Lingerie For Felons (27 page)

Get this. The first time I met Dick — when I was still working out what I thought of him — he told me he was a Reaganite. Can you believe it? This was in 2003. I told him it was ridiculous to say you were a Reaganite when Reagan hadn't been in office for, like, twenty years and had been dead for who knows how long. Ages. I think the real reason he likes Ronnie is because he was a movie star. Dick thinks of himself as Charlton Heston.

A short, really annoying Charlton Heston.

When he told me about the Reaganite thing, I was with Emmy and we were both rendered momentarily speechless. People we know just don't say that kind of stuff to us. I'm sure there are people out there who want to, but they recognize that it's just not the done thing. It would be like saying ‘phew, who farted?' at the ballet.

Anyway, when he told us, eventually I regained the power of speech and spluttered out: ‘But Republicans hate gay people!'

Dick was sanguine about what he clearly saw as a trivial issue.

‘Yeah, yeah,' he dismissed it with a wave of one pudgy hand. ‘No big deal. So do the marines, but I'm still a soldier.'

Emmy lost her fragile grip on self-restraint at this point.

‘For the five hundredth time, you guys are not soldiers.You,' she jabbed a beautifully manicured finger at Luke, ‘are a lawyer. And you,' she looked in distaste at Dick and pointed another talon at him, ‘are a computer geek. So enough with the Rambo crap, okay?'

I felt kind of sorry for Dick at this point, but he took the beating smilingly in his stride, as he always did. It had taken me a while but I'd actually worked out that this was why Luke adored him. Dick was, quite simply, the most upbeat person he had ever met. Any of us had ever met. He was like this indomitable little firefly. Luke was from a family of dark pessimists, used to cynically appraising life and finding it wanting. Dick looked at life and thought it was beautiful. Even though he'd been dealt such a rough hand in the looks and charm department. Even though, as a ‘soldier' he knew all the shitty things people did to each other and how full of loss and suffering the world could be. Also, I don't think Luke had ever met anyone who could tolerate his family and still smile.

Dick was actually quite impressed by us. Especially the women.

Dick loves women, even if most of them don't like him very much. I think it's the whole wannabe designer thing. The worst thing is that Emmy is his favorite woman of all, and she loathes him. But he's blissfully ignorant of the fact. He even asked her to be his muse and when she told him to piss off, he sighed and told her not to be so coy, that she'd come around one day.

Anyway, in response to Emmy's assertion that Dick was, in fact, not a soldier, he leaned closer to us both and whispered conspiratorially:

‘How come I could kill someone with one finger then?'

Emmy was quicker off the mark then me. As usual. ‘I could kill you with one look, you little geek. Listen, some martial arts classes, or whatever you've done, do
not
make you a soldier. It's like how keeping a diary does not make you a writer.'

I remember this conversation, especially the next bit, so well because I know it was the moment when Emmy really started hating Dick.

‘It's funny you say that,' Dick began. ‘Because I've always thought I would quite like to be a writer. Love to write an action type of book. What with being a soldier and everything…' He went on. ‘I might write a book one day. If I can find the time.'

At this, Emmy's face contorted into something that can only be described as white-hot rage. Dick had just stumbled unwittingly into Emmy's pet hate. People assuming that writing, especially writing romance fiction, was easy. That anyone could do it. That you just had to ‘find the time' and bingo you have a book.

Oooh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear.

‘Yeah?' she began sweetly. ‘Really?' Dick walked right into the trap.

‘Yeah,' he nodded enthusiastically, impressed that she was so interested, perhaps foolishly believing he had stumbled across some common ground with his beloved Emmy. ‘Hey, maybe I could help you some time. You know, proofread your manuscripts or something. Or give you some ideas for storylines…'

He trailed off at the end because he now realized Emmy didn't look quite right. I won't go into the detail of how it all went down — it was a bit bloody, really — but I'll try to summarize the main points Emmy made to Dick.

One: writing a book takes talent and hard work.

Two: very few people have those two ingredients in the requisite amounts to complete a book and have someone actually want to publish it.

Three: she seriously doubted whether Dick was one of those people.

Four: the only way he would ever read any of her stuff before or after publication would be to go out and buy it from a book-store.

Five: she would rather sleep with him than have him help her in any way with her work.

Six: if they were the last two people on earth and their procreation was essential for the continuation of life, she would still run away from him so fast that all he would see was a streak of white light.

God, I really love my sister's way with words.

Dick had just laughed and looked as happy as ever.

The man must be on uppers.

Anyway, all that stuff was back in the beginning and now that we'd known him for a few years, we'd settled into him. It was comfortable, like old underwear. We quite liked having him around, actually. He certainly made Luke very happy.

Emmy comes clean — Back at Emmy's apartment; October, 2006

So, back at the dinner party, Luke and Dick had both obviously enjoyed the ‘meet the fuckers' story, and had one of their own to share.

‘What about the time that crazy guy wandered up to us in Times Square when we took her out, Dick?' Luke was smiling, remembering the moment. ‘And you started freaking out, remember?'

Emmy arched her eyebrows at me, clearly remembering the ‘I can kill someone with one finger' line.

Dick was quick to correct Luke. ‘Hey, I was only worried for Eve,' he insisted.

‘Whatever,' Luke agreed, eager to be out with the story. ‘Anyway, Eve could tell we were getting a bit agitated because she put this really calm hand on my arm, and one on Dick's —'

Ugh. Yuck.

‘— and she said ‘don't worry guys, he's just an allsort'.' He smiled. ‘I got a bit worried because the guy was black, and I was worried it was some weird racist licorice thing… Anyway, when I asked her about what she meant, she said ‘Grandma always says that when we see someone strange. She always says “it takes all sorts, Evie”. So you see, he's just an allsort.' Luke teared up telling the story.

Dick nodded. ‘She sure is some kid,' he says.

After a few seconds of silence, Emmy was back on track.

‘Okay,' she declared. ‘Enough maudlin crap. Tonight is a celebration. Time for the toast. Lola, I hope you're ready to tell us all about it, because this is your cue, girlfriend. Everyone got a drink?'

Everyone dutifully raised their glasses, and I looked around at these few, precious faces, all looking so scrubbed and pretty. It was only then that I noticed the strange guy standing by the door to the dining room, deep in conversation with Peter. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and had reddish hair. From the back, I could see he had on this really expensive-looking cotton shirt and had the long, loose look of a soccer player, like how I imagine David Beckham looks from behind, if we didn't always see him from the front, in those really way-too-revealing underpants.

Anyway, something about this guy oozed money and sex and I found myself thinking about those Ralph Lauren Polo advertisements. He looked like he belonged on a horse, or a yacht. He turned his face at Emmy's words and I saw he had this nice, sunburned yachtsman kind of face. There was a spray of freckles visible even at a distance across his slightly-too-long nose.

And he smiled at me like he knew me.

My hackles immediately rose. Who the hell was this? What was he doing here? The situation had ‘set up' written all over it. Before Emmy could start in on the toast, I quickly grabbed her arm, chirped ‘oops, one minute' cheerfully at the assembled company, and dragged her sideways through the nearest door. It happened to be the linen closet — largest damn linen closet I've ever seen; it's like a small ante-room — but it didn't matter, I just needed somewhere private to grill the scheming bitch.

‘Okay,' I hissed. ‘Out with it.'

‘Out with what?' She arranged her beautiful features in a picture of innocence. I wasn't fooled. This wicked harlot invents innocent heroines all the time. I know she knows how to fake it.

‘Mr Polo out there,' I bit out. ‘Who the hell is he and what's he doing here?'

‘God, Lolly, you can be so rude,' she lamented, in a classic case of a pot calling the kettle black. ‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Emmy,' I started, darkly.

‘Look, don't get all upset, Lola. You're so extreme when you're cross.'

God, more pots and kettles. Amazing how truly little self-knowledge people have.

‘Emmy, who the hell is he?' I was repeating myself, but having a conversation with my sister after a few drinks is an exercise in frustration. It's like talking to a small child. Repetition is the only way you get anywhere. I wondered for a moment if I might need to threaten to send her to time out if she didn't start making sense.

‘Look,' she sighed, resigned to having to answer me, but clearly annoyed about it at the same time. ‘It's nothing sinister. He's an old college friend of Peter's, in town for the night from Washington. His firm is doing some business with Peter's family too. We offered to put him up.'

‘He looks like he can afford a hotel,' I spat grumpily.

‘Of course, Loll,' Emmy offered, trying to sound reasonable. ‘But it doesn't work like that in this world. Hospitality is just how you show people how much nice shit you have. Honestly.'

‘Small, Emmy,' I reminded her. ‘You said small. Intimate. Just family.'

‘I'm sure Rafe has a family,' she tittered unhelpfully.

‘Our family, you conniving witch,' I corrected her. I thought for a moment. ‘Rafe?'

‘You know,' she offered. ‘As in Rafe Fiennes, that gorgeous British actor.'

‘Oh yeah,' I recalled. ‘Ralph. I didn't think real people were actually called that.'

‘They are in this world, honey,' she said. Then she looked at me expectantly.

‘What?' I wasn't sure what she wanted me to say.

‘Well, he's hot, huh?' She was looking at me like a cat looks after it has dragged some gross piece of crap in from the garden and deposits it in front of you with a proud flourish as though it has wrestled the wildest beast just for you.

I sighed. ‘He's okay,' I admitted, in a resigned kind of way. ‘If you like horsey, yachty types. But just so we're clear about this,' I eyed her in what I hoped was a menacing, I-mean-business way, ‘I am not sleeping with him. I am not kissing him. I am not flirting with him. So…'

‘So?' she repeated archly.

‘So don't get your hopes up, big sister. I know you. I know you right down to your DNA. I love you, but that doesn't mean I can't smell your rat cunning a mile off.'

‘Sure,' she agreed cheerily. But I could tell she didn't buy it. ‘Now can we please go back to your guests who are dying to hear about what happened at court today? They'll be smashed before you get the story out.'

I let her herd me out of the closet store, but I had a feeling this wasn't the end of it. Everyone was still clutching their drinks expectantly. Steve was getting bolshy.

‘Come on, Loll,' he insisted. ‘We could all die waiting for you out here.'

‘Not of thirst,' Heidi hiccupped from beside him.

‘Okay,' Emmy began again. ‘Dear friends. A toast. To someone we all hold very dear. Despite her being the bossiest, most suspicious woman on the planet.'

She shot me an arched look before beginning again.

‘Our lovely Lola. Congratulations on evading the long arm of the law once again. We are truly blessed to have you among us to fight another day. We love you.'

‘To Lola,' everyone agreed, raising their glasses and drinking.

Once again, that warm, fluttery feeling began in my stomach. It was nice to have these people here. This was a good idea of Emmy's.

‘So, tell us,' Heidi encouraged. ‘What happened?'

‘Well,' I began, and proceeded to let the tale unfold.

Seeking clemency — Court; earlier that day

My tummy was fluttering and my hands were sweating heading into court that morning. Clark had set me up with a great defense attorney: a friend of his who did court work. Frank. And he was. Very frank, that is. He'd scared the hell out of me with his brutally honest manner and all his official talk.

Told me the city was really frowning on any kind of public disturbance these days. That my history was against me. That I could face a small custodial sentence as a way of making a point.

Frank did his best to prepare me. He explained the presiding judge, the Honorable Percy Renquest, was an unfriendly man who was the terror of the ninth circuit. Great. Apparently my only hope of salvation lay in following strict instructions.

Dress demure but sexy — I borrowed something from Heidi.

Act contrite — I'd been rehearsing all night.

Speak loudly — Judge Renquest was deaf and loathed asking people to speak up.

When I got to the court — early, another instruction I'd followed to the letter — the judge had a face like an angry goat and was the size of a house. In fact, I thought to myself as I surreptitiously squinted up at him while the previous matter was being heard, that I was sure I had seen him on
The Biggest Loser
last season. Better remember not to mention that. I sometimes run off at the mouth when nervous. The butterflies were ramping up when a tap on my arm pulled me back to the moment. It was the female cop — Benson/Julie.