The movement was so at odds with Claire’s previous decorum, Jessica was rendered speechless.
Claire flicked the dead cigarette away and deftly entered a security code into the panel at the door. Inside, Jessica heard a friendly, raucous mixture of voices down the hall. She realized how eager she was to meet the other magicians’ wives and girlfriends. Cal was right: She’d been in the city for nearly ten days; it was time to make friends, beyond whatever Claire was.
She strode forward to join the party, but Claire encircled her wrist and held her back. “Just so you’re aware, the parking spot you’re in is usually mine, but I took a cab today.”
“Oh, okay.” Standing close to the other woman in the darkened hall, Jessica inhaled a faint whiff of citrus, with something darker underneath.
As the child of an alcoholic, she immediately recognized the smell of liquored-up breakfast tea. As a former bartender, she knew the liquor was Cointreau. The knowledge brought with it a familiar fear, and the accompanying urge to prevent Claire from embarrassing herself. The tricky part would be protecting Claire while not letting on that she was doing so. Alkies couldn’t stand being babysat. It was a risk she had to take, though.
Besides doing right by Cal’s friend, Jessica wanted Claire to like her; teach her how to project the same fearless, sexy poise that Claire possessed, at least under normal circumstances; show her how to be the ultimate WAG. But first, she had to determine whether Claire was a happy drunk or a mean one.
Claire tottered into the Gold Room, which lived up to its name. The ceiling, floor, and walls were etched with thin, intricate, swirling, golden mandalas. Looking at them gave Jessica the sensation of falling. Upon each dining table sat a gold vase containing a single gold rose—made of silk—surrounded by gold-etched plates, gold-edged cutlery, gold champagne glasses.
Claire’s entrance provoked shouts and cheers. Her comrades encircled her. Cast adrift to find a table, Jessica chose the one closest to the stage. In her haste, she didn’t realize the average age at the table was somewhere between seventy and death.
“She’s been putting it off for years, and I just can’t see a way out of it anymore. Not if we’re going to sell the house,” one of the older ladies said to her companions. A black cane rested against her chair.
“Who’s putting what off?” asked Jessica, sitting down.
The women turned to regard her.
“What’s your name, dear?”
“Jessica. Pleased to meet you,” she said in a rush.
“Jessica…?”
“Sorry. Clarke. I’m still getting used to it.” She blushed.
The table fell silent.
“As in Calum Clarke?” Jessica clarified. “He’s—”
“Oh, we know who Calum Clarke is, dear,” said the woman with the black cane. “We’ve probably known him since before you were born.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” she said quietly, regretting her choice of table.
“I’m Cynthia,” the woman continued, lowering her bifocals to peer at Jessica. “How long have you been Mrs. Clarke?”
“Since August.”
Another silence. Someone coughed and another woman dabbed at her mouth with a napkin.
“What’s the matter?” Jessica blurted out. She was getting pretty sick of people’s reactions to her, not to mention the fact that Cal wasn’t there to back her up. The receptionist had been shocked to hear Cal had remarried. The bartender had been surprised he’d come back to California. And now the establishment WAGs were acting salty.
“Perhaps second time’s the charm,” Cynthia said drily. “At any rate, it’s nice to have a new face joining us today.” She raised her champagne glass and tilted it toward Jessica. “Welcome.”
There was a pause before the other ladies followed suit.
Then they returned to their previous conversation.
“If she would just let us go through the boxes, we could pare down the photos into something manageable.”
“When we put my mother-in-law in a home, they wouldn’t let her bring more than five picture frames.”
“She has plenty of framed photos on the wall, that’s not the problem. It’s the shoe boxes from the sixties and seventies that are driving me up the wall.”
Jessica ventured into the fray again. “Your mother’s got too many loose photographs?” she asked Cynthia.
“That’s right,” Cynthia replied. “And she refuses to toss any of them.”
“I could digitize them for her,” said Jessica. “That way you can still keep them but they won’t take up any space. I used to run a business cataloging old photos back in Chicago. And I’ll do it for free if you promise to refer me to your friends.”
Cynthia’s eyes lit up. “Do you know how to use Photoshop? Can you brighten some of the images, or zoom in closer on the faces?”
“Absolutely.” All her clients requested that the past be airbrushed.
For the next ten minutes, Jessica chatted with Cynthia about the scrapbooking packages she offered and handed out new business cards to everyone at the table.
“Good morning,” Claire said quietly from the podium. A screech of feedback from the mike startled her, and secured the room’s attention. Claire gingerly tested the mike, tapping her finger on the mouthpiece.
“Hi. Uh, hi, everyone.” She cleared her throat and took a sip from her drink, which was amber-colored and garnished with a bright-orange spiral, peeled from a carrot. Jessica wondered what it was. But mostly she wanted to know why Claire looked so out of place at the podium. Minutes ago she’d ruthlessly cut Jessica down about a parking space, but now she struggled to deliver a simple greeting. She currently read from a stack of notecards, rarely looking up to address her audience.
“When it pours, it…I mean, when it rains it pours,” Claire said. “It’s been, uh, six months since, um, anyone new has come to brunch, I think, right? But today we have two young ladies joining our ranks.”
Jessica’s ears perked up. Hooray, I’m not the only newbie.
“So give them your heartfelt sympathy, I mean, a heartfelt welcome.” There were some chuckles and Claire looked somewhat relieved. “Here with us today for the first time is, and please stand up so we can see you…Kaimi Lee. Did I say that correctly? Yes? Oh, good. Kaimi Lee.”
A striking Korean American woman wearing a bubble-hem black dress with a bright floral pattern stood and gave a mock salute, her expression wry. Jessica was delighted to see that Kaimi looked about her age. Finally, someone to chill with who could relate to the changes in Jessica’s life since meeting Cal.
“Kaimi is…can this be, uh, true? You’ve recently started dating Landon Gage.”
Kaimi shrugged as if to say, You’re as surprised as I am.
“You can have him,” someone shouted.
“Boo,” someone else added, though Jessica wasn’t sure if they were booing the woman who’d just spoken, or the fact that Kaimi was dating Landon. Did Cal know him?
“None of that,” Claire said firmly, and for a split second she seemed like her formidable self again. It didn’t last long. Right now, she could not have been less suited to commanding the attention of a room. “Whatever you think of his…self-help seminars, let’s show some respect for the, uh, woman who finally tamed him. Big applause, I mean, big round of applause, for, uh, Kaimi ‘the lion tamer’ Lee.”
“Do you need a drink, Kaimi?” someone else shouted, and this time the room erupted in laughter.
Kaimi was a good sport. “How about ten?” she asked, which immediately won over the crowd and restored the good nature of the room.
“Next up,” said Claire, “is Jessica Clarke, who happens to be Cal’s…um, that is, Calum Clarke’s wife.”
“Say it ain’t so,” came a wail from a faraway table. There were at least eight tables, seating ten women per table. Laughter filled the air again, broken by overlapping catcalls.
“Where is she?”
“Who’s the luc
ky bitch?” hooted a woman wearing a vintage girdle and corset. “Show yourself.”
Jessica stood up and gave a little wave. She sought out Kaimi in the crowd, hoping to make eye contact, but the other newbie was buried in her iPhone.
“Look at her. She’s precious.”
Claire wagged her finger. “Curb it. You’re going to scare her off. Especially you, Table Six.”
The occupants of Table Six cheered at being singled out.
Claire cut them off. “There will be plenty of time to, uh, harass her later. Next order of business: The so-called Hipster Magician is becoming a real, um, problem.”
Groans from the crowd.
“I know. But he’s got three million views as of this morning. Obviously, this—this affects all our livelihoods. Our husbands’ livelihoods,” she quickly corrected. “You may not have been affected yet, but, you kn—know, your husband could be next.”
“If you see something, say something,” Kaimi piped up sarcastically. “Like terrorism.”
Jessica bit her lip. She didn’t think it was the right comment to make in a room full of magician lovers.
Claire shot Kaimi a sharp glance. “Keep your eyes and ears open. If you see or hear anything, no matter how insig—” She stumbled on the word, and Jessica’s back stiffened. “—insignificant it might seem, or anyone who might know him, my door’s always open. Drop by my table today, email, call…No one’s throwing blame around. Anonymous help is, um, always grateful. I mean, we’re always, the board of directors, is grateful for it, and we can act on it without casting blame or getting anyone in trouble.
“Okay. Next item.” She rolled her eyes, crumpled up her final notecard, and dropped it on the floor. “The ventriloquists’ wives still want in. And to the surprise of no one, the nays have it, for the, uh, forty-seventh time in a row.”
“Why do we have to vote on this every month?” groused a woman in the second row. She wore a hat with vibrant bird feathers on it.
“It’s not that bad of an idea. It would bring in additional membership dues,” another woman pointed out.
“See that chocolate fountain over there? The one we hardly use because we don’t remember it exists? That means we don’t need additional funds,” said Claire rapidly. “Especially if we all turn in our dues on time. With that, I’m going to open the floor.”
Claire looked desperate to be done. But before she could exit the stage, a voice demanded, “Tell us what you’re drinking!” Table Six, naturally.
“Carrot juice and rum, a new one from the boys upstairs. It’s called the Rabbit.”
“Like the sex toy,” squealed another Table Sixer.
Claire didn’t bother to respond. The mike gave a final screech of feedback when she attempted to rid herself of it. Claire’s hand shook, making it difficult to return it to its holder. Jessica smoothly walked over, took Claire’s drink from her, and slid the mike into the base.
“Can I try a sip?” she asked, to make her actions appear self-serving instead of sympathetic.
“Grab your own glass,” Claire said haltingly. “Grab a gallon.”
“That’s okay, I just want a taste.” She’d decided to stay sober this morning so she could be on her toes around Claire.
“Any particular reason you sat with the old hens?” Claire murmured.
“Yes. Lead generation.”
Claire’s wispy blond eyebrows shot up. “How about that. You are a businesswoman.”
Jessica basked in the approval. She didn’t care if the affection came from booze; she knew from years of witnessing her mother’s mood swings that sometimes that was the only way to get affection at all.
And here her ex-boyfriends all thought she had daddy issues.
“Let me tell you who’s who,” Claire offered.
“Table Six looked fun.”
“Oh, Lord. Okay. May as well get it over with. Just. Come here a second.”
Jessica’s heart pounded double-time as Claire steered her to a secluded section of the floor. She loved being privy to secrets.
“You know they’re swingers, right?” Claire asked quietly.
“They’re what?”
“I’m pretty sure you heard me.”
“Like, real swingers? I thought that was something people did in the seventies and then never mentioned again.”
“Uh, no, it’s alive and well. Cal didn’t tell you?”
“No, he didn’t say anything.”
He’d been so insistent that she attend today. It seemed odd that he’d leave it out.
“Hmm. Be careful what you say; they construe anything remotely friendly as an invitation. Just be firm if you’re not into it.”
“Come with me,” Jessica begged.
“Oh, no. I’m going to freshen my drink. I’ll give you five minutes before I rescue you.”
Jessica panicked. “I don’t have a watch.”
But Claire was gone, and ten other WAGs had taken her place. Specifically, the ten WAGs from Table Six. There was no escape.
The ladies circled Jessica like hyenas. The corseted one was their leader. She leaned in and kissed Jessica on both cheeks. Jessica froze, not knowing which way to turn her head, and fearing a collision of nose and lips.
“Hi, sweetie. I’m Brianna. We’re a loud group but a fun one.”
“What do you think about a spa day later this month?” cooed a woman in a red leather dress. “I’m Helen but you can call me Hel.”
“On Wheels,” cackled another lady, who wore a peculiar combination of plaid tights and ruffled skirt. “I’m Elizabeth.”
“How did you and Cal meet?” Brianna asked.
“At one of his shows,” Jessica said. It was easier than giving a full explanation.
“He married a wand fucker? Good for him.”
For some reason this struck the group as hilarious. Jessica looked among them, uncertain whether she was being teased or honored.
“And what do you do?” Elizabeth prompted.
Something told Jessica to keep her business cards tucked away. The less contact info they had for her, the better. “I just moved here, so I’m still settling in, finding my footing.”
“Must be fun to play house,” Hel remarked.
“Yeah, that worked out nicely for you, didn’t it?” Elizabeth added with a hint of bitterness.
“What do you mean?” Jessica asked.
“Soon you won’t have to do anything. For the rest of your life. Not with Cal’s TV show coming together.”
“It isn’t a sure thing, he’s just shooting the pilot,” Jessica said. “And I plan to contribute. I like working, being creative,” she continued, but no one was listening to her.
Elizabeth placed a conspiratorial arm around her shoulder. Unlike with Claire, whose proximity she instinctually welcomed, Jessica felt trapped by the gesture. “You know,” the lady said, “we’re the real source of power here at the club. The shadow government. We have to support each other. Any way we can.”
“Give it a rest.” Another woman clutched Jessica’s arm, and Jessica fought an overpowering instinct to jerk free; talk about space invaders. “Her husband’s running for board treasurer and she wants your vote.”
“I don’t think I can vote on that stuff,” Jessica said, prying loose one arm from her neck and one from her arm.
“But we can all use our influence with our husbands to encourage them to vote a certain way.”
“Some of them never even open the ballots; they’re too busy to check the mail. So we vote as their proxy.”
“Is that legal?” Jessica asked.
“Listen to her. This is a clubhouse for boys who play with cards, sweetheart, it’s not the Federal Reserve. Anyway, vote Christiansen next January for treasurer. And if you ever need anything from me, don’t hesitate to ask…”
Brianna, the leader, interrupted her. “Okay, I’m just going to ask. Everyone’s thinking it.”
“Bree, don’t—”
“Is it true Cal g
ave up sex for three years as penance?”
Penance? Penance for what? Before she could ask, Brianna bombarded her with further questions.
“Do you know if he wanked?”
The others tried to shush her.
“Seriously, did he wank at least?”
“Oh, my God, Brianna…”
“What, isn’t that what British people call it? Anyway, I don’t believe it. Three years without pussy? No way. Not our Cal.”
Jessica frowned. Our Cal?
Lost in memories, they closed Jessica out of the circle. It was as if she weren’t there.
“Can you imagine Cal unleashed after all that time?”
“He was probably bursting.”
“No offense to Brandy, of course, may she rest in peace—”
“She certainly didn’t rest while she was alive.”
“No rest for the wicked!”
Elizabeth pivoted toward Jessica, including her in the conversation again. Her eyes gleamed. “What was it like? The first time you and Cal…?”
Snorts and gasps exploded from the others. “Don’t ask her that!”
“Did you pass out?”
“Was it like getting your ovaries punched?”
Gross! Jessica was so stunned she couldn’t respond. They were acting like Cal was some kind of demented sex beast. Worse, they were acting like they knew it firsthand.
Mercifully, Claire showed up and put a stop to the interrogation. “All right, quit hogging her, she needs to make the rounds.”
“Jesus,” muttered Jessica, when they were out of earshot. “Those chicks were fucking nuts.”
“You stole their favorite toy, what do you expect?”
“Their favorite toy?”
“Anyway…”
Claire pointed out cliques of other women at each of the tables. Jessica was certain she must’ve met several nice, normal people, but they were eclipsed by the strangeness of her encounter with the swingers.
“Our Cal”? What the frigging hell? “Gave up sex as penance”?
Was that the reason he’d told her to come today? So he could ease her into the concept of, of…swinging by shuttling her off to the brunch and letting other people do his dirty work for him?
My friends don’t really understand how much I’ve changed since I lived here before. I think it might be—awkward, he’d said.
Club Deception Page 9
