Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money (19 page)

Before I really knew it was happening, a
plan had formed and I was in action again, just as I had been the
day before. For one thing, it felt like a better idea than sitting
in front of my computer watching LRG go down.

I stopped at the house upstairs on my way
out. “Jennifer told me she goes to school in Beverly Hills,” I told
Tyler at the door.

“Yeah, the Hestman School.”

“I’m heading in that way this afternoon. I
thought I might stop and poke around a bit at the school on my way
home. Talk to people, you know. That is, if you don’t mind.”

Tyler looked at me blankly for a moment
before answering. “I’m frankly embarrassed I didn’t think of it
myself. And I can’t now,” he said regretfully, pointing behind him
into the house. “I’ve got a script thing. But yeah, if you’re going
that way, please. That would be so great. I’ll call the school and
tell them to give you every cooperation,” he caught my hand,
squeezed it. “Thank you, Madeline. Thank you so much.”

Chapter Ten

I skipped the valet, figuring that if I was
trying to fit in at a charity luncheon with the daughters of
socialites, showing up in a canyon-dusty Chevy — even a new one —
was not the way to do it. Inside the hotel the heat of the day
seemed a distant memory: not even a remote possibility. It didn’t
make you think of air conditioning, rather “climate control” of the
sort that is flawless and imperceptible. Everyone has different
needs in personal temperature. But at the Sherbrook Hotel, it
seemed likely that it would be effortlessly perfect for
everyone.

A discreet sign in the lobby pointed me at
the function I was looking for. I trusted I looked the part: a
crisp white blouse over a delicately patterned skirt with
complimentary heels. I headed to where the sign indicated.

Thankfully, there was no one at the door of
the banquet room to detain me. Without Emily to guide me, I hadn’t
been quite sure how I’d manage the crash, although I guessed that
this wasn’t exactly a high security event. This was The Ladies Who
Lunch to the max and anyone who didn’t belong here wouldn’t even
want to go. Except, of course, for me.

The banquet room held about thirty tables,
each with places set for eight diners. Some of the places held name
cards, I noticed, and every table had one or two unmarked spaces.
Presumably this was so the organizers could do last minute
reshuffling, if advantageous, as well as having a place to stick
guests that hadn’t signed up by the cutoff, or whatever. Pretending
to look for my name on a place card seemed like a good way of
scoping the room while figuring out what my brilliant next move was
going to be. The happy news was: It was beginning to look like I
might get a free lunch. My stomach growled
most
unbecomingly
and, for the moment, it looked like the hungry waiting to be fed
was me. In that regard, however, the stars had not aligned on this
day because my quarry found me before I could even begin to look
for her.

I was leaning over tables, squinting at
place cards — ostensibly looking for
my
name, but actually
looking for hers — when there she was, right in front of me,
extending one well-manicured hand and looking at me hard, as though
she were trying to place me.

“Hello,” she smiled. “I’m Arianna Carmichael
Billings. Have we met?”

Her hand felt as cool and composed as she
looked and, when I’d straightened fully I realized that I was
looking directly into her eyes. It’s funny: you don’t think about
being tall until you meet another woman of your own height.

“Madeline Carter,” I said, “we met the other
night at Club Zanzibar.”

She looked at me more closely once I’d said
my name, making me suddenly conscious of the way my skirt was
hanging and the way my blouse was tucked in. Did I have lipstick on
my teeth?

“Of course,” she said finally. “Ernest’s
friend.” I tried to gauge her tone, but gave it up quickly. It
wasn’t giving anything away. “You’re not a member of the
foundation, are you?”

“No. I... I’m not,” I admitted.

“Then why are you here?” The question was
politely, even gently, stated yet its directness caught me
unawares. My professional life has not schooled me in the direct
approach, yet I felt the need to return it here.

“I was hoping to have a word with you,” as I
said it, I thought how that might sound. Especially in light of the
videotape of me at the office she may or may not have seen, yet she
didn’t look alarmed. In fact, I realized suddenly, she looked
intensely calm for a woman whose husband had recently been snatched
and who was now being approached by a woman apparently from that
same husband’s past.

“A word?” she prompted, looking as though
she might be deciding something.

“Yes, it’s... um... a little hard to
explain,” I indicated the people around us, meanwhile wondering
exactly what it was I
would
explain if she gave me the
chance. While I wasn’t sorry I’d come, I was also a little unsure
of what, precisely, I was doing there.

She was looking at me speculatively. “I
would imagine it would be,” she said finally and I wondered if she
had maybe seen the videotape of me, after all.

I tried again, matching her calm and level
tone. “If I could have a few minutes of your time.”

In the thirty seconds she took to consider
my request, I thought I could see emotions warring not far beneath
the surface. Or maybe I was just imagining how I would feel if I
found myself in her carefully-chosen shoes. I thought I saw
curiosity followed quickly by fear. And then I decided I’d maybe
just imagined it all, because — in the end — all I could see was
resolution.

“That won’t be possible, Ms. Carter,” she
said crisply and I could tell she wasn’t going to bother with an
explanation. “And now, I have a luncheon to get underway. Do you
have a ticket?” I shook my head. “Well then, it’s two hundred
dollars a plate,” she smiled thinly. “But it’s a very good cause.
No? Then good day.”

I’d lifted my hand, about to say something,
but she’d already turned towards the door to meet a group of ladies
who had just come noisily into the room. I was dismissed, that much
was clear.

Another wasted trip. I left quietly, clearly
ignored by Arianna Billings, wondering what to do next, although I
knew that purchasing a lunch ticket wouldn’t get me anything except
closer to broke, even if it was a good cause. I stood waiting for
the elevator when a familiar voice spoke close to my ear, just
behind me.

“Excuse me, Miss Carter.”

It was Arianna Billings, without the icy
mask she’d been wearing just minutes before. She drew me out of the
flow of women who were exiting the elevator and spoke quietly and
quickly.

“I’ve thought it over and I’ve had a change
of heart. I’d like to speak with you, hear what you have to say.
But not now,” she indicated the people heading towards the banquet
room. “I’ve got my plate full.” A charming smile, as though
discussing her next charity function. “Could we meet for coffee
later?”

Coffee is my most major addiction, if you
don’t count the stock market. I seldom say no to it. We agreed to
meet at a place she knew at three o’clock in Brentwood, close to
her home and not far from Jennifer’s school. As I got on the
elevator I felt a reluctant pang when incredible food scents wafted
in from behind closed doors. My stomach, like my curiosity about
Mrs. Carmichael Billings, would just have to wait.

I knew I had two hours before I had to meet
with Arianna, and the most time I would possibly spend at Jenn’s
school would be an hour. With hunger threatening to overwhelm me, I
opted to get some food inside me before I tackled anything new and
I headed — as new Angelenos tend to do — for the beach. Santa
Monica, in this case, where there are about a million restaurants —
or so it seems — within a few blocks, as well as interesting people
to look at if you, like me, are dining alone.

I sat on the patio of a maniacally trendy
little bistro on Main Street that nonetheless managed to produce a
beautiful lunch for me. I munched happily on a “very colorful”
salad and some Ahi tuna, rare. I’d just finished eating when a trio
of rollerbladeing guys caught my eye. It wasn’t just the sweating
maleness
of them that interested me, though I admit it’s
what I noticed first. But there was something vaguely familiar
about one of them, in particular. And they were practically upon me
by the time I realized what it was: one of them was Steve.

I think the reason I haven’t made room for a
lot of men in my life is the fact that they can have such an
unsettling effect on me. That is, the ones I like can and I could
never be bothered with the other kind. But realizing that — almost
as if by magic and against all odds — there was Steve right in
front of me, just sort of filled me with this pleasant warmth. And
it’s a slightly distressing feeling if you’re used to keeping
things controlled.

So seeing him there, suddenly, unexpectedly,
I wasn’t quite sure how to act — who to be — but the smile I felt
rise for him was warm. I was genuinely happy to see him again. The
smile didn’t last, though. It just took one look as he stopped
abruptly beside my chair. “I can’t even believe you didn’t just
bolt into the restaurant when you saw me,” he said icily.

“What?” I was mystified.

“You guys go on,” he said to his friends.
“I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes.” I motioned to the chair
opposite mine and he plunked himself into it angrily. “That was
so
cold.”

“Cold,” I repeated stupidly.

“Yeah. You. Are cold.”

I thought about the night we’d spent. About
the way our bodies had fit so naturally: like two parts of a whole
coming together. I thought about moonlight on the water seeming to
cascade towards the hours we’d shared in his hotel room. And there
had not been a great deal of sleep.

“Those,” I said carefully. “Are not the
words I would have used,” even though I vaguely recalled thinking
that myself when I’d written the note. I hadn’t
felt
cold.
And I didn’t now.

“Ah,” there was a twinge of sarcasm in his
voice. “What
would
you have said then?”

I looked at him closely. On the surface he
was mocking me somehow, but I didn’t understand it. What I
did
understand is that I’d hurt him in a way I couldn’t see.
In the face of all of this conflicting
stuff
, I opted to
give him the truth.

“I don’t know, Steve. You just said I was
cold and I thought... I thought we had shared something really
special,” it sounded lame, but there it was. “And it felt very
warm. To me.”

“We did, Madison. We shared something
special. Or, I thought we did. Then I got up this morning and you
were just... gone.”

I was beginning to get a glimmer of
understanding. But it was faint. “I left a note!”

“On hotel stationary. Not even signed. How
cliché is that?”

“But... it was all there was to write on,” I
protested lamely.

“You could have woken me. Why didn’t you
wake me?”

OK. That was a valid question. Why hadn’t I?
Even now, I wasn’t entirely sure. “Oh Steve...” I reached out to
touch him, but he pulled back as though he’d been singed.

“Don’t ‘Oh, Steve’ me. It was just a cold,
shitty thing to do.”

All I could do was shake my head: No.

“It was. And that note: you didn’t even
leave a phone number
.
I thought your message was pretty
clear.”

“Oh, Steve,” I’d said it again before I
could stop myself, “it wasn’t like that at all. It’s just... it’s
just all sort of complicated.”

“I get it,” he wouldn’t give up this injury
so easily, “it’s all a little complicated for poor old Steve, huh?
Like, for instance, just who the hell you are?”

This took me aback. For some reason I hadn’t
been expecting it.

“Yeah: I wanted to find you. To find out why
you’d left. So even though I took the day off, I called Anderson in
personnel today. I thought I might be able to talk him into giving
me your phone number. Do you know what he told me?”

I shook my head no, but I had a pretty good
idea.

“We don’t have anyone named Madison working
for us in
any
of our offices. And you know what else?” This
time I just kept quiet. I figured I knew where it was going. “He
said that there had been someone at Langton yesterday afternoon
possibly pretending to be an employee and possibly also a
kidnapper. And I’m guessing that was you.”

“No. I mean, I’m not a kidnapper. But yes:
that was me and... oh Steve, I
am
sorry. I can see how all
of this must look to you, but...”

“Can you? Well, try this: I meet this woman
who I think I have this incredible connection with, we end up in my
hotel room having fantastic sex. It’s like a fantasy, right? And...
and I really thought we had something, you know, something going.
Something... value added, maybe.”

Value added? If I hadn’t been so mortified,
I would have laughed. Only a professional salesman would have put
emotion in those terms.

“And then ... well... what was I to you —
Madison or whatever the hell your name really is? — just a roll in
the hay and a possible way into Langton?”

And I started to tell him no, that wasn’t
it. That wasn’t it
at all,
except, it was, wasn’t it? He’d
hit it pretty much right on, if viewed from a certain angle. We’d
shared a wonderful evening, and I’d hadn’t thought of him all day,
except this morning when I was relieved to get out of his room
without waking him. And, when I met him outside of Langton the day
before, what
had
I been thinking of when I knew he was
flirting with me? I’d been thinking about how to get into the
building and get away from him before he asked me out. And I had
been thinking about a way to use him as cover to get into the
building: which I’d done. He was right. That was cold.