Dangerous (13 page)

Too dark? Too withdrawn?
I fretted, as I evaluated my quasi-Goth eye makeup in the bathroom mirror. But I remembered Millie’s makeup at the Christmas party, and had no intention of letting her beat me in the game for Val’s attention, now that we were outright rivals. Fortune favors the bold, or so they say.

§

It was Millie who greeted me at Val’s door.

We couldn’t have dressed any more differently. Where I was dark and covered, she was gossamer and sunshine in a warm-hued paisley cocktail dress with a plunging V neckline. Her cheerful three-tiered skirt stopped at mid-thigh.

“Hi, Koishi,” she said with a predatory smile, sizing me up. She fussed a bit over my attire, adjusting the turtleneck, smoothing my sleeves, before lifting the amber pendant for inspection. “Oh, how pretty!”

“It’s a gift from Val,” I said, and watched her carefully. She was my rival and a serious threat, but I couldn’t resist that small jab.

Millie gently lowered the pendant and met my gaze. “You must have been very good,” she said, her face betraying nothing. “Come on in.”

I stepped inside, and she closed the door behind me.

“Val worried you might be late,” Millie lied, trying to put me off-balance. It didn’t work, I knew very well I was ten minutes early. I was always early.

I followed her through the house. Because of the open back of her dress, I saw she had a small tattoo on her right shoulder blade, a little dagger with a drop of blood at the tip. I assumed the =V= on its hilt meant ‘Val’. I hadn’t seen it at the party, so she must have gotten it afterward.

We met our Keeper in the library, where she was returning a book to its place on the shelf.

“There you are,” she said.

Val was elegant but conservative in charcoal gray slacks and a gabardine jacket over a light gray sweater. Her hair was up loosely, with a few locks allowed to fall gently upon her smooth forehead.

She turned to face us. Millie and I both knelt reflexively, whereupon I discovered that kneeling in a long skirt is no simple matter. Stupid me, I hadn’t considered that.

“I’m here for you, Ma’am,” I said with my head bowed.

After a moment, Val spoke.

“Millie has done this before, and you haven’t. I plan on a long, pleasant dinner. You two are there to please me, and see that I want for nothing. I expect you to be courteous, well-behaved, and attentive. You do not want to arouse my displeasure tonight."

She let me digest that threat.

“This will be difficult for you, Koishi, because I am not in the habit of commanding when enjoying myself this way. You must anticipate my needs. But I’m confident you’ll learn.”

Here in Val’s world, even mundane things like dining became perilous, full of dread.
Especially
dining. I understood what a soldier must feel as he prepares to join a battle.

“Marines, we are leaving,” she said, and chuckled. Millie rose to fetch Val’s coat and purse before the thought even crossed my mind. This promised to be a long, difficult evening.

§

Millie, I learned, was very good at this.

My only chance to participate was by luck, as I stood nearest the valet when he gave us the ticket for Val’s car (her other one, a gray Audi RS4). I placed the ticket carefully into my purse. But in every other case it was Millie who took charge of things: greeting the hostess, taking Val’s coat, and so on. Millie was always there first, moving with grace and purpose, anticipating Val’s needs. Shaming me in the process.

The restaurant was called
Wabi-Sabi
, an upscale Japanese place in West Hollywood, with a good line of people waiting to be seated. But the hostess smiled at seeing us, and showed us to a table without hesitation. I wondered what Millie had done, ahead of time, to secure our VIP treatment.

The restaurant was gorgeous, softly lit by recessed lighting, a perfect example of the tasteful minimalism that is so uniquely Japanese. The clientele was of mixed ethnicity, but all came from the higher strata of society, at least from my perspective. I even thought I saw Bruce Willis sitting at one of the tables, looking older and balder than I expected. There was no time to gawk, however, as my attention was tightly focused on Val.

Our group made an unusual spectacle. We were not simply three women meeting for dinner; there was no disguising our obeisance to Val. She was clearly the planet, and we her two close-orbiting moons. I felt many eyes on me as we were led to our table, but it was nothing compared to my fear of Val, should I misstep.

Once seated, Val took a small notepad and pen from her purse and placed them on the table, then opened the notepad to a blank page. When she wrote
M
and
K
at the top, separated by a space, I felt a sense of dread.

“Millie tells me you two met Friday morning, after I left for work,” Val said, her gray-green eyes locked to mine.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said. “It was quite a surprise.”

“I’m sure it was."

I said nothing, and hoped my face did not betray panic.

“I’m going to freshen up,” Val said. “Please order me a drink.” She was looking squarely at me, so I knew the responsibility was mine. She stood and walked to the restroom.

I studied the beverage menu and frowned over the bewildering array of choices as if my life depended on it.

“It’s got to be
sake
, I think,” I said aloud, hoping that even while Millie was my enemy, her reaction might give clues to Val’s preferences: a sneer, perhaps, or a frown. But she only smiled in a way that said
you’re on your own, bitch
. Still, when in Rome…. It had to be
sake
.

Except I didn’t know which to choose. There were at least twenty different brands, and their names were absolutely no help. The biggest distinction seemed to be that of
dry
or
sweet
. “Something dry, I think,” I hazarded, watching Millie.

“Perfect,” she said, so eagerly I smelled a trap. Had I blundered with that choice? Should I choose sweet?

When the waiter came to ask about drinks, I was so unsure that I picked one almost at random. “We’ll have a bottle of Sato no Homare, please.” It was one of the sweeter, not dry, varieties. He nodded and left.

Millie’s smile broadened. “You’re part Japanese, right? So you must know a lot about
sake
.”

Which was untrue, because I’d never really absorbed any culture from Mom, especially after we moved stateside.

“Was that Bruce Willis back there?” she asked, turning to look. I shrugged, too nervous about the drinks to manage light banter with my enemy. We both studied the menu.

Val didn’t ask what I’d ordered when she returned. When it arrived, Millie poured a cup of the warm
sake
and deferentially offered it to Val. There was that smile, again.

The look on Val’s face, upon tasting the
sake
, told me it had been a poor choice. Her cold regard was withering, and my heart froze as she made a little mark under the
K
in her notepad.

“Millie,” Val said with a chillingly light tone, “Perhaps you can select a drinkable
sake
. This one is quite unsuitable.”

I despised Millie in that moment. She’d deliberately steered me into the blunder with her subtle miscues.

After the waiter announced the daily specials, Millie asked him for a few minutes to decide. She picked a different
sake
, too, and he departed. Val did not open her menu, but said:

“Koishi, you will choose my appetizer, and later, dessert. Millie will select my main course items. When you order for yourself, get at least three items. The portions are rather small.”

Perhaps if my next choices were pleasing I could avoid a new mark under my initial. But I had no idea what Japanese dishes Val liked, or even what was recommended here. The consequences for failure were sure to be dire. I’d never studied a menu with so much concentration, and the strain was exhausting.

When the new bottle of
sake
arrived it proved far more to Val’s liking.

I took several minutes to decide on Val’s appetizers. I’m sure the waiter thought we were quite bizarre when he took our order. It went like this:

He asked, “Have you decided?”

Val looked to me, and I realized I was to begin. “Ma’am,” I told him, gracefully indicating Val with my outstretched hand, palm up (rather than
pointing
, a crime for which she’d once slapped me), “will have the Seafood Miso soup and Lobster Avocado salad."

He didn’t write anything down, simply nodded. “And for yourself, Miss?”

“Um, the regular miso, and the Seaweed Medley,” I said.

Millie ordered her own appetizers next, then three items each for Val and herself. I’d chosen my dishes almost at random, being far too anxious to care.

I don’t know how the waiter kept so many items straight in his head without taking notes, but he did. During all of this Val said nothing, watching with a detachment that gave no clue as to the suitability of our choices.

Once we’d ordered and the waiter gone, I faced the next minefield of the evening: conversation. Fear tied my stomach in knots as I worried how to proceed.

“Ma’am showed me your artwork,” Millie said brightly. “It’s nice."

“Thank you,” I said, secretly annoyed.
Nice
was not a word used in any meaningful discussion of art, especially when Val was the subject. Millie might as well have said my work was
tidy
. Clearly she knew nothing about art, so I endeavored to make her squirm. “Do you have a favorite artist?"

She thought for a moment. “Boris Vallejo maybe, or Royo."

Oh brother
. I smiled, vindicated by Millie’s pedestrian tastes. “Yes, they’re quite
nice
."

Without the slightest change in her pleasant expression, Val put another mark under the
K
. Jesus.

After a pregnant silence, Val said, “I believe I’m in the mood for some haiku. Wouldn’t that be lovely?"

“Yes, Ma’am,” Millie and I said in unison, with equal dread.

“I want each of you to take a moment to compose a haiku about the other doll,” Val said.

I can’t imagine what the waiter thought as he brought our appetizers, to find Millie and I staring quietly at the table, counting syllables upon our fingers, desperately seeking inspiration.

I’m sure Millie hated the task as much as I. Val sipped at her soup, delicately ate her salad, and enjoyed our struggle. My mind was a jumble, and I found myself focusing on the memory of Millie’s new tattoo.

“Why don’t you give us yours first, Koishi?” Val prompted.

I prayed I’d counted the syllables correctly in my head. She’d slapped me in public once, when my haiku was a syllable too long. I sat up straight and said:

small inky needles,
not Cupid’s arrow, have pierced
her flesh, tasted blood

“Acceptable,” Val said. I tried not to sigh with relief. “Millie?"

Millie took a breath and recited:

what is for dinner?
she twists back and forth, our koi,
dancing on a hook

My heart clenched as Val picked up the pen. But when she drew a mark under the letter
M
, I barely suppressed a victory grin. Millie wasn’t perfect, after all. I might just survive this night.

That chance, however, grew slimmer as the meal progressed. When I splashed a drop of
sake
on the table in my eagerness to serve Val before Millie, I received a mark. Another mark for being too quiet, I think. The next mark was a complete mystery: Val simply looked at me for several seconds until I was forced to look away. She drew a slash across my earlier strokes, bringing my total to five.

As I ate, I tried not to think about what punishment might be forthcoming. But slowly, inexorably, a band of apprehension tightened about my heart.

I learned that Millie worked in the Marketing department of a new, up-and-coming apparel company which catered to the edgy, demanding Generation Y cohort.

“Cohort?” I asked out of curiosity. “Is that a technical term? I thought it meant someone in league with a bad guy.”

“Well, yeah, but in this case it means a generational group,” Millie said. “Gen Y’s are a tough market. You have to find ways to channel their rebellion into consumerism.”

“Oh,” I said. “I don’t know anything about sales.”

“I do
marketing
, not sales,” she said with a frown. A sore point for her, apparently. But the outburst displeased Val, and she added a second mark to the
M
column.

That gave Millie pause, but she pressed on, compelled to make her point: “They’re
completely
different. Marketing is the front end, it’s all about making a connection with potential customers. Sales is just sealing the deal. Who’s more important, the head chef, or the waiter who brings the food?”

I expected Val to give another demerit for that, but no.

Millie turned to Val. “Oh, a friend sent me a funny email about that, Ma’am.” She sat up straighter. “So let’s say you’re at a party with some friends, and you see a really hunky guy. You go to him and say, ‘I’m great in bed’, that’s
direct marketing
. But if one of your friends points you out to him and says ‘she’s great in bed’, that’s
advertising
. If you get the guy’s phone number and call him up the next day to tell him how good you are in bed, that’s
telemarketing
.”

Val smiled, vaguely. Millie took that as approval, and continued:

“Suppose you see him across the room. You stand up, arrange your dress, then walk over and pour him a drink. You straighten his tie and accidentally rub your boob against his arm while whispering, ‘I’m really good in bed, too’…that’s
public relations
.”

This did manage to make Val laugh, quietly.

“If you get the guy to go home with one of your girlfriends, that’s
sales
. But if he calls you up later because she didn’t satisfy him, that’s
tech support
.”