The Venus Fix (11 page)

“All the important legal minds in the city, along with all
the shrinks. There’s a joke in there somewhere but I can’t think of it now. Strange bedfellows, that’s it. Stacey O’Connell and I were sitting right behind a couple she’s been counseling for two years. I saw three lawyers I’ve worked with. Two of them saw me but went out of their way to avoid me. Kira Rushkoff wound up sitting behind Stella Dobson, and Stacey and I were worried Stella was going to notice.”

“Why?”

“Kira Rushkoff was the lawyer who won the privacy invasion lawsuit against Stella.”

“That’s right,” I said. “I forgot that. Do you know about Stella’s new book?”

“No, I didn’t get a chance to talk to her. How do
you
know about it?”

“Small city. Small world. She’s approached Blythe. She wants to interview her.”

Nina gave me a very confused look. “She wants to interview a sex therapist? Surely she would have called me. We’ve known each other for years.”

“No, she doesn’t want to interview her as a sex therapist. I don’t think she has any idea that Blythe works here. She wants to interview her about her Web-cam work. She probably doesn’t even know Blythe’s name. Online she’s called Psyche, after the Greek goddess.”

“I hope her past doesn’t wind up being a problem for her with patients one day,” Nina mused.

“It shouldn’t,” I said, thinking of the mask, certain I was right.

Saturday
Thirteen days remaining

T
he ride in from the airport led me to expect far more hurricane devastation than I found in the French Quarter. “It’s enchanting,” I said as the taxi drove down the tree-lined street, past the row of ornate town houses with their iron balustrades and architecture that belonged to another era. My window was down, and the warm air blowing in felt exotic after the freezing temperatures in New York. “It’s not like any other city, is it?”

Noah smiled. “No, it isn’t. It’s crazy and lazy and has a rhythm, taste and texture all its own. But I don’t want to tell you what it’s like. That’s why you’re here. To find out for yourself.” He squeezed my hand.

Noah had picked me up that morning after calling the night before and telling me to be ready at seven-thirty and to pack for two days in mid-seventy-degree weather. It wasn’t until we got to the airport that I found out we were going to New Orleans. He was due in court there on Monday and thought we’d spend the weekend together; I’d go back Sunday evening, and he’d stay on.

We got out of the taxi on a small side street, which looked
as if nothing had changed there for more than a hundred years, and walked into the Saint Dennis hotel.

We’d stepped into what, to my untrained eye, looked like a perfectly restored mansion from the late 1800s. The lobby had tall potted palms, velvet settees and high windows with organza curtains that pooled onto the polished parquet floors. The scent of lush flowers perfumed the air. I stood still and breathed in for a few seconds.

“It’s magnolia,” Noah told me. I smiled because he knew what I was doing.

The concierge rang for a bellman, who took us in a mirrored elevator up to the third floor. Our room was decorated as authentically as the lobby, and while Noah tipped the bellman, I took a quick inventory. The king-size bed was covered with a heavy lavender damask spread, an antique writing desk stood in the corner and lovely prints of belle epoque New Orleans street scenes hung on the walls. A huge bouquet of freesia, roses and iris rested on the fireplace, gracing the room with its perfume. But it was the small balcony—with its wrought-iron railing, wicker chairs, ivy-covered trellis, pots of geraniums and enchanting view—that charmed me.

Three floors below us was a small courtyard, overgrown with lush, leafy trees, the flower beds studded with dark purple, lavender and blue blossoms. Occasional bursts of yellow. There was a stone fountain of an angel, with water spilling out of the shell she held.

I stood there with the water splashing in the stone basin and a lilting jazz tune coming from somewhere, enjoying the scent of humid green air and a breeze that was as warm and gentle as Noah’s touch when he came up from behind and wrapped his arms around me. We stood like that for a moment, and then he dropped his arms.

“Let’s take a walk. I can’t wait to show you New Orleans.”

On the plane, sitting beside him while he slept, I’d imagined that we’d fall onto the bed as soon as we’d closed the door behind us. I’d imagined the room—how wide the bed, how soft the pillows, how fresh-smelling the sheets. We would close the shutters but leave the windows open so that the light wouldn’t be too harsh, and so the fresh air could tumble over us. In my mind, while the plane sailed over the clouds, Noah and I undressed quickly, and in the cool, shaded room pressed up against each other, fitting our bodies together, not losing a beat, our breath quickening, wiping out everything else.

As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t wish fantasy into fact, and as much as I wanted him to stay with me on the balcony, I didn’t say anything. I was actually shy. And then I was angry with myself for feeling that way, and for allowing the fantasy to take root in my head and disappoint me when it didn’t come true. This wasn’t like me. At least, wasn’t like me before I’d met Noah.

It didn’t matter. The moment had passed. Noah was waiting for me, ready to show me his hometown.

He searched my face in the elevator.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for some clue as to how you’re feeling.”

“You’re trying to gauge my mood from the way I’m looking at you, from how I’m holding my hands, from the slant of my eyes. You’re using the tools I use on my patients, judging their words against their actions and mental equilibrium. That’s not fair.”

“Why not? You do it all the time.”

I laughed. He was right. “Okay then, so tell me, how am I?”

“You’re going to be fine, darlin’. I promise.”

I
t was a work night. ZaZa sat at the glass table in the dining area of her loft, with a glass of cheap white wine that really wasn’t half bad, and waited for Tania. She was jumpy because she wanted to see her so very badly. For more than a year, every Saturday, Tania Hutchison would show up around midnight. They’d drink some wine, light a joint, and after they were relaxed, they’d get undressed and go at it.

She looked at her watch. Why was Tania late? ZaZa got up, put the bottle of wine back in the fridge and sat down at the table again.

She’d decided. She was going to tell her. Finally. She’d kept the secret way too long. Months earlier, this had stopped being just a way to pick up some extra cash, to supplement the pathetic salary she made as a waitress while trying to get work as an actress.

Like too many other women, ZaZa had come to New York with stars in her eyes, and three years later had only managed to get some work as an extra in a dozen commercials. Every few months, she would decide to pack it in, move away, get a normal job, and yet something made her stay. She hated
waitressing. Hated the studio loft in the crappy building in Hell’s Kitchen. Even with all the painting and decorating, it still looked like shit. She hated the hope she felt every time she went on an audition, and then the greater hope she felt every time she got a callback, and then the torture of waiting for the phone call that she’d gotten the part. The phone call that never came.

At first she’d resisted when Barbara, a fellow actress, had told her about this job. But ZaZa needed some new clothes, a good haircut and decent highlights. If she didn’t look good, she definitely wouldn’t get any work. So she’d said she’d try it. After all, how bad could it be—it was acting, wasn’t it? And she and Barbara were both actresses. They’d done scenes together in class. They’d gotten friendly, gone out for coffee, talked about their boyfriends when they had them, and their lack thereof when they didn’t. They’d become friends, not just fellow thespians.

ZaZa jumped. Damn. The buzzer was too loud. She’d complained to the landlord about it a dozen times already. Every time he saw her in the halls, he wiped his hands on his already dirty jeans, leered at her—not enough to upset her but just enough to creep her out and make her wonder if he’d seen her on the Internet—and promised that as soon as he finished fixing the floor in 4-B or repainting 6-A, he’d fix the buzzer. But it never happened.

Tania brought a freezing cold whoosh of air with her. As she unwrapped her scarf and her hair fell back into place, ZaZa pretended she wasn’t watching her, but she was. Tania’s nose was a little longer than was considered beautiful, and her jaw was too strong, but that just made her more striking.

The two women did not kiss hello, but they seemed genuinely glad to see each other. While Tania took off her coat, ZaZa poured her a glass of wine.

When, after almost two years, Barbara had finally given up hunting for work as an actress and moved out of New York, ZaZa had recruited her new partner. She’d met Tania doing extra work and they’d gotten friendly, going to auditions together. After a few weeks, ZaZa felt that their friendship was good enough to withstand the suggestion, so she took on Barbara’s role and broached the subject of the gig. First, Tania laughed. Then she asked to see what ZaZa did online. They’d sat in front of ZaZa’s computer, with two glasses of wine, and when ZaZa hit the play button, Tania leaned in.

She didn’t say anything while the footage ran. She didn’t get up, or move back, or squirm. The longer she watched, the more hopeful ZaZa became. When the scene was over, Tania stood up and told ZaZa she needed to think about it. A week later she called and said yes, she would do it, because she needed the money. All the stress in the sentence was on the word
money.

That had been more than a year ago.

This would be the fifty-third time they’d stripped down and played at being lovers for the sake of the thousands of men who were out there in the black nowhere watching. ZaZa didn’t like to think about them. No, she
couldn’t
think about them. Couldn’t picture them, couldn’t wonder at what they were doing—it would poison her performance. Instead, each time they got together, ZaZa and Tania spent the first hour or so drinking wine and improvising the story they would use that night. ZaZa played at the scenarios as if she were on Broadway.

It was a test of their acting skills, Tania had said.

ZaZa had agreed. “It’s great practice for us. As good as any class I’ve ever been in.”

“So who should we be tonight?” Tania asked once she’d had some wine and warmed up.

ZaZa had bought a used paperback of Sappho poems and read two of them aloud.

“I love those. Let’s use them,” Tania said.

“You don’t think it might go over our audience’s heads?”

“As long as we give them virtual head with the scene, they won’t care, now, will they?” Tania had laughed, stood up and started to unbutton the black cardigan she was wearing.

“Don’t,” ZaZa put out her hand to stop her friend. “Let me do it. They’ll like that.”

And then they turned on the camera.

F
or dinner, Noah took me to a small restaurant that wasn’t in any of the guidebooks but was packed. He introduced me to Bella, the owner, who was in her sixties and had big blond hair and earrings that dangled down to her shoulders. Despite the crowd waiting at the small bar, we’d gotten a table immediately, along with a basket of hot corn sticks, dripping with butter, and a plate of spicy pickled okra that I wasn’t sure I wanted to taste. Once I had, I couldn’t stop eating them.

I let Noah order for me—crab étouffé atop a plate of dirty rice—and then ate more than I should have. The wine was crisp and cold, a welcome respite from the food that was setting my mouth afire.

Afterward, we walked over to Blues Palace, an unassuming club. After the band had played a few songs, the sax player noticed Noah in the audience and called him up onto the stage, insisting he play with them. He looked at me and I nodded. Once on stage, he sat down at the piano and his fingers took off.

Until I met Noah, I’d never listened to music just for the music; it had always been in the background. But I’d discovered
that if you give yourself up to it and really listen, your body begins to resonate with the notes, and you hear it inside of you as a sensation as much as a sound.

Noah improvised for more than an hour and we got back to the hotel a little after one in the morning. There was enough moonglow coming through the open window for us to see each other. Without speaking, he reached out, put his hands around my waist and pulled me toward him. I felt as if I were moving in slow motion. First there was his face, with his soft blue eyes looking at me, and then it was closer to mine. I could feel his breath on my cheeks while his fingers gripped me, digging through my sweater and into my skin, the pressure contrasting with the gentle expression on his face. And then there was nothing but the blackness inside my own eyes and the sensation of his lips compelling mine to open. Lips moving in a way that makes nerve endings burst. Lips moving in a way that sends shivers up the back of your neck. Lips that cover your mouth and tease you alive. Lips that do not stop even as one kiss moves into the next, and the next one after that.

The rest of my body felt the kiss as if every pore of my skin was experiencing the same sensation and reacting the same way. It doesn’t make sense now, but that was exactly how it felt. As if his fingers were suddenly kissing my waist, and our thighs were kissing each other, and my breasts, beneath my sweater, were kissing his chest, and my shoulder bones were kissing his arms.

His lips kept returning to mine even as he moved me toward the bed and laid me down and pinned my arms to my sides. For one moment, he raised himself up on his elbows and hovered over me, smiling, watching me, before swooping down and taking a kiss away from me, and then giving me one back.