, gazes deeply. “How are you, honey?” he says.

Her eyes fill with tears. “Oh Stan!” she says. “Is that you? Where’s your hair?”

“It’s me all right,” he murmurs. “It’ll grow back.” Is this working?

She wraps her arms around him. “Don’t ever leave me! I’ve been having such a bad dream!” She hugs him tight, locks on to his mouth like an octopus. A boiling-hot octopus. Now she’s ripping off his shirt, now her hand is reaching down …

“Whoa, wait up, honey!” he tells her. “You’ve just had an operation!”

“I can’t wait,” she whispers into his ear. “I want you now!”

Fan-fucking-tastic, thinks Stan. At last.

Once Charmaine has drifted off to sleep again with what Stan hopes is a satisfied smile on her lips, Stan gets dressed and goes out into the hall. He’s feeling depleted but exhilarated. He’s so hungry he could eat a cow. There must be a cafeteria in this joint somewhere, and with any luck they’ll serve beer.

He turns a corner, and there are Con, Jerold, and Rikki standing in front of a door. They aren’t green any more, and they’ve changed their suits to black. Each of them has an earpiece, each of them has a slight bulge under the left arm. Each of them has reflector sunglasses, despite the fact that they’re inside a building.

“Hi, big bro,” says Conor. “Everything come out all right?” He flashes a large dirty-minded grin.

“Can’t complain,” says Stan. He allows himself a smug little smile. “Worked like a charm.” In fact, he’s walking on air. Charmaine loves him! She loves him again. She loves him more than before. It transcends mere sex, a thing Con will never be able to understand.

“Way to go,” says Jerold.

“Wicked,” says Rikki. Handshakes and high-fives all round.

Stan lets himself be congratulated as if it’s a football game. Why try to explain?

“Who are you guys supposed to be?” he says. “In the outfits?”

“Security,” says Con. “To keep away the reporters, supposing they figure out where our guy’s at.”

“The real security’s in the Men’s,” says Jerold. “Inside the cubicles. Jocelyn gave them some sleepy-time needles, they’ll be out for a day.”

“So, let me guess,” says Stan. “It’s Ed in this room?”

“Correct,” says Con. “Rushed him into the clinic. Said he had to have an op. Matter of life and death.” He looks at his watch. “Where are those two? They better hurry, or he might wake up and get a boner for the night table.”

“Naw,” says Jerold. “I asked Jos. Whatever it is gotta have eyes. Like, two eyes.”

“I know that, moron,” says Con. “It was a joke.”

“Here they come now,” says Rikki.

A couple of nurses are hurrying down the hall, wearing the Ruby Slippers Clinics health attendant uniforms: white dresses, red pinafores, white hats with a border of red flowers, and rubber-soled red shoes with no-nonsense heels. “Are we in time?” says the first one. It’s Jocelyn; she looks really convincing in the outfit, Stan thinks. Like a dominatrix playing nursie. She’d have that thermometer or that cucumber up your ass in about two seconds, and no saying no.

“Stan,” she nods at him. “Satisfactory, I hope?” Stan nods.

“I guess I have to thank you,” he says. Oddly, he’s feeling shy.

“Ever gracious,” Jocelyn says, but she smiles. “You’re welcome.”

The second nurse is Lucinda Quant.

“Help yourself,” Con says to them and opens the door. Lucinda Quant goes in.

“This is better than a freak show,” says Rikki. “Don’t close it all the way.”

“You can dose it. Give them some privacy. Channel two on the earpiece,” says Conor.

“I don’t have one,” says Stan.

“Okay, leave the door,” says Con.

There’s silence. Lucinda must be sitting by the bedside.

“What’ll she do with him?” Stan asks Jocelyn. “Supposing it works? They’ll be looking to arrest him, right?”

“She’s talking about Dubai,” says Jocelyn. “Expensive, but we’ll pay. No questions asked, lots of orgy-for-two possibilities there, luxury suites with whirlpools; as long as you do whatever indoors. She wants a stellar finale to her life, in case the cancer comes back. And there’s no extradition, so Ed will be free to indulge her every last bucket-list whim. She’s got quite a few of those, so she’s told me. She wants to be covered with chocolate mousse and then licked off, for starters.”

“Where’s fucking Budge?” says Jerold. “I’m starving.”

“I could eat a hippo,” says Rikki.

“I could eat the chocolate mousse off what’s-her-name.”

“I could eat –”

“Shut up,” says Con, “or I’m eating all of it.”

“Why’re you letting him off so cheap?” says Stan to Jocelyn. “After everything he did.” And was planning to do, he adds to himself. Stealing my wife. Messing with her head. Turning her into a sex slave. Turning her into a sex slave for the wrong man. Jocelyn has gone into the details.

“You really think I’d want him giving full testimony in front of Congress?” says Jocelyn. Spilling all the beans? I myself am one of those beans, in case you haven’t forgotten.”

“Oh, right,” says Stan.

“And more than a few of our respected politicians wouldn’t want it either, so it won’t be too hard getting him on that plane. No clean hands at this party,” says Jocelyn.

“So why not just kill him?” Stan asks. He’s surprised by his own ruthlessness. Not that he himself would do that, but Jocelyn is more than capable of it. Or so he believes.

“That wouldn’t be fair,” says Jocelyn. “I’d have to kill all the board members and shareholders too, if it’s a question of who’s responsible. This is a better way. Cleaner. Benefits to others, such as Lucinda.”

“What happens to Consilience and the Project without him?” says Stan.

“Maybe a modified version. Maybe condos, for the prison end of it, with a tourist attraction ensuite. My guess is people would pay to role-play in there, don’t you think? But it’s not my problem, because I’ll be living my next life. Anything happening in there yet?” she says to Con.

“I hear some muttering,” says Con. “Or maybe snoring.”

“Maybe that’s how he has sex,” says Jerold, “with his nose,” and he and Rikki snicker.

“Grow fucking up,” says Con. “Yeah, yeah, he’s coming to.”

Stan applies his ear to the gap between doorframe and door. “I adore you,” he hears. It’s Ed’s voice, thick with either anaesthetic or lust. “You’re lovely! Take off that pinafore!”

“Hang on, soldier!” Lucinda. “Wait till I get my bra unhooked!”

“I can’t wait,” says Ed. “I want you now!” A cross between a laugh and a scream, from Lucinda. Then the sound of moans, or are they groans?

“Shut the door,” says Jocelyn. “Turn off the earpieces. There’s some things that’re none of our business.”

“You never let us have any fun,” says Con, but he does as she says.

“Lucinda’s a client,” says Jocelyn primly. “We have our standards.”

The wedding is pure enchantment! Or maybe it’s weddings, two of them, because although Aurora and Max are getting married for the first time, Charmaine and Stan are renewing their vows, so the wedding is for them too.

A Wedding Elvis performs the ceremonies – it’s Rob from UR-ELF, in a white-and-gold jumpsuit with a silver belt and a purple cape with silver stars on it – and three Singing Elvises perform the music, to a backup soundtrack played from a speaker hidden inside one of the floral baskets. Charmaine has choosen the flowers – she opted for the Forget-Me-Not selection, a pale blue medley with sprays of miniature pink roses, and it looks just lovely. The sun shines, but then it always does in Vegas, no matter what is going on in the rest of the world.

As an extra treat, a group of five Marilyns, hired by Charmaine and wearing pink taffeta dresses with an off-the-shoulder line, sort of like the big production number in
Gentlemen Prefer Blondes
where she sings the song about diamonds, only without the long train. The Marilyns smile as if they’re delighted out of their minds, which is what you want at a wedding, and there aren’t any actual relatives to do it, so Charmaine booked this fivesome. They really give value for money, they cheer and laugh and throw rice on all of them at the end, and one of them catches Aurora’s bouquet.

Charmaine doesn’t have a bouquet as such because she isn’t exactly getting married, though it feels like that to her, but she has a spray of pink roses, and that’s almost the same. She’s wearing a floral print in pink and blue, and Stan has a shirt with penguins on it, she found it online. It’s sentimental, but she’s a sentimental person.

There’s champagne at the outdoor reception with a sun area and a shade area, and a fountain with three mermaids holding mics as if they’re a backup group, three surfers playing guitars, and three cupids, each one pouring water out of a fish, with a stone head of Elvis at the top, smiling his Elvis smile. Someone has put a wreath of flowers around his neck.

Charmaine is so happy. The dark part of herself that was with her for so long seems to be totally gone. It’s as if someone has taken an eraser and erased the pain of those memories. It’s not that she can’t remember the things that happened – those things Grandma Win used to tell her not to think about. She can remember them, but only like pictures, or a bad dream. They don’t have power over her any more. It must have been something the doctors did when they were fixing the inside of her head so she would love Stan, only Stan, and nobody else. It was the other Charmaine who’d wandered away from him, and that Charmaine is gone forever. It’s so amazing what can be done with lasers!

She even watched Max, or Phil, being married to Aurora without a twinge of longing or jealousy. And at the reception, when people were kissing the brides, Max kissed her mildly on the cheek, and though once she would have melted like a microwaved Popsicle at his smallest touch, it didn’t bother her at all; it was just more or less like having a fly land on you, she could brush it off and think no more about it. All those things they did, that time when she was so crazy about him –
crazy
is the right word for it – they’ve faded. It’s like she was under some kind of a spell and then, poof, it was gone. She recalls those interludes clearly but distantly, and also fondly, almost as if she’s recalling the antics of a child, though not herself as a child. She didn’t do any antics then. She was too scared.

There’s Max, or Phil, with Aurora now; he’s under one of the sun umbrellas, he’s got Aurora backed up against the table, his arms are around her, his torso is squashed up against hers, he’s kissing her neck. You can tell he can hardly wait to get her into bed and run those skilful hands of his all over her face job. Charmaine searches her heart, and the only thing she can find in there in the Max compartment is the best of wishes for Aurora, because it’s obvious Max is devoted to her, he follows her around with his eyes all the time, despite what she looks like. Anyway she looks better than she did, because she’s glowing with joy, and it’s the inner beauty that counts. Most of the time. Some of the time. And Max must be happy too! He must be!

There’s Stan over by the Cupid fountain with two Marilyns, who are feeding him bites of the wedding cake. The cake is white, with blue-and-pink icing in a design of bluebirds holding ribbons and festoons of roses in their beaks and claws, which is the design Charmaine ordered to go with the total decoration scheme. It’s very intricate, but she got it 3-D laser-printed.

The Marilyns are definitely overdoing the act, and in those pink taffeta off-the-shoulder dresses you can peer right down their fronts, which is what Stan is doing, but you can’t blame him, because what’s a shelf display for except to be looked at?

It’s time for an intervention. She strolls over, rather quickly. “Thank you for taking such good care of my wonderful husband,” she says, linking her arm through Stan’s. Then she sees that one of the Marilyns is Veronica, though with a white-blond wig, and everyone knows Veronica can love only her blue bear, poor thing, the same way that Charmaine can love only Stan – that story was all over the TV, Veronica’s quite the celebrity now – so it’s all right.

“Veronica!” she says. “I didn’t know it would be you!”

“How could I miss it?” says Veronica. “I wanted to see the happy ending. You remember Sandi?”

“Sandi!” Charmaine cries, giving her a hug. The last time she saw Sandi in person she was plasticuffed, with shackles around her ankles. “Oh my god! I’m so glad you got out okay! I saw you on TV! It’s like a miracle!”

“It was a close one,” says Sandi. “They’d stuck the hood on and I was just being hauled out the cell door, I figure now on my way to get recycled for spares, though I didn’t realize it at the time. Then there was a lot of cellphone babble, Jocelyn telling them to hold off on everything till further notice because there’d been an exposé and Ed had gone AWOL with the profits. Those guards dropped me on the floor and ran for it, and by the time I picked myself up and made it to the outside, all the gates were open and it was like,
Out of here!
What a traffic jam! Plus I got a bruised elbow. But hey! Who’s complaining? I’m still in one piece, I’m not shishkebob.”

“I keep telling her they wouldn’t have cut her up for parts,” says Veronica. “She’s too cute. They would’ve shipped her out here and done the brain thing on her. She would’ve ended up with some wrinkly rich dude, acting out his every whim.”

“Like the Fuck Tank,” says Sandi, “only this time with feeling.”

”And with a lot more cash,” says Veronica, and they laugh.

Sandi raises her champagne glass. “Here’s to the old days,” she says. “May they rot in hell.”

The Marilyns head over to the champagne table for a refill, and Charmaine puts her arms around Stan and squeezes him. “Oh, Stan,” she says. “This is so wonderful! Aren’t we lucky?” Stan squeezes her back, though in an absent-minded way. He seems dazed, or maybe it’s the champagne. He’s been drinking it like soda pop, he’s had more than enough. But he’ll be fine tomorrow, thinks Charmaine. It’s worked out for the best, because what’s past is prologued all’s well that ends well, like Grandma Win used to say. Not that this is the end. No, it’s the beginning, a new beginning. The beginning as it should have been. Not everyone gets a chance at that.