Roger: Yup. The type your mother wanted you to land, if you couldn’t land a lawyer.
Judith felt anger burn in the pit of her stomach. “Of course, I was targeting an occupation more than a husband.” There was a pause before she got a response.
Roger: I was just kidding, Judith. Just a joke.
She immediately felt badly, and oversensitive to boot. “Sorry. Trophy-wife disease.” As soon as she hit Send, she regretted it.
Roger: I’ve always wondered how they fit you gals on those little stands with the engraved plate.
She knew he was trying to make her feel better for her gaffe. “I wouldn’t say I’m a trophy wife. David and I understand each other, and we care about each other very much.”
Roger: You really don’t need to tell me his name.
She blinked at that. “Why not?”
Roger: Because then I’ll feel bad for him when I go to L.A. to sweep you off of your feet and have you live a life of naked splendor with me in Atlanta.
She glanced over her shoulder, inexplicably. “Bad man.”
Roger: LOL. It’s been mentioned from time to time.
She pictured him, a tall, blond-haired doctor type, taking time from his busy day, probably feet propped up in surgical scrubs (Was he a surgeon? Did it matter? This was her fantasy.) as he typed away at his keyboard with an impish smirk on his face. He was probably picturing her to be a blond bimbo with big breasts that may or may not be real, complaining about her old lawyer husband. They were both fantasies, she decided. Even she was, in this case.
Roger: Let’s get even badder, then. What are you wearing? (Lascivious leer)
She bit back a grin. It wasn’t real, she reminded herself. “Oh, the usual. Little pink teddy that matches my nail polish. That’s about it. You?”
Roger: Gets hot in Atlanta. I’m not wearing anything at all. :)
She gasped at that, then started laughing. “Sure. For all you know, I’m an eight hundred pound albino wearing that pink teddy.”
Roger: Being naked and all, you’d see how I reacted to that last remark. Does the term “turtle” mean anything to you?
She laughed even harder. “Yuck! That’s disgusting.”
Roger: Says you, oh 800 lb Victoria Secret model.
She imagined the two of them in a room together, laughing like old friends. “I wish I could see you,” she wrote back. “You seem so nice.”
Roger: Wait a sec. I’ll send a picture.
She almost told him no. Stop. She didn’t want her fantasy to have a face. She didn’t want him to seem more real. But she couldn’t bring herself to, because she was curious. Maybe he was ugly. Or maybe he just wasn’t her type. She was getting really drawn to this imaginary man she had created while her husband was off working. Maybe this was an antidote.
“You’ve got mail!”
She quickly clicked out of IM mode and looked in her mailbox. There it was…an e-mail from Roger’s address, with an attachment. Serve me right if my computer got a virus. Wouldn’t you know it, she thought as she clicked on the icon to reveal his picture. I’d get a cybersexually transmitted disease.
The picture slowly came into focus, to show a man with dark brown hair. He wasn’t George Clooney, but his face was terribly appealing. She knew he was thirty-seven, but his age didn’t really show. He looked as she suspected…impish.
And he had some nice pecs, she noticed as the picture continued to “develop.” And…
Oh, my God.
From the looks of it, he was naked.
She stared in fascinated semihorror, waiting for the rest of the photo to load up. The chest was magnificent, lightly tanned. She could see why he was grinning so mischievously.
The Instant Message rang over the image.
Roger: Got it yet?
“Shut up. Still loading.” She clicked it back and waited impatiently. It started to show the naked curve of his hips, and then…
A big, white block, with a sentence in a flourishing script font.
IF YOU LIKE THIS, YOU SHOULD SEE THE REAL THING.
She rocked her head back and laughed, louder than she could remember in a long time. The word bubble was placed strategically over his…well, over his nakedness. She quickly e-mailed him back. “You nut. I can’t believe you had a picture made like that.”
Roger: All these women were e-mailing me saying, “Send me your picture!” and I got tired of it. They were interested in sex and wanted to see if I was a candidate. I was joking with a friend, and she dared me to do this.
Judith felt a burst of ire. “So you’ve sent this photo to lots of women…” She stopped typing, hit the backspace key. “So you’ve sent this photo to lots of people, then?”
Roger: Too chicken! ;) You’re the first.
The heated anger cooled into a very comfortable warmth between her breasts. “Oh. Well, it’s cute.”
Roger: You should see the real thing. Hypothetically speaking. :)
“I’m sure it’s all it’s cracked up to be and more,” she answered.
“Judith?”
She spun. David was in the hallway.
“Honey, I’ve been yelling to you from downstairs. You’ve been laughing like a loon. What’s so funny?”
He started to enter the office, and she quickly tried to shut things down. She hit the Instant Message, and his naked picture popped up, with its sly grin and saucy message. She gasped, trying to shut it down. “Oh, nothing. Sarah sent me some jokes.”
He glanced at the picture, shaking his head and grinning ruefully. “Single people. How’s she handling breaking up with The Benjamin?”
“Not so good.”
She closed the picture file, but before she could shut down AOL, an instant message popped over:
Roger: You’d have to test it to find out. It feels even better than it looks…or so they tell me.
She almost unplugged the computer in her haste. The program signed off, and she turned to David, feeling a heated blush on her cheeks.
He wasn’t even looking at her. He was rubbing his temples. “I had a really, really shitty day today. And I’m starving. Do we have any leftovers?”
She took a deep breath. “I…I haven’t eaten.” She shut down the computer, breathing thankfully as the screen went dark. “But I’m sure I could pull something together for you in no time. Why don’t you change your clothes, come downstairs and tell me all about it?”
He smiled tiredly, kissing her on the cheek. “Thanks, Judy. You’re the best.”
Sarah called Martika’s cell phone.
“Martika. And you are?”
“Tika, help.”
“Sarah?” Sarah could barely make her out over the obvious club noise. “What’s wrong? Where the hell have you been?”
“I got fired.”
“Is that all?”
“And I slept with Benjamin.”
“Oh, fuck.” Pause. “I take it you didn’t enjoy it?”
“It would’ve been better if I hadn’t found out he was living with someone.”
“Double fuck.” A long sigh, counterpointed by the beat in the background. “What do you want to do? The boys and I can come get you in a second.”
“I want to go clubbing,” Sarah said, looking over Martika’s closet. “I want to go out. Can I meet you?”
“Sure!” Martika’s voice sounded surprised and happy. “Why not. We’re over at Probe. It’s eighties night. We’ll get you drunk, and in a few hours it’ll all seem like a bad dream.”
“My life is a bad dream.”
“Now, now. Save the maudlin till you get here. So much fun!” Martika’s voice turned matronly. “Call a cab, sweetie. I don’t want you driving, ’kay? You’re too upset.”
“Okay, Martika,” Sarah agreed. “Oh…can I borrow an out-fit?”
Martika’s laugh was loud enough to drown out the latent club noises. “Borrow an outfit? Honey, borrow any damned thing you want! Oh, I can tell this is going to be fun! I’ll keep an eye out f
or you.”
“Okay, Martika,” Sarah repeated. “Bye.”
“Byee.”
Sarah hung up the phone, and surveyed Martika’s crowded closet. She wasn’t up for vinyl, but she felt…mean. Dangerous. She felt ready to kick the shit out of somebody.
She wound up going with the same short plaid skirt she’d been stuck in the first night she went out, and the black netting top over a black bra. She also pulled on a pair of Doc Martens boots that Martika had stuffed in the back of the closet. They were a little scuffed, and looked like they’d seen some action. She liked that. She went to the careful pile of makeup she’d gotten under Pink’s tutelage—pale Christian Dior concealer to hide her tearstained eyes, Urban Decay over her lids and cheeks and “lip gunk” in the promising color called “Slash” across her mouth in a scowling pout. She dusted the whole thing with Lorac, and added a healthy rim of liquid eyeliner. She looked like a reject from the Sex Pistols, but the look was violent, and that was her statement for the night.
The Judith-angel-voice had gone conspicuously silent, she noted. The Martika-devil simply looked on approvingly.
She phoned for a cab, and spent the next forty-five minutes, waiting and pacing (after stuffing the toes of the Doc Martens with toilet paper and adding a second pair of socks). She had her short blond hair sticking up like the fiery character in some old Claymation movie she’d seen. It was all she could do not to kick things—set things on fire.
She suspected the cabbie recognized this when she got in. He didn’t look surprised or shocked—cabbies rarely did—but when she gave the address, he didn’t try for any patter or flirting. Sarah was glad, and disappointed. She felt ready to roll, as Martika would say, with anyone…and not the sexual way, either.
He let her off in front of Probe, and she walked up to the bouncer. A huge man, shaved bald with a small goatee, glanced at her license. She grabbed it, then stalked past him, going in, paying her cover at the small window before entering the club itself.
It was different than the other club Martika had taken her to. It was smaller, more intimate, and unfortunately, more happy. Wham! was blaring out of the speakers, insisting that she wake somebody up before she go-go’d. Or got out of the shower, she thought, with that terrible rage.
It took another song (this time the more pleasing “One Night in Bangkok”) before she finally found Tika, Taylor and Pink, huddled in a small balcony, smoking clove cigarettes. “Sarah!” Tika gave her a huge one-armed hug, holding the lit cigarette carefully away from Sarah’s spiked hair. “Honey, how are you?”
“Shitty. I’d like to get hammered.”
“And hammered you shall be,” Martika said, putting out her cigarette with a flourish.
Taylor wrapped a companionable arm around the two of them. “All right, ladies, it’s an early night for me…”
“No, it isn’t.”
Taylor looked at Martika imploringly over Sarah’s head. “Tika, I’ve got a meeting in the morning…”
“I don’t give a shit,” Martika said, as they entered the club again, getting hit with Siouxsie and the Banshees’ “Peekaboo.” The kids in black clothes did as close to a Goth cheer as the impassive group could muster. Sarah didn’t know what weird attraction eighties clubs had for Goth people anyway. “Our girl needs us!”
Taylor sighed, glancing at Sarah’s face. “You really had a bad day, huh?”
Sarah nodded, as they walked over to the bar and promptly took up residence.
“What happened?”
“Where do I begin?” So Sarah began with the phone call from Temps Fugit. Then the other phone call.
“Ooh, that’s a bad one,” Pink commiserated, taking a shot of tequila and then continuing to talk like she’d just sipped water. “I can’t tell you how many times things have gone shitty in my life and then suddenly, the phone is in your hand and you’re asking information for a listing.”
“I meant to yell at him, I swear to God, I meant to rip him a new ass,” Sarah said. She was feeling the effects of her second shot like a slow burst of Novocaine. It was a preferable sensation. “And then he apologized…”
“Bastard!” Martika slurred.
“And then he asked me out to lunch…”
“Here we go,” Taylor said. Martika leaned against him, and he patted her shoulder.
“And then he wanted to show me his house…” Sarah rubbed her face with her hands, doubtlessly smearing makeup but at this point not really caring.
“And you did the deed.”
“And then found out that he was already living with someone. Living with someone! Named Jessica!”
She felt a tap on her shoulder, and she spun. “Jessica!” she yelled.
“Actually, it’s Kit.” Kit’s face was, as usual, unperturbed. “But you were so close.”
“Go way. I hate men.”
Taylor glanced at her. “Ahem.”
“Other than Taylor, I hate men.”
Pink shot her a quick, appraising look, then shook her head, as if deciding not to even try. Sarah didn’t know if she should feel relieved or insulted. She chose relieved.
“Hmm. I guess you wouldn’t be interested in dancing, then.”
Sarah glared at him.
“And a blowjob would be out of the question.”
Sarah stared. Then, traitorously, a bubble of laughter emerged. She tried to clamp down on it, but it came out in a sputtering wave anyway. Pretty soon all of them were laughing.
“So that’s the whole sordid tale,” Sarah concluded with a wave.
“Well, you listen to me,” Martika said, and she looked directly into Sarah’s eyes like she was a hypnotist. “You’ve had enough of that bullshit, okay? You’re only…how the fuck old are you, anyway?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Right! You’re just twenty-five. And you’re in Los Angeles. You don’t need to have all the answers. You don’t need a man. You don’t need a career path or a Palm Pilot or some fucking heathered oatmeal sweaters from Abercrombie and Fitch as you wait for your husband to give you fifteen precious minutes of his time to start two-point-five kids!”
“Diatribe, Martika,” Taylor warned. Kit grinned.
Martika waved a hand. “Oh, you know what I mean. All I’m saying is, you’re in a hell of a fun city, and if you play it my way, you can keep on having fun. Not worrying about what you’re supposed to be doing. Just doing whatever you want.”
“It sounds great,” Sarah said, “but there’s always a catch.”
Martika shrugged. “Yeah. You have to not care what other people think about you…and you’ve got to make your own decisions.” Even drunk, she shot Sarah the look of practiced, mischievous disdain. “Think you can do that?”
Sarah thought about it.
No more career paths and working late nights, paying her dues. No more waiting by the phone for a man’s call that would inevitably be disappointing. No more.
“I’m willing to try,” she said solemnly.
“Then come on,” Martika said, dragging at her with both hands. “There’s a whole lot of ass shaking to do before you’re through here tonight!”
A couple of hours and many drinks later, Sarah was feeling no pain. This was better. Her ears were faintly ringing and had muffled the music to a nice, bouncy white noise, probably out of self-defense. Taylor was deliberately staying out, even though he had an early meeting, because he wanted to make her feel better. Well, she amended, because Martika told him he had to make her feel better, but nevertheless he didn’t really have to stay. And Martika was continually telling her that she loved her and that everything would be all right. Now that she thought of it, she herself had been randomly telling people that she loved them since, oh, about her fourth shot.
She was pretty sure it was her fourth shot. It seemed so long ago.
“We’re going home,” Sarah finally said, as the club started to wind down.
“Let me give you a lift,” Kit said.
“Gall
antry!” Martika pronounced, lurching on to him.
Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “Did you drink?”
He shrugged. “Two beers. I don’t like drinking when I go out to a club. Too expensive.”
Taylor laughed. “Tightwad!”
“Come on, let’s go.”
Since Martika had come with Taylor, she fell asleep in the back, sprawled indecorously. Sarah sat up front of the beat-up old Camaro, with Kit. The engine roared.
“Thanks for giving us a ride home,” Sarah said dreamily, studying his face. It was like looking through frosted glass.
“No problem,” he said, glancing at her. “You’re pretty wasted, huh?”
She shrugged. “Let’s just say there’s been a lot of waste.”
“Do me a favor?”
She tried to focus on him, but the effort was too much. She closed her eyes. “Sure.”
“Take Martika with a grain of salt.”
“Huh?”
“She’s fantastic—she’ll tell you so herself,” he said, with his usual sardonic humor. “But think about what you want before you go in with any of her harebrained schemes, okay?”
“What are you saying?” Sarah’s tongue was thick in her mouth—the words came out slow and stumbled over each other.
He sighed, pulling over to the curb in front of their building. “I’m saying, you don’t have to be any particular way, to be okay. Understand?”
“No.” Sarah smiled at him. “Thanks for the ride.”
He smiled, then shocked her by lifting her netting shirt up.
“Hey,” she protested slowly, but before she could put her arms up, he’d tucked something into her bra and let the netting top drop.
“I understand you’re looking for a job,” he said. “He’s a friend of mine, looking for a personal assistant. You might like him.” His grin was quick. “I’ll call you in the morning to remind you. I get the feeling you’re not going to remember this at all.”
L.A. Woman Page 13
