The only thing Jonathan didn’t have was a TV pilot with a series option, the way Cal did, and nothing could convince him he hadn’t been robbed.
* * *
“So Cal’s back, huh?” Jonathan asked. “For good?”
They lay in bed together on Sunday morning, the Los Angeles Times stacked between them like the Berlin Wall, eating from a breakfast tray Jonathan had compiled: strawberries, slivers of cantaloupe, and rosemary/olive bread from La Brea Bakery.
Claire peeked over the top of the newspaper that divided them. “Looks like it.” She still hadn’t mentioned Cal’s new wife. It was entertaining to watch Jonathan writhe with paranoia. He deserved it after shoving his one-night stand—Becca the brain trust—in her face the other night. She knew she’d be divorcing him soon, but he didn’t know that, so the fact that he didn’t try harder to be even minimally considerate was grating.
She returned to her crossword puzzle.
He used his butter knife to push down the newspaper sheet and peer over it.
“You know he stole my TV show.”
She snorted. “No one stole anything from you.”
“Explain to me how someone can be away from the spotlight for three years and get a TV deal, when I’ve been here the whole time, taking meetings and pitching ideas and playing all those damn tennis games with network executives.”
“Maybe they didn’t like your topspin.”
“Thanks, that’s very helpful.”
It was obvious he wasn’t going to leave her in peace to finish her crossword, so she tossed the sheet to the floor. “He set up the deal before he took off, and he was willing to let camera crews follow him around for years.”
“You’re defending him again.”
“I’m not defending him, I’m explaining to you how it happened.”
“I tell you I’m upset about something, and your first response is to side with him.”
“Like I said, he gave them access to everything.”
“I would’ve given them access.”
“Well, they didn’t ask you, did they? And anyway, I wouldn’t have let you, not with Eden still in the house.”
“So you’re saying the reason I don’t have a TV series is because of you, then.”
“Oh, for chrissake…his Coins Across is flawless,” she snapped. “Yours isn’t.”
“Aha. The truth comes out.”
Sometimes Claire thought her husband would rather fight than have sex. His eyes shone with glee if he succeeded in getting her to raise her voice, because if ice-cold wifey lost her composure, he automatically won the argument. That was the main reason she hadn’t swooped in on him and Becca like a shrieking Valkyrie the other night. She refused to rant and rave in his presence.
“And his Bottle Cap routine kills, anytime, anywhere,” Claire added calmly. “They were looking for off-the-cuff magic in urban settings that plays well on TV and in sports bars. Not stage shows.”
He responded in an obnoxious falsetto, meant to be her. “‘The close-up magicians are so dreamy. They don’t rely on smoke and mirrors or big props. Why can’t you be like them, Jonny?’”
She ignored him and wrenched open her bedside drawer. Inside was a printed piece of paper, which she slapped onto Jonathan’s stomach. “Here’s your column, by the way. I know you think words should simply fall out of the sky for you to use, but you should be more careful whom you trust.”
“I asked Felix to do it because I thought you were too busy working on the new routine. It wasn’t meant as a slight, my dear.”
“You may not have asked me, but you got it from me anyway. If people knew how much I helped you…”
“Assisted me…”
“You’d be kicked out of the competition. Or forced to give me top billing.”
Two types of awards were handed out at the annual Magician of the Year competition: Best Reproduction of a Classic, and Best Original.
In a rare acknowledgment that magicians stole each other’s acts all the time (going so far as to poach each other’s prop masters, architects, engineers, and assistants), a category for outright thievery existed. It was called Best Reproduction of a Classic.
The prize money for Best Reproduction of a Classic—fifty thousand dollars—came in the form of a grant from the Brotherhood of Arcana’s Historical Society, whose motto was “Keeping the Past Alive.”
The Original category, on the other hand, encouraged innovation and risk taking. The prize money was double, one hundred thousand dollars, and came with a lifetime membership to Club Deception. Presentation was considered to be the most important component in an original act. It had to provide such a startling experience that no one could guess the illusion’s ancestry, if indeed it had one.
Jonathan regarded Claire as he bit off a piece of strawberry and chewed it. He took his time, as if nothing in the world could compel him to eat at a normal pace. Finally, he spoke. “Yes, yes, you’ve been the woman behind the curtain this whole time, fixing my shows, spying on the competition, securing me awards—but never the award. Isn’t that right? If you’re so integral to the operation, how come I always fall short?”
Jonny had competed five times in the past ten years and never won.
Cal had won twice—the only close-up magician to do so since the contest’s inception. Of course, the money was exhausted before he’d received it. He and Brandy hadn’t so much spent money as set it on fire.
“You’ve come in second, though,” Claire reminded Jonathan. “And that was all me.”
“When I’m onstage, Claire? I’m up there alone.”
“And when you’re offstage, you’re never alone, are you?”
He crossed his arms. “Is this about Becky?”
“Becca.”
“See, I care so little for her I don’t even remember her name. Look, her uncle is a talent manager, she can help us.”
“Oh, that makes everything okay, then.”
“You were never bothered before, so what’s the problem?”
“I was bothered by Indiana, I’ll tell you that,” she retorted, on the verge of losing control.
“That was years ago!”
Maybe for you. She took a few deep breaths. Jonathan had an uncanny ability to brush aside truly rotten business while fixating on the tiniest of slights. When she was calm again, she said in a steady tone, “You need to focus. That’s the problem.”
“I am focused. I don’t like Schrödinger’s Cat. Find me something else.”
Claire closed her eyes and counted slowly to five. It wasn’t a matter of finding something—to win Best Original Magic Act, the routine had to be created whole cloth. And she’d already spent months on Schrödinger’s Cat.
“You haven’t even read the whole proposal.”
“Cats are too unpredictable.”
“I’m telling you, this is how you win.”
He paused, appearing to consider the truth of her words. “Sometimes I think you want me to win more than I do.”
She stiffened. “Fine, do a Classic instead. I’m done.”
“Okay, okay,” he said quickly. “I’ll give it some more thought. I promise.”
She allowed herself to relax slightly. In her fantasy, updated hourly, the judges would present him with the grand prize check, and when he turned to embrace her, thank her, she would smile and present him with divorce papers.
Jonathan set their breakfast tray on the floor, placing the empty orange juice glasses beside it. Then he sat against the headboard and pulled her toward him so he could reach her shoulders and give her a massage. She shifted to grant him better access, winding up between his knees as he pressed his thumbs into the knot of muscles along her back and neck.
“I never would have brought her home if I’d known you would be here,” he murmured in her ear.
“This is a strange apology.”
“Why were you home so early?”
“It wasn’t that early. After midnight.”
“Yes
, but you’re usually there till two.”
“I got bored.” She sighed.
“Really?”
“There’s no competition right now. Best Original is yours to lose. If you do my routine.”
“What about the stupid Hipster?” he asked. “Any closer to figuring out who he is?”
The so-called Hipster Magician had blanketed the web with short, sardonic video explanations of magic tricks. There was no instructional element involved; they were simply mean-spirited spoilers.
Fear of exposure didn’t usually bother professionals, but his web presence—two million hits in the past six months—was impossible to brush aside. The guy was slick, polished, and aware. An insider. Maybe even a club member. Wearing a deliberately ironic/cheap eye mask, skinny jeans, and bright leather sneakers, he named the magicians he was exposing, six so far, showed clips from their live shows, and then destroyed them piece by piece, trick by trick. Everyone who made a living from magic wanted him shut down, permanently.
“No,” said Claire, “but I’ll bring it up at brunch today, see if anyone knows anything.”
Sitting behind her, his legs framing hers, Jonathan continued the shoulder massage for a too-brief moment before reaching under her nightgown and cupping her breasts in his hands. Would it have killed him to give her an actual massage first? Not the bare minimum to qualify for the term, and then straight to her tits?
Nevertheless, when he began rubbing his thumbs in a circular motion, she shifted her hips backward so she was flush against his lap. He was half hard already.
An idea forming, she turned to face him and straddle his lap.
Surprised, he leaned forward to taste her lips, but she dodged him. He raised an eyebrow. “No kissing these days?”
She made her eyes go wide. “You mean you haven’t filled your quota?”
“Ouch.”
She held on to the bed frame behind him and settled into position. Jonathan let out a soft moan.
Claire enjoyed it, too, but for different reasons.
He doesn’t know it, but this is the last time.
Make it count, Claire.
Jonathan inevitably rolled them over so he was on top. He made love the same way he performed: utterly confident and strong, oblivious to the fact that he was up there because of her. And in bed, oblivious to the fact that whatever pleasure she generated for herself had little to do with him.
Occasionally she thought about a younger version of Jonathan while the present-day version pounded away at her. Jonathan from the old days was a turn-on, before his smile seemed nothing but smug to her, before his gaze was nothing but patronizing.
She arched upward and kissed him with all the ardor and affection she’d once felt, conjuring it in her heart and making him feel the emotions spill from her with every movement of her lips and tongue, tasting him and dragging him toward his orgasm like a current of waves.
When she was certain he’d been swept up in an irreversible undertow, she wrenched her mouth free and whispered into his ear, “Oh, Cal…Cal!”
Jonathan’s eyes widened. He stopped moving, tried to back out of her embrace, but she clamped her legs tighter around his hips. His expression of hurt and frustration nearly made her laugh.
He glared at her. “Never do that again.”
Don’t worry, I won’t.
She smiled and pushed at his chest with her fingertips. “Off you go. I have to get ready. Brunch in an hour.”
Knowing she’d spoiled his orgasm was even better than having one of her own.
Jessica
At the same moment her husband’s name was being invoked in another woman’s bed, Jessica woke to the feel of Cal’s lips on her belly. The air-conditioning was turned up high, so his kisses provided a warm balm.
“Mmm, hi.” She smiled and stretched languidly.
“Hi, yourself. Did I wake you?”
“I don’t mind.”
Cal kissed his way up her body to her neck, then across her cheekbone and over to her lips. He tasted like fresh coffee with a hint of toothpaste. He always got up early to work in the guest room/rehearsal space, but returned to bed before she woke up so they could start the day properly.
Though they were visible in the morning light, she didn’t worry about the little scars dotting her arms and legs. She’d had them since childhood, although she’d have preferred to forget where they came from. He never mentioned them or asked about them, which made her love him even more. It was almost as though, in his gaze, they ceased to exist. Their marriage had healed her in infinite ways.
His loft—their loft—had been transformed, cleared out, and organized, just as he’d promised. The Cardini poster remained on the wall, which held a new coat of paint, but he’d made plenty of room for Jessica to add her own artwork and embellishments, and he’d altered the kitchen nook into an office for her. It was partitioned off by a Japanese-style room divider that could be taken down at night or when entertaining guests. So far, though, they hadn’t had a single visitor, which Jessica found curious.
Also peculiar was the lack of evidence of his previous marriage. Not that she wanted it shoved down her throat, but shouldn’t there be something from that time period remaining in his life? Was it so strange to want to at least see a photo of the woman? It wasn’t like they’d divorced or something; she’d died.
“You should go to the brunch today. Claire really wants you to come.”
She squinted at him. “Did she say that?”
He gave a half nod that did little to reassure her.
She couldn’t pretend his absence at the club her first night in LA didn’t bother her. “Don’t pat me on the butt and send me off like you did last week. Come with me. Introduce me to people.”
He smiled against her neck. “I’m not invited to the ladies’ brunch.”
“You know what I mean. Or, I know. We could have a dinner party, you could invite all your friends, and—”
“That’s not a good idea.” He was abrupt. “I don’t—parties are difficult for me.”
Her tone softened. “Because of alcohol? It doesn’t have to be dinner. It could be really casual. A lunch thing, just pop and sandwiches.”
“It’s not that. My friends—well, they don’t really understand how much I’ve changed since I lived here before. I think it might be—awkward.”
“Why would it be awkward?”
He didn’t acknowledge her question. It reminded her, disquietingly, of Claire. It seemed they both simply ignored her when they didn’t like what she had to say. “When I’m done filming and editing the show, we’ll paint the town red, okay? Just you and me.”
“But that’s not what I’m saying.”
“I’m proud you’re my wife. Never doubt that. I just want to keep you to myself a little while longer.”
She sighed. They’d clearly have to revisit the topic later. “Okay.”
“And you’ll go to brunch today?”
“I don’t know what to wear. None of my dresses work with bras. They’ll call me the bra-less wonder.”
He stroked her hair. “Can I call you the bra-less wonder?”
She smiled and let her misgivings roll away. “You can call me anything you want.”
“I think you should go bra-less, and I think you should ice your nipples right before you walk in.”
She threw her head back and laughed. He punctuated his comment by leaning down and giving each pink bud a lip-smacking kiss.
“I just don’t get what the problem is. They’re not very big,” Jessica said shyly, covering her breasts with her arm.
“They’re perfect, and you’re beautiful.” He studied her eyes for a moment. “I bet people have told you that so often you don’t even hear it. It’s just white noise.”
People had told her that her whole life, but never in a gentle way, more in a honking-from-a-car-and-leering kind of way.
And anyway, she’d never heard it from someone who mattered. Not her mother. Not her none
xistent father.
“I hear it when it’s you,” she said quietly.
* * *
When Jessica arrived at Club Deception, the valets refused payment or even a tip, and parked Cal’s Beemer at the reserved spot nearest the entrance. Word must have gotten around about her identity—she was being treated like royalty.
It was strange seeing the club in daylight, all its dusty flaws laid bare. Claire in daylight, however, was as intimidating as ever. She leaned against the brick wall, smoking a Marlboro Light.
She wore stilettos, a pressed black pencil skirt, and a white scoop-neck blouse with chiffon cap sleeves. Her hair loose, tousled, and sun-streaked, she looked like a surfer chick goddess in designer clothes. Jessica felt self-conscious about her own French braid, which felt childish in comparison, practically like pigtails.
Before Jessica could greet her, Claire pushed off the wall and gestured with her cigarette. “For brunch, we use the Gold Room. There’s a separate door around back.” She gave Jessica a chance to catch up (an improvement, at least, over last time) and led her around the side of the building toward a door marked EMERGENCY EXIT.
“Good,” said Jessica. “The girl at the front desk hates me.”
“She’s pointless, don’t worry about her.”
Jessica choked back a startled laugh. “I think I’m going to bring her cupcakes, show her there’s no hard feelings.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll just have her fired and you can start fresh.”
Jessica halted in her tracks. “What? No! That’s horrible!”
Claire smiled. “I prefer ‘efficient.’” She leaned a hand on Jessica’s shoulder so she could balance on one foot. Then she stubbed out her cigarette against the sole of her high-heeled shoe. “No ashtrays, can you believe it?”
Club Deception Page 8
