Fortune Is a Woman (29 page)

“Hello…?”

“Darling, I woke you?”

“No. I was waiting up for you.” The apartment was in complete darkness and she couldn’t determine or remember if she was on the couch or in their bed. “What time is it?”

“Here or there?”

_____

Sunday morning she stumbled around in the weight room for awhile and then ate dinner rolls and pate for breakfast, washing down hard to swallow lumps with bitter black coffee because she had forgotten yesterday to pick up sugar. The dark circles under her eyes she didn’t discover until around eleven. She eradicated them with a spoonful of foundation. The grays that stuck out from the top of her head like antennas she snipped away without ceremony. They were coming in fast, she lamented, selecting from the chifforobe a black and blue, wide-striped pantsuit with flared legs, a black mock-turtleneck sweater, black go-go’s with two-inch heels for some much-needed elevation. When was the last time, she asked the svelte Ms. Black ’n’ Blue, that you actually had intercourse?

Weeks ago, her eminence replied. Do the math.

The Kristenson Crusade, as the press was calling it, was buried deep inside the paper this Sunday, in approximately the same place where it had been every day this week. Today’s article cited sellout European engagements coupled with growing security concerns, though the doctor’s supporters far outnumbered the protesters at these events. According to current estimates, that ratio was reportedly ten to one in her favor, but crowds are sometimes dangerous beasts to be caught in, especially crowds comprised of dueling factions, and Dr. Kristenson didn’t enjoy being mobbed by anyone, fans or foes. That could explain the tighter security, Lydia reasoned. She would ask about it when they talked later, just to be sure.

She was going through her purchases when Mom called. Santa was bringing her a divorce for Christmas, Marilyn announced glibly. Lydia introduced the cardigan conundrum as a diversion.

“Green, I think. Or was that the year before? No, It was red, sweetheart. It was red.”

Maybe she should take the sweater back. Get a monogrammed brown V-neck, or a big bawdy argyle. “How about brown then? That goes with everything.”

“Well, I won’t say it’s the thought that counts if you get me anything brown that isn’t in suede, sweetie.”

Nothing monogrammed, it suddenly occurred to Lydia. “Okay, Mom, besides a divorce, what do you need or want for Christmas?”

“Since you asked, I want one of those things you and Helaine wear. I’m too shy to…I can give you the size.”

“Things we wear? Briefcases, Marilyn?”

“Lydia Ann, you know very well what I’m saying.”

She understood the gist of it. “A push-me-up?”

“No, for the torso. I can’t think of what it’s called. Your father would know.”

It’s called a bustier. Dad must never know. “It’s a bustier, Mom.”

_____

She could give the red sweater to Paula, Delilah suggested. Paula was saucy enough to wear a red cardigan any time of year. She’d look like a jalapeño pepper in it, but that wasn’t straying very far from the usual lemon lime theme she had going.

Good idea! “And the bustier?”

“Liddy, of course you will. You have to if that’s what she’s expecting. How could you not? I say leather. Go for leather if they have it.”

Leather was over the top, Lydia insisted. But brown was still in good taste. Cocoa actually, like skin. This she had gift-wrapped in the store so she could put it out of sight, and so she wouldn’t change her mind at the last minute and take it back. She sincerely hoped, she told Delilah, that she was doing the right thing.

Sure she was, and saving money at the same time. Just think of the economy of it all. Now she wouldn’t have to buy Roy a thing. Gawd, what a man!

“Money, my friend, is not the obstacle.”

They weren’t stinking drunk when they wandered into Cicero’s. Stinking drunk would have required another martini which they had solemnly promised each other they wouldn’t have.

“Cocktail, ladies?”

“Weeeeell, two gin mar–wait a minute–gin or vodka, Liddy?”

“I guess gin.”

“Two gin martinis.”

Two gin martinis later they had finally and officially obtained stinking drunk status, the kind of drunk Helaine hated. But that was okay, Delilah assured Lydia, because there was vintage jazz tonight at Cicero’s and the place was jam-packed, and every single dark corner in the joint was occupied and every hedonist within walking distance busy holding up the bar or clogging things up on the dance floor.

“We’ll just watch, clap, and go straight home. S’aright?”

Lydia nodded tipsily. Why not, she asked herself. It was a raunchy atmosphere, but she wasn’t exactly eager to return to her quiet penthouse. Not in this state.

“Here I am, ladies,” a balding man in his fifties announced in a spray of red wine. “Let’s dance,” he demanded, tugging at both of their arms, a flap of hair dangling comically to one side of his head, his tie loosened in the shape of a noose.

Delilah was willing to placate him. Lydia had no desire to be tossed around by a jerk. She rose from her chair to escape him.

“You too, gorgeous,” he shouted, getting hold of her by the jacket. “Hey, whatsamatta? I’m housebroken.”

“Del…?”

“I’ll take care of this. Come on, sugar! She can’t dance–wooden leg.”

“Oh,” he mumbled, grabbing onto Delilah as if she were his lifeboat. “Poor kid.”

Lydia rolled her eyes and scoured the room for a bouncer. There were dozens of weird scenes like theirs and not a bouncer to be found anywhere. An androgynous youth poised at the end of the bar was the only person assessing her safety. He smiled soberly in her direction, the whites of his placid eyes shining like a beacon. He had, those eyes informed her, been watching her since she arrived. She was suddenly watching herself, too, from his coign of vantage. She gasped, disrobed.

“Don’t worry, Liddy. Just relax. I’m going to jig with god’s gift here and I’ll be right back.” Delilah stopped the waitress on the way to the dance floor. “Two more,” she told her.

Lydia teetered and fell in her chair.

_____

“Valentino’s got you down to your knickers,” Delilah said, nudging her silent companion and pointing at the boy at the end of the bar. “Go and figure, Liddy. I thought he was queer.”

Not too queer, Lydia realized. She met his gaze again and turned away. “Don’t point, Del. It’s not polite.” From the corner of her eye she could see him rise and begin to pick his way through the crowd. “Shit, Del, we have to go.” He was heading for their table.

“Nah, sit. A boy that pretty can’t do you any harm.”

He was awful pretty, like the Saudi royals she was forced at times to rub elbows with, the boys who acted like men even at twelve. She guessed him to be no more than twenty-five.

“Good evening,” he said, “I believe this dance is mine.”

“Whoa, Liddy. He’s old enough to have a belief system.”

Lydia cocked her head and closed one eye. It was a tango. She didn’t know how to tango. In fact, she didn’t dance. “No, honey. It’s not.”

He placed a glass of sparkling water bedside her. “Tonic then?”

His suit was, however, stunningly gorgeous and she had an urge to stroke it, which she managed to conquer.

“Aw, dance with him, Liddy. I’m telling you the boy’s harmless.”

He smiled agreeably.

She disagreed. “I can’t dance…all left feet.”

“I disbelieve it,” he replied, clutching her hand and guiding her away from the table.

She glanced apprehensively at Delilah.

“Go for it,” she urged. “I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

“I’m telling you the truth. I can’t dan–”

“It’s easy. I’ll show you.”

They were in the middle of the room now.

“Like this,” he said. “Your hand goes…here…no, I lead…that one here…there you go.”

He led. She followed.

“Good,” he whispered, his hand on the small of her back. “Now when I do this…you spin and come back…spin…yes…now come back…come…like that…perfect…perfect.”

“I’m very drunk,” Lydia said. The suit was impeccably tailored, his shoulders broad. “Very,” she repeated. She gripped his hand for balance. It was warm and strong, his palms soft.

“I know. Left now…good…and…that’s right.”

“And I’m married.”

“I know…dip for me…excellent…now go that way…oh, you’re beautiful.” He held her by the waist now and led her by the hip. “Come here,” he whispered in her ear.

She came closer, close enough to see his long lashes. “How do you know?” she asked.

“Know what?”

“That I’m married.”

“How do I know that you’re…? The ring,” he finally answered, tapping her finger.

Right. She felt him press against her and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m leaving now,” she told him.

“No you’re not.”

No she wasn’t.

Delilah waved from across the room. Her dancing partner was significantly older than Lydia’s. “How old are you?”

“Old enough…spin again…perfect…and you?”

She ignored the question. “What do you do, son, aside from dance?”

“Son–hah. I run guns. You?”

He had a girlish voice and he spoke in a loud whisper.

“I rob the poor and give to the rich,” she said, slurring her speech. “And sometimes I think I drink too much.”

“Mmmm. So we’re kindred spirits then...thieves. What am I thinking of?”

The song was different. He held her the same. She ignored this question, too. “The room, I’ll have you know, is spinning.”

“Uh-oh. Can I see you home?”

She hooked her finger in his braided leather belt, put her arm around his waist. “I know you, don’t I?”

“Maybe,” he said, kissing her neck and dancing her into the nearest dark corner. “What am I thinking of?”

“I haven’t a–how do I know you?”

“Let me count the ways,” he teased. “Put your hand here…right…that’s…
right
.”

She closed her eyes.

“I’m going to kiss this spot here,” he said.

She let him.

“And here.”

“Don’t–how would I know you?”

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“No,” she answered frankly.

“Me either,” he said with a laugh. “I’m going to kiss your mouth and I want you to pretend you don’t want me to.”

“I–I have to go.”

“Ah…perfect…just perfect.” He kissed her mouth. “I’m taking you home.”

“No you’re not,” she answered. “What is your name?”

“How many times, do you think I’ve made love to you?”

She clucked her tongue. “Hundreds. Am I right?”

“No…just once.”

“Once?” She leaned her head against the wall, confused. “How was I?”

He grasped her firmly by the hips. “Beautiful.”

“Oh, I see. And married, as well?”

“Happily.”

“Mmhmm.” She caressed his smooth cheek. Smooth as a girl’s, her prince so and so. “I am, you know–happily married?”

He knew.

“I’ve just had too mu–”

“I know. I can make you happy, too, though.”

“How,” she asked, “can you do that if I’m al–”

He pressed against her.

She parted her lips.

“Like that.”

“Liddy?”

“Del, I’m…uh…he’s…what is your name?”

“It’s Arabic–can I get you ladies a cab?”

“Arabic what?”

“Do you want–is Valentino coming with us?”

Lydia braced herself against his shoulder. “I’m very…not myself. This isn’t–”

“I know,” he said.

She was dizzy. Delilah was expecting her answer. “Your name, please?”

He whispered his name in her ear.

It was Arabic all right. She kissed the slippery slope of his Arabian lips, the tips of his long, exotic fingers. “Now I’m going home.”

“Am I coming with you?”

“Liddy…?”

“Get me home, Del.”

“Are you taking junior with you?”

“I–I can’t.”

Feminine

It was easy to find a good cup of coffee in Rome, but not necessarily at three in the morning. She had thought to buzz Carlos next door because she knew her resourceful secretary could arrange anything, but it didn’t seem fair to wake him so early, just because she hadn’t slept and had abandoned all hope of it.

Since waking, she had tried for three hours to reach Lydia and the phone had rung impotently each time. It was six in the morning now, well past their usual hour for a telephone tryst and she was eager to know where her wife was, since she clearly wasn’t where she was supposed to be. She left the cell-phone on the bed and paced her rooms, fit to be tied, her imagination fired now by more than female intuition or bad dreams, her hands cold, trembling from a toxic brew of dread and exhaustion and the horrible idea which had, until this moment been so foreign to her, that Lydia Beaumont was perhaps no more trustworthy than the next guy.

The knock on the door at quarter past was a welcome sound because Helaine was starving and in her angst she had failed to notice it.

“Come in,” she called in a strangled voice.

The tray of steaming food entered first, a solace to behold for the destitute, which is how Dr. Kristenson appeared to Carlos this morning, wrapped in a flimsy wool blanket, her hair loose and, as yet, uncombed.

“Oh, Carlos. What would I do without you?”

“I really don’t know,” he said, setting the tray down. “Nightmares again?”

There had been a scuffle Saturday, on the way to the podium. Six clean-cut, button-collared protesters had been physically hauled away by the Italian police. Americans, Dr. Kristenson had learned after her lecture. One of her aides had been struck blocking a projectile that had been intended for her. That got him three stitches under his eye and possibly a permanent scar. She wanted to fly the young man home but he wouldn’t hear of it. Now she had a bodyguard posted outside her door, courtesy of her private secretary who had argued unsuccessfully that she ought to hire more.

“Nightmares, Carlos–I can’t find my wife. She doesn’t answer her cell phone.”

He nodded. This was not an unusual problem, Carlos Montague had learned. It sometimes happened to his clients that their lives got so haywire they couldn’t find their mates. “Here, eat something,” he said. He left the room and returned with her bathrobe and brush. “This I believe you will find more comfortable than the hair shirt you’ve got there.”