More Than A Maybe

by Monte, Clarissa

  There’s a flood of messages. It’s only been one evening, but it’s like my old life is reaching out a hand from all the way across the country, trying to drag me back.

  There’s a voicemail from my boss at the café, wondering just where in the hell I think I am. “If you can’t come to work, and you can’t be bothered to call, then you are fired,” I hear, the tinny shout of his powerless voice rattling my eardrum. I’m almost surprised by how little it bothers me.

  What does bother me is the flood of messages I’ve received from Jayla so far:

  > girl, pick up — called u 5 times!

  > seriously u ok? wanna talk to u

  > come on --- for real, call me back!!!!!!!

  I feel awful. Jayla’s been my constant friend through all of this, and I know she deserves a call. It takes me a good minute to work up to it, but I finally make it happen:

  “Is that you!? I called you like a hundred times!” Jayla sounds more than a little frantic.

  I manage to calm her down once I apologize and explain, once she realizes I’m safe. I tell her everything that’s happened. Of course, Jayla being Jayla, she manages to get every last juicy detail out of me. I tell her about the drinks last night — meeting Randall and Baby, kissing Xavier on the roof, our intensely hot limo ride, the hotel room . . . I even tell her, dropping my voice low, how Xavier had taken me last night.

  “Aw, honey — congratulations! And honestly, it was about damn time, girl. It’s just good you finally found somebody in this country worth fucking,” she says. Jayla sounds incredibly happy for me. It makes the pink rush to my cheeks, but I know that I’m just as glad about it as she is.

  “Damn. So what’s on the menu for the day? A little gourmet cooking on Xavier’s private submarine?”

  I laugh. “Well, I’m on my own for now. He’s doing his . . . you know, his business stuff,” I say, hoping I sound more sure of myself than I am. “I’m just supposed to enjoy myself today.”

  Jayla sounds a bit doubtful at the sound of that. “What, all alone? You don’t know nobody there? I mean, you can handle yourself and all, but . . . ”

  I don’t really want to think about her first thing in the morning, but the name pops into my head anyway:

  Baby.

  Jayla seems to read my mind. “What about that Baby person?” she asks. “You want my advice, start with her. Give her a call. Even if you hate the bitch, you might get a free manicure out of it or something. Get someone to sex up your cuticles.”

  I sigh. I know I’d decided I would last night, but the idea still makes me uncomfortable. Even so, I have to admit that it makes sense. Los Angeles is huge, and somebody has to show me the ropes. And I can’t deny it: I am incredibly curious about Baby. I remember her joke, the one about her being a doctor. That had been some very quick thinking on her part. Whatever else she might be, there’s clearly an intelligence beneath her California curls.

  And more than that . . . whether I like it or not, Baby is the closest I have to a friend in Los Angeles.

  “Actually,” I say to Jayla, trying to make my voice sound breezy and carefree, “I was just about to give her a call.”

  * * *

  So I do.

  At first I’m convinced that Baby has a severe frog in her throat, but the gruff-but-enthusiastic voice on the other end of the line turns out to be a man named Rosco. He introduces himself as her receptionist — and, as he is quick to self-proclaim, the Da Vinci of the hot stone paraffin manicure. After I tell him who I am, he shouts for Baby — and she’s on the line in an instant. I’d intended to set up something casually, just the two of us: drinks or whatever, whenever she was free.

  Instead, she insists on lunch then and there, at a place in Melrose called The Thai Hut. I agree. It’s no trouble getting there . . . just as Xavier had said, a few taps on my new xPhone and I am being whisked along in the decadent luxury of yet another air-conditioned service limo.

  I arrive fast. Baby waves as I exit the limousine — she’s been waiting for me in front of the restaurant. Somehow, her appearance isn’t nearly as off-putting this time. Part of it is that I know what to expect, of course, but part of it is that Baby looks far more in line with what I normally consider . . . well, normal, at least by my old Chicago standards.

  The golden-platinum explosion of Baby’s hair is tamed back somewhat today, tied into a professional ponytail. Her nails make me laugh as soon as I see them — they’re still impeccably manicured, but they’re totally different today, done up with an intricate detailing of panicked-looking Spongebob characters. She’s wearing a smattering of golden jewelry that works well with her skin tone — small hoop earrings; a delicate charm bracelet circling her wrist. The neckline of her black silk button-down shirt isn’t nearly so low today, but there’s still no escaping the proud prow of her boobs. I do my best to just stifle my sigh, though, and smile. Well, that’s California for you.

  “Veronica!” she cries, giving me a huge hug. Yup — they’re definitely fake, I think . . . but this time I find myself able to take part in her cheerfulness much more quickly. It is, after all, contagious. Baby is a genuinely happy person.

  The Thai Hut is a laid-back and airy little place with lots of light, and I can see a pleasant yet slightly distorted view of the ocean outside the restaurant’s funkily stained windows. We get a table and a couple of Coronas. A few minutes later the kitchen staff has whipped up two bowls of the best pad thai I’ve ever tasted. Even after my incredible breakfast with Xavier, I’m surprisingly hungry. So is Baby: for a few minutes the only sound at our table is the slurping of noodles and the clinking of bottles. Finally our pace slows enough for me to break the ice, with the first topic that comes to mind:

  “Is Randall okay?” I ask. “He seemed a little wasted last night.”

  Baby rolls her eyes. “Yeah — except for the massive hangover! He had to hit the espresso pretty hard this morning, but as far as I can tell he’s back to normal. But what about you?” she asks. “Are you adjusting to life in Cali yet?”

  I give her an unsteady half-smile. “Well, it’s only been . . . what, one night?”

  Baby’s eyes widen at that. “You’re kidding! Xavier told us you’d just gotten into town, but I had no idea you were that new around here. Wow. Well, hey — anyway,” she says, lifting her half-full Corona, “welcome to Los Angeles.”

  “Thanks very much!” I say, raising my Corona to meet hers. There’s a flash of gold as our bottles connect; I once again notice the charm bracelet on her wrist. It’s a lovely thing — a little Japanese fan of gold filigree, sparkling with what look like sapphires.

  “I love your bracelet,” I say. “From Randall?”

  She smiles, holding it out so I can get a better look. “A gift from Rosco, actually. He and his husband went to Kyoto on their honeymoon. It’s . . . well, it’s actually kind of a joke. Rosco’s a funny guy.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “A joke? Wow. Seems pretty nice for a gag gift.”

  “There might have been a little more to it. Their honeymoon was around the time Randall and I got engaged ourselves,” says Baby. “Rosco said it was for . . . what exactly did he write on the card? It was something like, ‘To My Boss And My Number-One Oiran. For Landing A Billionaire Without A Prenup.’” Baby smiles at the memory, then takes another sip of Corona. “Like I said: the guy’s got a sense of humor.”

  I’m impressed. I hadn’t figured Randall for a man with a capital-B bank account. Being Xavier’s legal eagle clearly has some pretty big financial advantages. Still, there’s something she’d said that I don’t understand:

  “Sorry — what was that word? Rosco called you his ‘Number One . . . Oy . . . Oy-something . . .’ I say, fumbling with the unfamiliar syllables.

  “His oiran,” says Baby. “Kind of an in-joke. It means . . . well, okay: an oiran was kind of like a courtesan in ancient Japan. Rosco’s something of a Japanophile, and I did Asian Studies back in uni, so . . .”

  “Wait a
second,” I say, frowning. “A courtesan? Like . . . like a prostitute?” I ask. I immediately regret it. The word prostitute sounds so weird out loud — I can feel my ears begin to glow.

  Baby shakes her head, laughing. “Yeah, well — Rosco can be kind of a dick sometimes, even when he’s trying to be nice. But no, actually. The oiran . . . they were very unlike prostitutes. An oiran had to be an expert on all sorts of things. Beauty, arts, virtue. They were the drivers of fashion and entertainment culture back then. To have the luxury of a night with an oiran . . . you basically had to be nobility to even dream of that kind of thing.” She shrugs. “Maybe California isn’t exactly overflowing with nobility these days. But that doesn’t mean Malibu can’t have an oiran or two.”

  I’m silent for a moment as I try to keep up with the feelings buzzing in my head. It’s so strange to feel yourself doing a 180-turn on someone. You think you have them all sized up in the first moment you meet them . . . but then, every so often, you find out you’re absolutely wrong. Sometimes people manage to completely surprise you.

  I’m actually starting to like Baby, in spite of myself. The envy I feel when I’m next to her, the jealousy — it isn’t from the compulsion I feel to compare myself to her, or the way she seems to be a walking example from straight out of my Book.

  No — it’s more subtle than that.

  I envy Baby because she has someone who has earned her. She chose him . . . and if Baby is Randall’s prize, how hard does he work to deserve her?

  “Anyway,” Baby says, “LA might not be ancient Japan, but that doesn’t mean it won’t take you a little while to learn the language and get your feet wet. You need anything — go to the beach, hit the clubs — you call me, okay? Anytime.”

  “Anytime?” I ask, genuinely impressed. “What about Beauty World?”

  She shrugs. “One of the perks of being the boss is setting your own schedule. Besides, I’ve got really good people — Rosco and the rest of them basically run the place. I just like having somewhere to go every day. I’m lucky that I can still have a life outside the house when I need to. And Kaylee needs plenty of my time, but our nanny is just amazing.”

  “Kaylee is . . . ?”

  “My daughter. And believe me, that nanny has her hands full — Kaylee’s as crazy as her mom,” she says, pulling her phone from her purse. Baby shows me an adorable photo of a golden-haired little girl, dressed like Belle from Beauty and the Beast. Princess Kaylee is seated on a rocking horse, holding a partially-chewed cloud of blue cotton candy in her little pink hand. I find myself feeling jealous of Kaylee’s childhood, a little. Wish I could have been a sugar-rushing princess on a rocking horse.

  Even so, I can’t help but crack a smile. “Aww . . . she’s adorable! But yeah, she looks like she might be a handful,” I say. “Still, doesn’t it ever get to be too much — the house, Kaylee, running the business . . .”

  “Well, having the right help is important,” she says. “We’ve got people to take care of the estate, handle the cleaning. I do cook, though. Maybe a few nights a week or something.”

  “Oh, okay. Cool,” I say, nodding, hoping the smile on my face looks sincere enough. I’m glad one of us has a prenup-free life full of nannies and hand massages. Still, Baby’s sweet — and I can’t really begrudge her her good fortune. I just wish I could figure out a way to get some of it for myself. And so, even though it’s not exactly subtle . . . I decide to try and steer our conversation a bit.

  “So . . . do you and Randall see Xavier a lot? Like last night?”

  Baby cocks her head to one side. I’m pretty sure she gets what I’m starting to hint at . . . but she suddenly looks a bit doubtful. “Well, not as much as you might think. Usually those two are 100% business when they’re together. I mean, you heard them last night. Being a third wheel isn’t much fun when the topic of conversation keeps turning to NDAs and patent application BS. Total snoozefest. So our double last night was fun. I’m glad he’s actually seeing somebody.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Me too. I mean, Xavier is easily the most amazing person I’ve ever met. It’s just that . . . okay, seriously? Maybe I don’t have the most dating experience, so maybe I’m not the best person to judge, but this? It has got to be one of the weirdest dates in the history of dating.”

  Baby orders us another round of Coronas, and as we sip them I fill in the gaps: about my life back in Chicago, how I ended up here. Some of it she knows and some of it she doesn’t, but somehow the look on her face is one more of interest than surprise. When I finish, she waggles one of her Spongebob fingernails in my direction. “Yeah,” she says, her blue-eyed gaze sweeping over my outfit, “I mean, no offense, but what you’re wearing? Xavier gave you that, too, didn’t he?”

  “It’s that obvious, huh?”

  “I’m afraid so,” she says, with a touch of sympathy. “And no offense, but Xavier’s tastes tend to run a little . . .”

  “Dark?” I ask, trying to beat her to the punch.

  Baby shrugs. “That too, I guess. I was going to say simple. I think Xavier’s business life is so hectic that he tries to keep everything in his personal life as simple as he possibly can. Like clothes — his clothes, your clothes . . . they’re all from that same designer, right? His haircuts are done once a week, always at the same place. I mean, the man doesn’t even have a home.”

  I stare at her in disbelief. “Are you sure? I’m almost positive he told me he moved here from Silicon Valley.”

  “Oh, that much is true,” Baby says. “But the man is literally homeless in LA, no joke. He’s got a standing reservation at that hotel. That’s actually where he lives.”

  That’s just . . . bizarre. “Seriously? And he likes it?”

  Baby gives a small, sad laugh. “Are you kidding me? The man is completely miserable. He has his work — and believe me, that’s all he has. At least until you showed up.” Baby looks at me, a half-grin twitching at the side of her mouth. “I think you’re going to be good for him.”

  “Why me?” I ask.

  “Honey — it was all over his face last night. The way he smiles at you. The way he looks at you. I can’t honestly recall seeing anyone have that effect on him before. More than that, though,” she says, looking thoughtful, “I think it’s because you complicate his life. And if Xavier Black could use anything in his life, it’s a little bit of complication.”

  With that, Baby stands up so suddenly that it topples one of our empty Corona bottles.

  “So come on! Let’s get started!”

  I stare. “Started? What do you mean?”

  Baby smiles at me. “Are you kidding? Shopping, duh!”

  Chapter 8

  That shopping trip is when it truly sinks in: I’ve stepped into the life of my dreams. It isn’t merely the fun of hanging out with a new friend, or the fact that I have a magical cell phone that can make a shiny limo materialize whenever we want. It’s knowing that there is nothing between me and the beautiful things I desire. The part of me that’s always had to scrimp and save — the part that had to help my mother budget, the part that had to keep clicking around on Craigslist for bargains — that part of me I left in Chicago. I feel like I’m in Little Orphan Annie . . . or maybe Julia Roberts in that late-night rerun of Pretty Woman I watched as a little girl, when my mother had been sleeping too deeply from walking the dogs to hear the TV.

  Baby seems to have a sixth sense for shopping. She’s known, too. Plenty of sales clerks welcome her by name as she enters the shops and begin their subtle wheedling, even begging her to try on things they hope she’ll like. When she sees something that looks like it has her name on it, there’s no stopping her. Her credit cards flash like jeweled daggers, and poof — it’s hers.

  For the first few stores I’m too timid to buy anything myself. I think about Xavier’s credit card practically burning a hole in my purse, but I’m hesitant to use it. Part of me is worried that I’ll be crossing a line that can’t be uncrossed — and part of me, as silly
as it sounds, is half-afraid that it just won’t work.

  I tell all this to Baby, and she laughs. “Don’t overthink this,” she says. “Just because Xavier knows how to make money doesn’t mean he really knows how to spend it. He gave you that card because he wants you to enjoy yourself here, in whatever way makes you happy. Get that thing out, honey! You’ll be doing the both of you a favor.”

  It’s at a boutique in the Promenade that I finally see something that melts the last of my resolve. It’s a little off-the-shoulder white-and-blue silk peasant dress, not so much retro as it is classic. It wouldn’t look at all out out place being worn by Vivien Leigh at some gala studio beach-bash back in the day, but it certainly doesn’t look out of place now, either. I can’t put my finger on exactly why, but when I look at it something inside me begins to flutter.

  It hugs my body almost to perfection — except for at my bust, where it manages to bag annoyingly. Something Baby doesn’t have to worry about, I sigh, as I fret at my reflection in the mirror. Still, no matter — I’m in love with the dress. The staff hunt around until they locate a strapless bra to go with it, something padded enough to make it work. In every other regard the dress is flawless: it just seems made for sunny California. I can almost feel the ocean wind sweeping it against my legs as Xavier and I walk hand-in-hand along the boardwalk at some crystal blue harbor, the both of us wrapped together in some impossible moment.

  Baby sees the look on my face. “It’s fantastic! What are you waiting for?” she cries. “You know you want to.”

  And so I do it — I march confidently up to the counter, slap down Xavier’s black metallic credit card, and the dress is mine, all mine. Simple.

  “Thank you very much, miss,” says the smiling clerk, with the voice of a man who appreciates a commission. “Shall I wrap this up for you?”

  “I’ll wear it out,” I say.