All Eyes on Her (11 page)

“What do you want?” He wiped his brow and tried to get a better look at me.

“Your name, for starters.” I planted my hands on my hips in an effort not to look like an ant from his perspective.

He raised an eyebrow, seeming pleased. “Will that get me your number?”

“All right, buddy. I am not in the mood for this,” I said, rooting around inside of my purse for the cell phone. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but this is private property. It’s my mother’s house, and I’m planning on selling it. So if you don’t get off that roof right now, I’ll have to call the police.”

“No need for that,” he said, climbing down a ladder that was propped up against one side of the house. “Don’t get your thong all in a bunch, lady. The name’s Luke, and I’m coming down.”

I demanded, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call the police, Luke—” when he was finally standing next to me “—or I’ll make sure they’re here in less than two minutes.”

I held out the cell phone with the numbers 911 punched in.

“Damn, you L.A. women really are cranky when you don’t get your way.” He smiled, flashing a surprisingly perfect set of teeth before adopting the most patronizing voice I had heard since Jonathan tried to explain to his date at the last company dinner why the water in the finger bowls was not meant for drinking. “Like I said, I’m Luke. And if your last name is Gupta, then your mom hired me to renovate this roof. So don’t you worry about a thing, miss. You just go and get yourself another pedicure or whatever, and let me do my job, okay?”

I seriously considered kicking him in the nuts. Not for my own sake, but for his. If we didn’t expect dogs to refrain from assuming our children were dinner without a few newspaper taps to the snout, then why should we expect walking erections to refrain from dismissing women half their size without a few swift kicks to the groin?

“Look, Luke.” I used the same voice I once employed while explaining to a moth-eaten former rock star why hopping into his hot tub was not a part of the services Steel paid me to provide. “My ‘pedicure or whatever’ is none of your concern. And it wouldn’t kill a guy like you to consider washing your face or shaving once in a while, either. As for your little job on the roof, there’s been a change of plans. I am selling the house, so we’ll need to stop construction. Immediately.”

Unfortunately, my speech failed to stifle his amusement. On the contrary, it seemed to tickle him practically pink. Yes, he was the grown man with a ponytail in a Dorito-streaked T-shirt, but
he
was the one laughing at me.

“Stopping construction is not a problem,” he replied, and shot me a lascivious grin. “But stopping payment is. Your mother’s check was nonrefundable, and if I were you, I would want that leak fixed before I tried to sell the place.”

“What?” I swallowed hard to keep my composure, lest I give him the satisfaction of seeing me lose my cool. “But I can’t sell a house that’s still under construction.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to wait until after we’re done.” He crossed his bulging forearms before him and threw me a contemptuous expression. “So it looks like you’re stuck with us. At least for another few days,” he told me.

“First of all, don’t tell me what to do,” I growled, gesturing with my car keys because I had had enough of him. “Secondly, I will expect the work to be completed promptly, or else you can look forward to a massive lawsuit, which I will personally litigate. Personally. As in,
when I’m not getting a pedicure or something, I’m working as an attorney.
And third, don’t waste your breath trying your burly contractor routine on me or strain your neck watching me walk away…I’m engaged.”

“Y
OU’VE GOT QUITE A PAIR ON YOU!” SOMEBODY ACCUSED
me, while I admired the view from Zinc’s rooftop bar in Manhattan Beach that Friday night.

“Thanks. But you’re not the first man to tell me that” was my canned response, along with happily baring my enormous fangs.

This wasn’t your usual hint of an impending public breakup. It was a compliment, coming from a werewolf, at Steel’s Annual Costume Fete. Every year, the partners agreed on a theme for the event, and every year, the entire team went way over the top in attempts to outdo one another’s costumes. This year’s theme was
The Night Of The Living Dead
. Burnished scarlet velvet lined the booths, gothic candelabras floated on rafts across the rooftop pool, and golden goblets and bubbling cauldrons overflowed with something resembling blood but tasting a whole lot more like raspberries.

Aside from giving us the chance to take the usual Hollywood dress-up to another level, the Fete always promised at least a few office rumors about litigators who either accidentally woke up next to their clients, or alone in remote corners of West Hollywood. Since said clients were always invited, security was routinely top-notch, to the point where no one other than the partners even knew the location until hours before the event. And our clients made full use of the chance to roam a party incognito, donning outfits so outrageous that they could usually barely be recognized.

And we all know how anonymity breeds audacity, which often looks a lot like stupidity. Hence the potential for trouble and the awkwardness of doing damage control the morning after.

Last year’s theme was
The Arabian Nights,
and the year before that was
The Venetian Ball.
I discovered early on that the place to go for a costume in Los Angeles was
Splashy,
a members-only custom-tailored, lingerie and garment boutique, accessible exclusively by private appointment. Their seamstresses could professionally fit everything from bikinis to medical scrubs to crotchless mesh bodysuits in ways that made anybody look like a million bucks, at no extra charge. This year, they had transformed me into
The Queen of the Vampires,
and fastened me into a black leather gown that bumped me up at least two bra sizes. They’d even helped me find a pair of fangs that were two inches long and sharp enough for me to risk hurting myself whenever I spoke.

“I bet you could tear me apart with a set of fangs like that!” the werewolf continued. “And I’m pretty sure I’d thank you for it.”

“You’re not the first man to tell me that, either.” I grinned at the furry stranger, wishing I could see him better through what looked like hours of professional makeup.

In the light of day, would he have a scar running from ear to ear? Or a pair of eyes set only millimeters apart? Or actually be hairy enough not to have required very much of a costume at all?

You could never be sure who you were dealing with in a city where real estate developers turned out to be house-sitters, men who claimed to be in their thirties had an extra fifteen years and a couple of plastic surgeries behind them, and the hot-shot music producers who you met in the VIP section routinely turned out to be living in their cars. The last time a man seemed so happy about the prospect of me tearing him apart, he wasn’t wearing a werewolf’s costume at all; he was some pin-striped venture capitalist I’d met when I wandered accidentally into an unmarked S & M lounge off La Cienega.

“So how about it?” Contestant number one extended an elbow toward me, and asked, “Care to take me back to your castle and give me new reasons to howl at the moon? No names…no questions…”

I could tell by the tone of his voice that the prospect of sexual anonymity was supposed to entice me. But it didn’t. Judging by his boldness and his charm, I wasn’t too concerned about the chances of my hairy friend winding up with nobody to paw at that night.

“Maybe some other time,” I said, guzzling down half the contents of my goblet and spotting Cassie on a sofa across the way.

“But I’ll let you tie me up!” he tried one more time, with a paw on my arm, “I’ve been a very bad wolf.”

“And how do you know that I wouldn’t take off your mask once I had you under my control?”

“Maybe I was hoping you would.”

It was the nicest kind of dirty offer a girl could have hoped for at a party like that. So I smiled, turned and walked away.

I waved at Cassie and Jonathan before detouring to refill my goblet at the punch cauldron. A hammered and partially beheaded Marie Antoinette stared back at me from the opposite side of the pot. It was Stefanie, of course, but for the first time I could find no real animosity in her eyes. She looked worn-out, more than anything else, and quickly enough, the twinge of guilt over my being jealous of Sheila came screaming back to me. Because Stefanie wasn’t merely looking at me. She was looking over my shoulder at Cassie, who had draped herself impishly across the shoulders of a joyful Jonathan. Undoubtedly, Stefanie was expecting me to say something, but the disappointment on her face was so raw and conspicuous that I grabbed the ladle, topped off her goblet, and then quietly filled my own.

It wasn’t my problem, I reminded myself. I shook it off and went to busy myself with the business of making nice with the partners and their partners instead. The first ones I spotted were Niles and his wife, Barbara, dressed as Frankenstein and his electrified bride. I threw my shoulders back and marched over to them, hand already extended.

“Monica, you remember my wife, Barb,” Niles slurred, with the first prurient smile I had ever seen cross his face. It was rather unsettling; kind of like finding out that your grandfather still has a libido.

“How nice that you could make it, Monica.” Barb spoke through clenched teeth, extending a rather chilly handshake.

“It’s nice to see you again, Barb. It was a shame you couldn’t make it last year. And what fantastic costumes…the makeup must have taken hours,” I gushed.

“Yes, yes it did,” Niles answered. Barb simply blinked and stared at me.

“You know, we don’t get many chances to see the partners as real people. So this party’s always a lot of fun. They’re all business at the office.” I aimed the comment directly at her, searching for some hint of acceptance.

“Yes,” she murmured, then glanced over my shoulder for someone more interesting. “I’m sure that he is.”

“Monica’s handling some of our most difficult clients at the moment,” Niles offered, slipping an arm around his wife’s increasingly stiff frame. “And she’s doing a great job for us from what I hear.”

“Oh, thank you, Niles.” I was blushing a little, which made me glad to be wearing so much white powder.

“How nice for you,” Barb replied tactfully, without making eye contact.

Now, I finally appreciated what was really going on here. You see, any confident single professional woman is always aware that people are on the lookout for signs of her inflated ego. Obviously, the best way to ingratiate yourself with anyone is to ask them about themselves. But in the case of a boss’s wife, one always runs the additional risk of slicing herself open on the obligatory, double-edged question: should I ask about her career, and risk offending her since she might be a housewife who’s questioning that choice, or should I inquire about her children, and risk offending another professional woman by presuming she doesn’t work outside of the home?

“So Barb,” I opted for Door Number One and continued, “are you an attorney as well?”

“No.” Her voice was as flat as a gymnast’s cleavage. “I take care of our three children. Do you have any
children
, Monica?”

“No.” I gave up. “Not yet.”

“And are you
marr
ied?” Suddenly she had tons of attention just for me.

“Nope. Not yet.” I tried not to react.

Immediately, her thin, pursed lips snapped into a smile, and she placed a signaling hand on her husband’s back.

“Well, I think I see the Hudsons over there. We should go and say hello, Niles. I haven’t seen Laura since our Mommy-And-Me classes. But really, how nice that you could make it, Veronica,” she concluded, while gliding away.

Now would have been a good time for that boost to my ego. Where was a wolfman when you needed him?

Last year, on the morning after the Fete, it looked as if a fairy had been bludgeoned to death in my bathtub. But that was attributable as much to my drunkenness as it was to Raj’s haste to get me out of my naughty-harem-girl getup. I was still finding traces of body-glitter in the towels and tile-cracks, and frankly, just the memory of his sparkly biceps peeking out from his tattered slave-boy outfit was enough to convince me to spend just a little longer in the shower the morning after this year’s Fete.

Showered and fresh, I kept gritting my teeth while I repeatedly poked myself in the eye trying to remove the last of my fake eyelashes. Applying them individually may have looked more natural, but removing them one at a time was about as much fun as tweezing my bikini line. My eyelids were still puffy thirty minutes later as I settled into my breakfast nook with my latte and my latest copy of
Pucker
. I was just about to flip to the horoscopes when the phone rang.

“How come you aren’t answering your phone?” Sheila asked. “It’s Saturday.”

“Good morning to you, too.” I pulled my robe tighter around me.

“I called twice, a half hour apart. And you didn’t answer. Did you bring somebody home from that Fete last night? Don’t lie to me.”

“No, Sheila. I was in the shower.”

“Fine, sorry. It turns out that pregnancy makes you horny. And it also makes you gassy, in case you were wondering.” Talk about too much information. “Which kind of puts a dampener on the horniness, since nobody wants to be around you.”

“Gas is not sexy,” I agreed, leaning my head against the wall behind me and looking out the window. “But don’t worry. You’re not the only horny woman who has no one to play with but herself.”

“Is that what you were doing in the shower for so long?

“The showerhead started it!” I squealed.

“I wish my showerhead would start something. I swear I’ve never been so frisky in my life. And Josh is hiding from me, I think. Seriously. He went out golfing at like…6:00 a.m. He
never
does that on his days off. So now I’m all alone, feeling rejected by my showerhead. Also, Josh’s mom found out, and that pisses me off. Who knew pregnancy was so complicated?”

“Not me. Any motherly advice from the monster-in-law?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. She told me to spend as much time as possible looking at attractive people while I’m pregnant. She says it will make my baby come out good-looking.”

“I always thought that the best way to have good-looking kids was to have sex with a good-looking man.”

“Then I guess you have a lot to learn about motherhood.”

“Or your crazy mother-in-law’s superstitions,” I decided, glancing at a photograph of Raj and myself at Zuma beach that was tacked to the refrigerator door. “So, how are you feeling, anyway? Do you need anything?”

“We’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.”

“We are?”

“Monica, stop it. I know you. What’s wrong?”

“Okay, okay.” I gave in, thinking that my concerns seemed impossibly petty compared to those of a woman with uncontrollable flatulence, looming hemorrhoids and the certainty of having to squeeze a watermelon out through a pinhole in her very near future. “It’s nothing. A bunch of silly stuff. You know that my mom changed her mind about moving here and asked me to sell the house for her. Well, there was this annoying contractor who was there when I went to take a look at the place and he was just rude. And then Raj sent me an e-mail saying he’s staying in London longer and telling me we’ll talk when he gets back, which I think was a way of telling me to back off, since he obviously has no intention of calling me anytime soon.”

“What were his exact words?”

“Take care.” I felt hurt all over again.

“Ouch.” She obviously felt it, too.

“Yeah.” I propped my feet up on the table, rearranging my bathrobe.

“You think maybe you should fly over there and surprise him? Make some grand gesture?” She brightened. “Maybe that’s what he needs to see from you right now.”

“I don’t know, Sheila. I’m not interested in playing games. With werewolves or otherwise. I met one last night, by the way. And now my mom expects me to clean up her mess for her. And everyone misunderstands me. Like that partner’s wife at the Fete last night. And you know what? That damn roofing contractor was just so…just…”

Cocky dipped in irritating, wrapped with uncouth, rolled in presumptuous and sprinkled with generous chunks of both grimy and self-importance?

“Sexy?” she asked.

“What?
The contractor?
” I thought about it for a second. “I don’t know. Maybe a little bit. But that’s not the point.”

“Sexy like you wouldn’t kick him out of bed if you woke up next to him, or sexy like the cover of a romance novel?”

“Sheila, I’m engaged!”