More Than A Maybe

by Monte, Clarissa

  Which seems, on reflection, strange. They couldn’t have been made just for me . . . and certainly not so soon. Could they?

  I look at myself in the mirror again, and for a moment I’m reminded of a custom black dress I saw in a book, one made for Greta Garbo. She’d said it was the most expensive dress she’d ever purchased. Perhaps money could do anything, though — get things done, just as soon as you wanted them.

  Still, what kind of man can look at a girl and immediately know her dress AND shoe size? I find myself wondering how a person can function at that level of precision; it seems almost frightening.

  Almost. As I turn to look at myself from every angle, however, I feel another thrill crowd out any other emotions. I find myself feeling a little like royalty . . . or a debutante, on her way to her very first ball.

  That thought makes me just a little bit sad, though. I’m all dressed up with no place to go. I let out a heavy sigh. Okay — playtime is over. I make up my mind to take off the dress, crawl under my duvet, and sleep until it’s time to go to to work.

  But then, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a white edge of paper peeking out from the dark crevasse of the tissue wrapping. I’ve clearly missed something.

  I pull back the tissue with hesitant fingers, and there it is: a crisp, cream-colored envelope. It’s monogrammed, marked with an elegant X. At last — some mail I actually want. I feel its reassuring weight in my hand for a moment, then eagerly tear it open.

  It’s a letter, written in Xavier’s precise and controlled hand:

  Veronica,

  Hello. I hope you have recovered from our shared excitement last evening.

  Enclosed please find a dress of my choosing. While I’ve not the eye for fashions that Mr. Yoshida does, I am quite sure that you will look absolutely radiant in his work. I should very much like to see you wear it myself.

  I’m meeting an associate of mine and his wife for drinks. Your company tonight would make me very happy. For tonight — and longer, if you so desire.

  Do pack light, Veronica. Everything has been arranged.

  X

  I feel my pulse quicken. Everything’s been arranged? Pack light? What could he . . .

  I check the envelope again, and feel a renewed elation at what I find:

  One first-class ticket on Virgin Airlines, Chicago to Los Angeles

  A confirmed reservation to the Thousand Arms Hotel in Beverly Hills

  A laminated schedule

  My heart leaps. The effect is not so unlike the panic attack I’ve just experienced in the kitchen — the thumping in my chest, the trembling hands — but it’s not panic, it’s joy . . . the sheer thrill of anticipation, pure and lovely and exciting.

  I sit on the edge of my bed, trying to force myself to breathe at a more normal pace. My eyes fall on the schedule card. It’s a thin column of neatly-printed items:

  11:00AM - 1:00PM: PACKAGE DELIVERY

  1:30PM: TRAVEL PREPARATION

  2:00PM: PICKUP, TRAVEL TO AIRPORT

  3:00PM: ARRIVAL AT AIRPORT (CHICAGO MIDWAY)

  4:35PM: DEPART FOR LOS ANGELES, VIRGIN AIR FLIGHT 432

  8:46PM: ARRIVE AT AIRPORT (LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL)

  9:30PM: COCKTAILS

  I can only stare blankly at the card as the avalanche of questions tumbles into my mind:

  Is he serious? Drinks in California? Today? Tonight!?

  Just like . . . just like that?

  My eyes fly from the card in my hand to the plastic alarm clock that does its best to wake me up every morning:

  1:27PM.

  My eyes become the size of dinner plates. That’s . . . a half-hour?

  There’s no time.

  There’s simply no time!

  My first reaction is that this is all impossible, and the reasons fill my head:

  There’s that letter on the countertop, for starters. I have to come up with that rent somehow, right away. And then there’s my job at the café of course — my boss said they’re short-handed, it’s definitely going to be another late night. I’d better start resting up or I’m never going to make it through the evening. And anyway, 33 minutes? I have to pack, change . . . there’s no time. There isn’t, there simply isn’t . . .

  I look at the clock again.

  1:48.

  Correction — 32 minutes.

  I stand up and check my reflection in the mirror again. The dress sweeps lightly against my legs, but I look past it, past myself, to the reflection of my bedroom behind me. I realize that the girl wearing this dress doesn’t belong here. Not anymore. The bedroom is full of familiar things, but they seem all at once alien — so terribly out of keeping with the silken fantasy draped over my body.

  This dress . . .

  This is a dress for a person that has to go to Los Angeles. In 31 minutes.

  That person . . . I’m staring at her again, at Miss Veronica Kane. This woman isn’t used to hearing the word no. Or taking it for an answer. And certainly not from herself.

  And so I say Yes.

  * * *

  I spend the next fifteen minutes throwing together a quick overnight bag of whatever necessities I’m able to put my hands to. The Book goes first, of course, my luck and my inspiration, tucked safe and snug at the bottom of my bag. On top I toss my wallet and phone, along with the leftover foundation, powders and lipstick from Jayla’s pre-Mirages makeup lesson. There are a couple of changes of clothes as well — a few light cotton T-shirts, and some of the ubiquitous blue jeans my mother always made me buy on sale.

  I even include the most impractical and girly thing I was able to sneak past my mother’s watchful eye: a white floral-pattern dress that I got for a classmate’s birthday party ages ago. It’s the closest I have to the jaw-dropping gowns worn by my Goddesses.

  Besides the Book, Turner Classic Movies, and the secret stash of Hershey’s Miniatures I kept hidden in my desk drawer, the white dress was one of the few things that helped keep me sane. I’d put it on, open the door to my room, and sweep myself over to the bedroom mirror, doing my best imitation of the opening beats of the Loretta Young Show. Its cheerful airy color is a far cry from the provocative slink of the dress from Xavier, to be sure, but for some reason it just makes me think of California. Besides, I love it. In it goes.

  The coat Xavier lent me is the very last thing I pack. I fold it once down the middle, tuck it next to my dress, and zip the overnight bag shut. Done.

  My bag attended to, the next fifteen minutes I spend fretting about my hair and face. I’m at a complete loss, though. Is Xavier even going to recognize me after last night? The elaborate splash of eyeliner and lip gloss I wore at Mirages won’t work, and I don’t have the time to recreate it anyway. Instead, I make do with a quick touch-up of what I’ve already got on, hoping I’ll be able to do better on my way to the airport.

  The last minute I just spend quietly in the living room of my apartment . . . turning, slowly, trying to get a clear picture of it burned into my mind. It already seems somehow distant. Faded.

  The door to my mother’s bedroom is still open slightly, I notice. I breath a sigh, remembering the days after the funeral spent packing her things into cardboard boxes. I still haven’t been able to decide what to do with them.

  I reach out my hand for her bedroom door, and then pull it firmly closed.

  There’s a knock at the hallway entrance, and I look out to see a smartly-dressed gentleman in black livery. It’s the driver. My driver.

  There’s no hesitating now . . . no apprehension, no fear.

  I check my bag one last time and allow myself a final deep breath . . . and then realize that I’m smiling.

  I’m ready.

  Chapter 5

  The trip to Los Angeles is a fast-forward leap of faith into another world.

  I do my best to adjust myself — and the first thing I find myself adjusting to is saying the word Yes. Fortunately, when you’re a mile above the ground in first class, that always seems to be the
right answer to any question you might be asked.

  Yes, you can put my bag in the overhead for me. Yes, I would like a hot towel. Yes, I would like another glass of wine — and do you have any more of those warm fudge-chunk cookies by any chance? Thank you so much.

  I could get used to this.

  The only thing I decide to say no to is my iPhone — I might have a million different demands waiting for me, but I’ve earned a break from them. I’d sent Jayla a quick mail explaining the situation, just so she wouldn’t worry. Then I’d switched it off. A symbolic gesture, maybe, but one I’d wanted to make. I’m not sure when I’ll turn it on again.

  Part of me keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop. By the time we land in Los Angeles, I’ve managed to make myself nervous again. By the time I find the limo Xavier’s sent for my arrival, I’m bordering on terrified. Why, exactly, is this man being so nice to me? What could he be expecting from me tonight?

  The leather back seat of the limousine is spacious and cool, however, and it’s impossible not to be completely relaxed and totally excited at the same time. There’s a surprisingly huge television, wireless internet, and a refrigerator full of sodas and Pellegrino water . . . along with a fully-stocked bar, of course.

  “Help yourself,” says the kindly-faced and genial driver over the intercom, noticing my excitement.

  “Thanks,” I say, smiling at his eyes in the rearview mirror. I grab a Pellegrino from the fridge and hold it to my forehead to try and cool myself down a bit. Then I open the bottle and take a long drink of the cold fizzy water inside. “It was a long trip.”

  “I’m sure it was,” he says amiably.

  Curiosity gets the better of me, and I find myself wondering if I can get a few details about my host out of the driver. “Have you worked for Mr. Black long?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry?” he replies, a note of confusion in his voice.

  “Mr. Black. Xavier Black. This is his car, isn’t it?”

  “No, Miss. This car belongs to the United Limousine Service. That’s who employs me. I was sent to pick you up from the airport and drive you to the club.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  I’m not sure why, but I somehow expected a billionaire to have his own limousine and driver.

  Or two. Or three.

  * * *

  At last we near our destination, and I manage to stay calm about it. Despite the hectic pace of the trip, I have to say that I look pretty good. The dress I’m wearing seems to have been made for quick travel plans. I’m remarkably unwrinkled, and the touch-up I did on my face during the limousine ride makes me feel ready to once again face Xavier.

  The limo pulls into the long, curved driveway of a gated LA club. There’s no sign to indicate its name — wherever we are, exclusivity and anonymity clearly go hand-in-hand. Out the window, I can see a long row of fountains and immaculately trimmed hedges, all of it signaling a level of dignified opulence far outside my experience. It seems like an elaborate movie set from a bygone era . . . and as we approach the main building, it’s easy to imagine a young Tyrone Power sitting next to me, bow tie undone around his neck, spinning yarns about the off-camera dramas that always seem to swirl around the denizens of Tinseltown.

  The limousine rolls to a gentle stop; the driver gets out and opens the door for me with a flourish. I swing my legs out onto a rich swatch of royal-red carpet snaking its way up an extravagant marble staircase. Somehow, in this dress and secure in the knowledge that I’ve just exited a chauffeured limo, I feel a healthy measure of confidence return to me.

  The entryway of the club is all lofty arches, aesthetically stylish sculpture, and subdued lighting. I’m greeted with a quiet smile by the club’s captain, a dignified-looking silver fox of a gentleman in a crisp uniform. He checks to see that my name is on the guest list (Veronica Kane is — Alice White is not), and then he leads me into an enormous candlelit dining room, indicating the way with a well-practiced sweep of his arm.

  The club interior radiates an expensive maturity. The tables are a rich mahogany; the chairs sturdy examples of fine leather artistry. The captain walks smartly in front of me, the very picture of professionalism, and I follow along, listening to the crisp clack of my new heels against the marble floor.

  Then I see Xavier.

  He doesn’t see me right away — he’s in the middle of an intense discussion with a slightly older man with a big salt-gray cowboy moustache. I can just make out bits and pieces of their conversation:

  “Yes, fine, that’s all well and good,” Xavier’s saying, making some kind of point with short quick motions of his hand. “But do we really want to license the technology? Why don’t we just buy the company, before they get too big?”

  Cowboy Moustache seems about to say something, but we arrive at the side of the table and the captain gives a little interrupting cough. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, gentlemen,” he says. “Miss Veronica Kane has arrived.”

  The two men look up, then smile as they stand to welcome me. “Veronica! So glad you could make it.”

  Xavier looks amazing — he’s more casual tonight, in a light blue cotton shirt and dark jeans. The man with the moustache he introduces as Randall Shane: some big-deal lawyer, apparently. He’s got a laid-back puppy-dog cheerfulness about him, which contrasts sharply with Xavier’s cooler and more analytical bearing.

  I take my seat at the table and smile, trying not to show how nervous I actually am. Xavier catches the arm of the captain and orders another round of drinks — Tom Collins for him, a pomegranate martini for me. For a moment I just smile and catch my breath, wracking my brain for some interesting way to break the ice. Fortunately, Randall is kind enough to do it for me.

  “It is a real pleasure to have you here!” he says, with a low and jovial chuckle. “Good to have some distraction from all this business B.S.” He takes a long sip of of what looks like scotch. “Talking about money is like . . . I don’t know . . . dancing about fishing.”

  Xavier smiles and gives a half-shrug. “Makes the world go around. Or so they say.”

  “So they say,” repeats Randall. “Still, money should be had and not heard, I think. Less said about it the better.”

  Xavier laughs incredulously. “My lawyer is telling me this? The California King of the Billable Hours?”

  Randall gives a sage nod. “All hours are billable hours for someone, Xav. Besides — you know I’m worth it.”

  “Truest thing you’ve said all night,” says Xavier, turning and giving me a captivating half-smile. “Randall here is the man that makes sure I get paid for all my endeavors.”

  Randall takes another sip of scotch, waving away the compliment. “I think that’s just . . . what’s the word? Symbiosis, or something. You make me rich — I make you rich. But anyway! Enough about us! Welcome to California, Veronica. Xav here tells me you’re a . . . a student? Is that right?”

  It’s far from the whole truth, and I shoot Xavier a questioning glance, but his face is the picture of innocence. I’m positive Xavier has told Randall more about me than he’s letting on . . . and I sense that he’s offering me a polite way out. Part of me appreciates it, too: I don’t really want to explain the details of the past few chaotic months to anyone tonight — much less my pratfall at Mirages.

  But then a positively wicked thought takes hold of me. A student? Alice was the student — and she isn’t on the guestlist tonight. This trip is about Veronica Kane. I don’t even try to stop myself, and excitement takes hold of me as I speak the words:

  “Actually, that’s on hold for right now. These days I’m a dancer.”

  I don’t know why I say it. But I do, I like the way it sounds — much more than the word waitress, somehow. I’m not sure what reaction I expect. To catch them off guard, just a little bit? Surprise, perhaps?

  Instead, I’m the one in for a surprise. They take it completely in stride. The look on Xavier’s face becomes one o
f bemused interest. Randall just nods, smiling behind his moustache, as if the admission has put him at ease. “Sure, sure. Xavier told me a bit about how you two met, of course. Quite the dramatic debut. Still, this is LA,” he says, shrugging. “I just assumed that you studied and danced a bit on the side. My wife did the very same thing, once upon a time . . .”

  His wife. I remember the words on Xavier’s invitation now — it did mention something about another guest.

  It’s then that I hear the click-clack of approaching heels . . . and a voice:

  “I’m back — what did I miss?”

  I look up into the most enormous pair of ocean-blue eyes.

  It takes me a moment to come to terms with what I’m seeing. The person in front of me is not exactly Brigitte Bardot, maybe, but she’s certainly been cast from the same mold. The thought of my Book pops unbidden into my head; it’s as if one of the pages has come to life in front of my eyes. I’m utterly astonished. The woman is a real, genuine, no-fooling Silver Screen-calibre Goddess . . . the cover of every fashion magazine I’ve ever seen, a million swimsuit and diet shake advertisements all rolled into one. She’s wearing a black-orange sleeveless bandage dress with a plunging neckline that simply demands attention — and doubtlessly gets it.

  I feel Miss Veronica Kane wilting at the sight of her, just a little bit.

  She’s pure LA County, and I instinctively feel I know her name even before she says it. I’m sure it’s something inane . . . Bunny, or Cookie, or Kandi with a K and an i and a little heart instead of a dot, or . . .

  “Baby!” Randall says, his face lighting up.

  Randall pulls out a chair for her and she smiles, displaying her chalk-white teeth. I plaster what I hope is a smile across my face as she slinks her way into a sitting position next to me, and I realize that I simply do not like her. Randall motions for a waiter, then reaches over to put his hand over hers. I don’t know how long they’ve been married, but Randall’s got the demeanor of a man completely in the throes of new love . . . or lust.