Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money (26 page)

“It’s OK to feel that way, Sarah. Whatever
you feel is OK. But kids are super resilient. Think about yourself
as a kid. We bounced back from whatever was thrown at us. It’s
harder when you’re an adult, I think,” my voice cracked a bit.
“When it’s your whole life. Oh shit, I’m sorry...”

“No, no, Madeline. You’re right.” I could
hear she was crying softly. And I thought that we get better at
anything we do a lot of. With practice. Sarah could now cry and
carry on a conversation while doing it. She’d gotten practice since
Jack died. “It’s good to hear all of this. Out loud. From a
friend.”

After I got off the phone, I remembered a
saying I’d liked in college, though, in retrospect, at the time I
didn’t have a clue what it meant.
Wherever you go, there you
are.
Here I was a couple of thousand miles away from the place
that had been my home for over a quarter of my life, and I was
still dealing with what I’d left behind. Plus now I had a whole new
set of problems.

I gave myself half an hour to wallow in
self-pity, self-recriminations and self-loathing before I hit the
shower. I knew myself: if I gave into it completely, it would
overcome me, as it had in New York after Jack died. The only thing
I knew that would save me was motion. I felt like a shark: if I
stopped moving, I’d die.

Chapter Fifteen

I kept moving. At four o’clock, knowing
there was three hours before meeting Alex for dinner and the
restaurant was only a half hour drive away, I left the house,
dressed in black slacks, a sleek black tank and boots. This would
do for dinner and whatever else happened in between.

My destination was unclear, but I had an
idea. I’d noticed several surf shops between Las Flores and
downtown Malibu proper. It stood to reason that surfing instructors
would frequent surfing shops, though everything I knew about that
world would fit onto an Advil.

Walking into a shop called Tubes reminded me
of when I’d moved to New York and ventured into Saks for the first
time. Then I’d felt underdressed, underaged and underfinanced.
Tubes gave me the same feeling at a different volume: now I felt
overdressed, overaged and fully alien, as though I was stepping
onto a different planet for the first time.

The guy behind the counter was cut,
half-dressed and wore his blonde dreadlocks like a badge of honor.
He looked like he could get a bit part in a surfing movie. I
decided this was a good starting point for a conversation.

“Say,” I said, amusing myself. “Didn’t I see
you in a surf movie?”

He smiled. “Which one?”

“Which one were you in?”

He laughed, a vaguely stoned sound. “All of
them. You casting something?”

I thought about the lie I could tell, then
thought better of it. I’d been on the West Coast less than a month
and even if I technically did live in a famous director’s house, I
still didn’t know much about the film industry. Now, Emily on the
other hand...

“No. I’m looking for an instructor. Named
Corby.”

I saw the suspicion flare up like the hood
of a cobra. “Why?”

“I... I want lessons.” This admission
brought no less suspicion.

He looked me up and down, then came closer,
putting his hands on me, as though we were dancing. The top of his
head came roughly to my shoulder, I could smell the product in his
hair: coconut and fruit.

“I could give you lessons,” he said softly,
bending his head to kiss the exposed skin of my upper arm.

His movement shocked me, but didn’t rock me,
though I knew it should have. Despite the disparity in our height,
ages and personal grooming ability, I felt myself begin to move to
his rhythm, felt myself strangely aroused by his blatant and
ridiculous come on, and perhaps by some raw sexuality housed in his
surf-taut body. Whatever the case, I knew it wasn’t what I was
there for, nor was it something I actually wanted, no matter what
my body was currently telling me.

I took a step back, almost upsetting a
display composed of brilliantly colored latex bikinis. “I don’t
think so.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and stood
where he was. “I can teach you better than Corby ever could.” He
cocked his head to one side, like a dog listening for something he
wants to hear. “A
lot
better than Corby.”

“You know him then?”

“Yeah, I know him. This isn’t his turf
though.” He took a step towards me, and when I took another back,
he laughed, but not unkindly. “You’ll find him at The Curl,” he
pointed north up Pacific Coast Highway. “But when he lets you down,
I’m here.”

It wasn’t until I was back in my car,
driving farther up the coast, that the flicker of a possibility
occurred to me: I looked at my Kate Spade bag, my Balenciaga boots
and Kors pants and top — all leftovers from my New York trading
life — and realized that, in the context of Malibu in the
afternoon, specifically in a surf shop, there might be various
types of lessons that a well dressed — an
expensively
dressed — woman might be looking for, especially one over 30. I
felt color rise to my cheeks, but pressed on. At least I’d had the
good sense to turn him down.

The Curl was near Zuma Beach, and clearly
different turf. Tube had been in a strip mall between a scuba
diving shop and one that sold ice cream. The Curl stood alone.
Inside I was greeted by the same smell of new latex and wax and the
same lackadaisical looks from the sales staff. And they certainly
didn’t look as though they believed in dressing for success.

Since I knew that a surf instructor named
Corby was associated with this spot, I decided to dispense with the
subterfuge. “Do you know where I could find Corby?” I asked the
bikini-clad sales girl, whose one concession to dressing for the
office seemed to be a pair of Sanuck sandals.

“Naw. But hang on.” And then she shouted
towards the back of the shop, “Hey Piston!” A lanky haired guy
popped his head around a doorway, questioningly.

“Mmm?”

“Corby?”

I deduced that surf-type people didn’t
believe in wasting a lot of words, possibly a necessary trait on
the ocean when the surf is crashing in your ears, though it didn’t
do much for communication on land.

Piston looked me up and down then up again,
then looked at the surf chick and shrugged his shoulders. “Not
today,” he said, then his head disappeared again.

“He come in here most days?”

“Most,” she said, as though she really
didn’t care.

“Look, I really need to get hold of him.
I’m... I’m casting a movie and... I think... well, never mind. I
should really speak to him directly.” The girl suddenly looked a
lot more interested.

“A surf movie?” Wow: three words at
once.

“I really shouldn’t say but,” I looked at
her blonde hair. “Is that your natural color?”

She nodded enthusiastically and I felt
suddenly bad I wasn’t really a casting director. I could tell her
hopes were rising by the second.

“Well, listen, after I’ve had a chance to
talk to Corby, we’ll see where we are, OK?”

She nodded enthusiastically, “OK. Leave me
your number. He usually stops in here every couple of days. When I
see him, I’ll tell him to call you.”

“Excellent,” I said, jotting Emily’s name
and home phone down beside it. “Thanks.”

“Should I give you my number?”

“No, we’ll be in touch,” and I beat it back
to my car.

The first phone booth I saw was at the
Malibu Center Mall. When I called, Emily wasn’t home, so I left her
a message. “Hey Emily, I hope you don’t mind but I’ve taken your
name and phone number in vain. I gave it to someone who might have
a reason to recognize my number and I don’t want them knowing it’s
me who’s trying to get in touch with them. Confused? You should be.
I’ll explain better when I talk to you. For now though: if anyone
you don’t know calls about being in a surfing movie, try to tell
them you’re not there and take a message, OK? Thanks. And I owe
you, obviously. See ya.”

I went back to my car and just sat there for
a few minutes and thought about things. Assessed. Was any of this a
good idea? Was it traceable? Would it endanger Jennifer? I decided
that it wasn’t and wouldn’t. I didn’t have any options and, in any
case, it was already done: I couldn’t take it back.

I looked at my watch. Five-thirty. Still an
hour before I had to head to the Palisades and I didn’t feel like
going home in between. I looked around at the mall and could see
that coffee was a possibility. I took myself off to where I knew a
latté was waiting for me.

* * *

I got to the restaurant a little early,
before Alex did, which was fine. It gave me time to look around. It
was one of those charming places with a fish in the logo, a stuffed
marlin over the bar and lots of things with swordfish on the menu.
It’s a place where you know the food won’t be terribly good and the
prices will be astronomical but no one cares because you’re really
there for the view.

This one had all of that, plus practically
no light and a lot of candles, meant obviously to be an expensive,
seaside,
romantic
place for dinner. Despite a latent hint of
touristy, the room had a very real warmth and I felt comfortable
waiting for Alex at the corner window table he’d reserved for us,
watching the gulls play over the darkened water.

When he arrived I was quickly reminded of
the old world quality that had attracted me to him in the first
place. He owned a courtliness that I’d seldom experienced in a man.
I imagined that if we gone for a ride in a car together, he would
have rushed to my side first to open the door. He just had that air
about him.

He smiled when he saw me, “And you are
punctual, too,” he said. “There is much that is refreshing about
you, Madeline Carter.” When he took my hand, I half expected him to
kiss it, and couldn’t decide whether or not I was disappointed to
find it merely firmly shaken.

Dinner was better than I’d expected,
something Alex remarked on saying that he came here often for that
very reason. This surprised me since, being a raw food vegetarian,
it didn’t seem to me that he ate much that couldn’t have been
purchased at a market vegetable sellers and prepared for table with
a good scrub. He seemed to delight, however, in the enjoyment I
took in my seared scallops in a wasabi sauce with risotto served
plain, in the Milanese style.

“Amazing,” I said when he asked how it was,
though it would have been clear I was enjoying it. “Will you please
have a scallop? Or a bite of risotto? I feel like a complete animal
here wolfing down this wonderful food while you watch me while
eating your raw corn relish or whatever that is you’re having.”

“Raw corn risotto. Which, of course, isn’t a
risotto at all, since it’s made with no rice and is almost entirely
composed of practically uncooked corn. But they must call it
something smashing to justify these prices,” he smiled. “But I love
it. I enjoy it. And it’s good for me.”

I pointed to the bottle of pinot gris we
were sharing and said, “What about that? Surely that can’t be raw
food vegetarian approved?”

He shrugged in an entirely continental way.
“I eat as I do for my health and to increase the enjoyment of my
life. But food without wine? That would reduce my joy sufficiently
that it would shorten my life.” He smiled. “That’s how I see it,
anyway. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

We laughed. It was easy to laugh with Alex
and he seemed dedicated to making me laugh as much as possible, so
it was difficult to steer him to talking about his work. But I
persevered. There was a great deal I wanted to know.

“I’ve been thinking so much about what you
were talking about the other night. The subject of your work.”

“Corporate psychopaths,” he supplied

“Yes. What you said made me think of someone
I used to know. Someone who perhaps fits your description.”

He wagged a gentle but accusing finger at
me. “You be careful with that, my dear. It’s something I hear a
lot. And while many people — especially ex-husbands, so it would
appear — can seem to exhibit psychopathic behavior, the label
doesn’t fit everywhere it’s applied. It’s very specific. And,
truly: my colleagues are correct, some of the behaviors I described
to you
can
be ascribed to other causes. Some of them even
medical. But the true psychopath can best be identified by his
utter lack of remorse. And people say that: Oh, he was remorseless.
But to see it, on a clinical level, is quite different. Remorse —
conscience, call it what you will — is simply not a factor of the
psychopath’s make up.”

“So how would you tell?” I paused, thinking.
“How would
I
tell?”

“You’d bring your psychopath to me,” he
smiled, “or someone like me. A professional. It’s not the sort of
thing for armchair, or amateur, diagnosis.”

“But let’s say I wanted to make an amateur
diagnosis. From a distance. One that would have no impact on the
person in question’s life. What would I look for?”

“We’re being hypothetical, yes?”

I nodded.

Alex looked thoughtful for a moment, as
though debating if he should answer at all and then thinking about
what might be useful to me. But it was obviously a topic close to
his heart, and he didn’t have to dig very far. “OK, hypothetically
then: is this person a corporate type or of the more common
criminal class? It’s salient because, while there are commonalties,
there are differences, as well.”

“Definitely corporate,” I said without
hesitation.

“Right, then this person would most likely
give the appearance of being — and would in fact be — highly
intelligent and strongly capable. There would probably be a
glibness about them, a slyness. The kind of person who can get into
a scrape, but can always get out. Beneath the surface would be a
sexual promiscuity, one that would probably be at least a factor in
the succession of relationships your psychopath would have.