A dainty, red-soled set of heels, no larger than size fives, sat in the foyer of their secluded Silver Lake home, flanking Jonathan’s custom-made leather shoes. His laces draped over his companion’s Louboutins like tentacles, reaching toward the bedroom door and the noises within.
Claire kicked off her own heels—size nine and a half—and lay on the Chesterfield in the living room. She pressed a cool, wet cloth to her forehead.
She considered calling Eden at Rice University. It was late in Texas, though, and would serve only to prove Claire had been drinking. She had to learn to settle for their weekly phone call, and be grateful that (a) she got a weekly phone call, and (b) she and Eden hadn’t erred on the other side of lunacy and become one of those mother-daughter BFF texting duos who attended Botox parties together. Her daughter’s independence made her proud. The kids who couldn’t sign up for classes or decipher a bus schedule without Mommy’s guidance, and the parents who enabled them, made Claire want to shoot herself.
She missed Eden—sometimes to the point of breathlessness—but texting seemed exhausting. She was fine communicating the old-fashioned way.
As if sensing her need for connection, her phone lit up.
It was Cal.
She took a deep breath and held it a second before answering.
“She’s gorgeous, isn’t she? Just completely darling,” Cal gushed before she even said hello.
Claire lay back and placed the washcloth over her eyes. She felt a headache coming on. “Where are you?”
“Driving back from Santa Barbara. Got the Bluetooth on, don’t fret.”
“I wasn’t. But I’m touched you thought I would.”
“What’d you think of Jessie?”
“Who?” Claire asked. “Oh, you mean Legally Brunette?”
“Play nice,” he admonished. “I’m counting on you to make her feel at home.”
“You know me. I’m a one-woman pie-baking neighborhood Welcome Wagon.”
“Can you at least include her in things, as a favor to me, if nothing else?”
“I didn’t realize I owed you any favors.”
He sighed. “She’s alone here, she could use a girlfriend.”
Claire didn’t respond right away, pondering the best way to make an effective gagging noise over the phone.
“Are you there?” he asked.
“Girl is definitely the right word. She still has some baby fat in those cute widdle cheeks.”
“Hey, now…”
“A cocktail waitress? Really, Cal?”
“Tending bar was just her day job—night job, whatever. But she’s also a small-business owner. Self-taught.”
“A real autodidact, I’m sure. ‘Massages ’N’ More,’ winky-face?”
“No! She runs a scrapbooking service, and she’s fantastic at it.”
“A professional scrapbooker from the Midwest.” Claire guffawed, sitting up and sending her washcloth to the wood floor. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s quite clever, actually. Rich toffs who can’t or don’t have the time to compile their family histories pay her to do it for them. She interviews family members, edits their photos together with music, that sort of thing.”
“And to think I was living my life, unaware of the booming market for scrapbooking videographers. This changes everything.”
“In Chicago she had loads of clients. They’ll love her even more out here.”
“Look, to be honest, I can’t get a good handle on her, which makes me think other people won’t, either.”
“What are you on about?” He sounded genuinely perplexed. (Whipped into obliviousness, Claire concluded.)
From the master bedroom came a loud noise, followed by the after-chase of shrieks and laughter. Maybe Jonathan had fallen off the bed.
If you injure your hands, I’ll kill you, she thought.
“Claire?” Cal pressed.
“Right. I can’t decide if she’s wholesome or trashy. She’s like a Twin Peaks waitress who turns tricks on the side.”
“Didn’t they all turn tricks on the side?”
“No, you’re thinking of the perfume counter. I mean, surely you’ve noticed? She cusses like a Mamet character but looks like a JCPenney catalog model. Who’s secretly dating a biker gang.” Claire chuckled at her own joke.
“The whole lot of them, is she, not just one?” he asked drily.
“Exactly.”
“Are you quite done?”
“Please, I have a million of ’em.” She cleared her throat. “She’s like a debauched Dairy Queen samples girl who’s about to—”
“Enough,” he snapped.
“Wait, that’s the one that offended you? I didn’t even finish! Was it the Dairy Queen remark? Hit a little close to home?”
He sighed. “Yes, she grew up in Wisconsin. With their…cheeses and whatnot.”
“Curds,” Claire said, unable to contain her laughter. “Cheese curds.”
“Someone born and bred in Modesto doesn’t get to throw stones.”
“…Good point.”
“Your jibes are technically accurate. Yes, she’s both adorable and mischievous. Embrace the contradiction. And yes, before you ask, she’s got some ink. On her back.”
“Eden and her friends call those tramp stamps.”
“Eden will change her mind one day, if she hasn’t already.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Besides, I have a tattoo now,” he revealed. “On my ring finger. We got them instead of wedding bands.”
“That’s right, I saw hers tonight. I must have blocked it out.”
“This way I’ll never lose it since I won’t have to take it off during shows.”
“What about the TV special?”
“They’ll cover it with makeup.”
Jonathan and his gal pal were making the headboard bang against the wall now, but it wasn’t particularly rhythmic, which meant his partner likely wasn’t getting much out of it. Some men never grasped the importance of tempo; her husband joined their ranks when he’d had too much to drink.
“I’m going to go.” She suddenly felt very tired.
“Be happy for me,” Cal begged.
“I made a Mrs. Danvers joke and she didn’t get it—”
“I’d have thought you’d be chuffed. Any excuse to feel smug—”
“Nothing I’ve said tonight is half as vicious as whatever Brandy’s thinking.”
“Brandy’s not thinking anything because Brandy is dead,” he said angrily. “Sod it. I fell in love with someone kind and sweet this time around. Is that so horrible?”
Claire held the phone away from her face for a moment and closed her eyes.
“No, of course not. But…it won’t be easy for me.”
He was quiet now. “I know.”
They didn’t speak for a moment.
“Do you really hate her?” Cal asked, sounding melancholy and far away.
There was a time Claire would’ve said whatever he needed to hear to make him stop sulking, but that time was long since passed.
“She’s half your age.”
“She isn’t! And let’s face it, sometimes younger can be…preferable.”
“‘Younger can be preferable’? Do you hear yourself?”
“I just mean less cynical, less jaded.”
She snorted. “For now. And what happened to ‘she’s so kind, she’s so sweet’? Was that just code for ‘nubile’?”
“Give me a little credit here.”
“I just…I never thought I’d see you turn into Jonathan.”
“Why haven’t you told him to bugger off yet? Eden’s in college—”
“She just got there—”
“—point is, she’s out of the house and you don’t have to pretend for her anymore. Wasn’t that the plan?” Cal said. “I thought by the time I got back, you’d have…” He trailed off, and Claire glanced toward the bedroom, which was now strangely silent.
“She’s a freshman. I
t’s barely been a month. I can’t pull the rug out from under her the second she leaves home. And Magician of the Year is his to lose this time, I can feel it.”
“Why is it so important to you that he win?” Cal asked.
She chose her words carefully. “It just is. And if I’m going to end things I want to end them on my own terms.”
“But—”
“You support me, and I’ll support you, okay?”
“Right. I’m off.”
“Are we saying good night angry, or are we good?” she asked. Old habits died hard, and she disliked ending the call on bad terms, especially when he’d only just returned.
“We’re fucking marvelous,” he grated out.
“Just answer me one thing. What do you talk about? Can she keep up?”
“She keeps up fine. And she keeps me up twenty-four seven—”
“Oh, ewww.” Claire threw her phone onto the couch, silencing him.
She wanted to be glad for Cal, but his happiness only highlighted her lack of it.
They used to be unhappy together.
She turned on the TV in the hope of drowning out the renewed noises emanating from the bedroom.
She flipped to a late-night talk show. The guest was an up-and-coming, fresh-faced card sharp, Patrick Blake; Claire had recorded the segment last week but hadn’t gotten around to watching until tonight. Patrick was twenty-nine now, but when Claire had known him he’d been twenty-six.
As president of Club Deception, Claire’s husband ran a semester-long internship for young magicians. In reality it was a free-labor program, consisting of rides to and from the airport, dry-cleaning pickup, and walking the dog. In exchange for “school credit” or some other bullshit, he chewed up the young men and spat them out; they had nothing he needed or wanted (unlike his female assistants) so he forced them into indentured servitude. Sometimes he’d even host a party and let them work as servers, allowing his protégés to eavesdrop on a Who’s Who of Magic. He’d occasionally drop crumbs of advice, or demonstrate some classic tricks, but never patiently enough for anyone to learn from or duplicate them. The poor saps signed nondisclosure agreements on the first day of work, allowing the program to continue in perpetuity, since no one could warn the next victim.
Patrick Blake had lasted nine weeks, and made no secret of the fact that he was attracted to Claire. He planted little chocolate hearts around the house for her to find and she felt silly and flattered whenever she brought one to her mouth as he watched. Ultimately, she suspected his flirtations were vengeance-based. He’d wanted to be able to say, I banged the asshole’s wife. He wouldn’t have been sticking it to her; he’d have been sticking it to Jonathan. Claire was simply the delivery system.
Still, his presence helped curb her loneliness. Claire and Patrick shared a vice Jonathan disapproved of, smoking, and had spent stolen moments on the porch, wordlessly trying to outdo each other’s Zippo lighter tricks. Flintwheel. Snap Flick. And her favorite, the Hot Hand: flipping the lid open, slamming the opened Zippo wheel into her palm at a forty-five-degree angle, bumping it with her free hand to light it, then flipping it around and snuffing it out with a satisfying clap. Patrick’s specialty was the Trip Roll, in which he held the lighter upside down, flicked it open, rolled it along one of his fingers so it spun into the correct hand position, and lit it.
In the end, she’d hesitated to return his advances, so Patrick had skipped town, toured the college circuit for a while, and apparently made a name for himself in the art of cardistry. Cardists focused strictly on cards. Fans, extravagant cuts and shuffles, all were exceptionally executed maneuvers meant to display technique, hard work, and skill. The concept wasn’t new, only the name (and the attitude). Cardists were the first to tell you they weren’t magicians. As Patrick explained to the confused talk-show host on TV, “Magic’s for old men.”
He was trying to be controversial—forge an identity as the young upstart declaring war on the establishment. But Claire knew if his downloadable tutorials didn’t wind up paying the bills he’d return to traditional magic in a heartbeat.
To the tune of “Kiss Off” by the Violent Femmes, Patrick demonstrated some of his moves, separating the deck into ten sections in a delicate, patterned combination with his fingers. The cards seemed to hover in the air before seamlessly sliding back together. The audience gasped and roared with approval. “This is a skill you have to practice, pure and simple,” he said once the applause died down. “Don’t get me wrong, a lot of magicians have skill, but just as many of them rely on props. Hocus-pocus in a box, you know? If you spend enough money, you, too, can become a ‘monarch of magic.’” He used sarcastic air quotes and Claire smiled at his nerve. It was a direct dig at her husband, who had given himself that title in all his promo posters. (Jonathan had stolen it from Servais Le Roy, the Monarch of Mystery.)
She felt proud of Patrick, and sorry for herself that she’d never curled one finger around the belt loop of his jeans and pulled him into the walk-in pantry during one of Jonny’s whiskey-’n’-poker nights at the house.
As a good-bye present, he’d left her his grandfather’s postwar Zippo metallique, which had a hand-painted Scotty dog on it. It was far too expensive to carry around but she kept it in her bedside drawer, to remind her she had options Jonathan knew nothing about.
* * *
The moment the cacophony of “Yes! Yes!” crescendoed and died, Claire stalked down the hall toward the master bedroom. On the way, she passed a litany of framed awards, trophies, and medals hanging on the wall, depicting Jonny’s stellar and varied career. The rest of their house was decorated in a low-key, midcentury style. This wall of fame served as the only indicator that a magician dwelled within.
Claire yanked the bedroom door open and walked in.
“Oh, shit.” A young woman frantically pulled the silk sheets up to her armpits.
“Is this the new box jumper?” Claire asked, walking toward the bed. “She sounded limber enough.”
“Oh, she got the job, just not as my assistant,” hissed Jonathan. He remained sprawled atop the sheets in all his glory.
“What’s a ‘box jumper’?” the young woman asked.
“Never mind, dear.” Claire tugged the sheet loose from under her husband’s calves and threw it over his naked hips to cover him up.
Then she sat atop the bed, pinning the sheets in place and effectively trapping the lovers. “How drunk are you?” Claire asked.
“We took a limo,” Jonathan replied.
“So we’ll need to pick up your car tomorrow. Fan-tas-tic.” Claire hit the syllables like a rubber band snapping, and the young woman flinched as though she’d been hit.
Claire turned her gaze on the girl. “Let me guess, he told you I was a lesbian, and that sometimes for kicks, I bring a woman home for both of us, so it’s okay for him to do the same. We’re Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir! Am I close?”
The young woman glanced nervously between them. “Um, no, he just said you were out of town.”
“Oh. That’s a new one.”
Jonathan shrugged. “It’s quicker.”
“Anyway, a threesome at Oxford in the early nineties does not a lesbian make, no matter what he thinks,” Claire said.
“Did you catch that?” Jonathan thundered. “She went to Oxford. She studied literature. It’s all very impressive.”
“Okay…?” The young woman’s eyes darted back and forth nervously.
“Did you come in here to show off?” Jonathan asked his wife. “You forgot your diploma.”
“It’s in my other dress.”
“You don’t think you’re Simone de Beauvoir,” Jonathan said, jabbing a fingertip against Claire’s collarbone. “You think you’re Véra Nabokov. See? I can play this game, too.”
“I can’t be Véra Nabokov because that would require you to be a genius.”
“Touché.”
“What’s happening?” the girl blurted out. “Should I leave?”
> “Do you have a name?” Claire asked.
“Becca.” Becca paddled her feet against the sheets, trying to loosen them, but Claire’s thighs held them in place.
“Hi, Becca. Where did you meet my husband?”
“At a party. He’s a really good magician,” Becca said meekly.
Claire stared back. “He is, isn’t he?”
Despite having fled Modesto at eighteen (and immediately expunging the word hella from her vocabulary), she retained a hint of the flat, affectless Northern California accent she’d grown up around. Sounding detached came in handy at times; it helped her save face in certain situations, and she was grateful for it.
“I should probably go.” Becca made another attempt at escape.
Claire ignored her. “You need to be up at five thirty, Jonny, remember?” She leaned across her husband’s body to set the alarm. He was reasonably fit, if slightly doughy, and that, combined with the smattering of blond hair on his chest and legs, made him look like a pampered Nordic prince. When they’d first met, he reminded her of Stellan Skarsgård in The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
“Maybe I should go,” Becca said.
They stared at her impassively. No one moved.
“Can I go?” she pleaded.
“You already have,” Claire said. “As far as I’m concerned.”
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” Jonathan slurred. “I thought you’d be out with Cal, celebrating his return.”
“Is that what this is about? A preemptive lay in case Cal pushed me up against a wall somewhere? You’re insane.”
“Why’d he have to come back?” Jonathan looked on the verge of tears suddenly. “Everything was better when he was gone.”
She hadn’t been exaggerating when she told Jessica every magician had another one he hated. Jonathan was obsessed with Cal, and the possibility of beating him out. At anything. (At everything.) At first, Claire assumed it was leftover jealousy from Cal and Claire’s decades-long friendship, but it also had to do with the respect afforded to close-up magicians. As Patrick had crudely pointed out on his television spot, close-up guys were known for pure hand skill, whereas stage magicians were carried by using large, self-working props.
Cal, of course, rarely gave Jonathan much thought, which rankled Jonathan most of all.
Club Deception Page 3
