L.A. Woman

by Cathy Yardley

  “What?”

  “He looks bored, but he glances back. He definitely notices us, and now he’s sizing up his chances. He’d like it better if one of us was alone…less likelihood of him getting laughed at. But there’s just two of us, so he might chance it.”

  Sarah hadn’t really noticed any difference and wondered if maybe Martika were making it up. Then she saw it…the guy reached for his drink, laughing at whatever the guy next to him was saying—and he looked directly at her, his dark eyes almost swallowing her up in their intensity. He sent her the smallest smile, like he knew something she didn’t.

  Her heart pounded a little. This was like…like hunting or something. It was fun.

  “Okay, now we’ve got a target. What next?” Sarah asked eagerly.

  “Well, we let him come to us,” Martika said. “If you weren’t here, I’d probably be a little more blatant, or maybe go to him—guys do like that, and I hate waiting for shit, personally. But if we both go up…no. That’s a little too high school for my tastes.”

  “Hmm. That doesn’t sound too bad,” Sarah said thoughtfully.

  Martika quirked an eyebrow at her. “You want to give it a try?”

  Sarah glanced at her, the fun leaving in a quick panic. “You mean now?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “You just said it wouldn’t be so bad,” Martika wheedled, and her eyes were glinting. “Just make sure your hips shake a little, act like you’re walking down a runway, make sure they notice you. Then ask him if you can buy him a drink. It should be pretty easy from there.” She nudged Sarah. “Go on.”

  “I don’t know…”

  Martika sighed impatiently. “You don’t have to take him home, for God’s sake. You just have to buy the guy a drink.”

  “Um…”

  “All right, just say hello to the man, all right?”

  This did feel suspiciously like high school, Sarah decided as she started what seemed to be an interminable walk to the bar. He was sending more glances her way, she noted at least. She felt self-conscious about her walk. Until Martika had made a big deal about it, she hadn’t thought about it, but now that she was thinking about it, every movement felt awkward and wooden. She successfully made it to the bar without tripping, at least, she thought. She’d work on sexy later.

  Instead of walking straight up to him, she opted to be a little more subtle. She wasn’t Martika—but he had made eye contact with her. She walked behind him, leaning on the bar.

  “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.

  Sarah turned, surprised. “Hmm. What do you recommend?” she asked, trying to maybe make her voice sound more like Lana Turner and less like Blossom from the Powerpuff Girls.

  The bartender looked at her. It’s a bar, his face said. I recommend you order something or stop taking up space.

  She looked over the sign. “I’ll…have a Blue Neon Fogcutter,” she said ambitiously.

  The bartender smirked at her. “Just one straw?”

  “Um…okay.”

  He went to work, and she turned, wondering how she should start the conversation. He was talking to his friend about sports. About how badly the Dodgers sucked this year. “Boy they sure do!” No. She didn’t know anything about sports, and it might be a New York sort of situation—New Yorkers could make fun of their city, but when a stranger did, it was a humongous insult. So what else could she comment on. I like your clothes? What are you drinking? Don’t I know you from somewhere?

  She sighed, impatient with herself. Hey, mister. Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?

  This was turning into a disaster.

  “Here you go. One Blue Neon Fogcutter. That’ll be twelve dollars.”

  “Twelve…” She looked at the concoction he’d placed on the bar. It was in a martini glass—only the glass was the size of a small fishbowl. It was a shocking shade of blue and seemed to glow on its own in the black light over the bar. “Oh, my.”

  “Looks like you’ve got a busy night,” the bartender said with a snigger. “Still want just one straw?”

  She glanced down at the bowl o’ alcohol in front of her…and suddenly it hit her. Her opening line.

  She turned to her left. “I don’t suppose you’d want to share it with me?”

  Then she looked at who she was offering the invitation to, and gaped.

  It was the cute Latino’s distinctively less-cute friend. He was fuzzy all over, it seemed, and he didn’t do the relook. He was all eyes, as if he were trying to stare at every part of her at once. His bushy eyebrows danced. “Love to,” he said.

  “I’m sorry. I thought you were…my friend,” she said, feeling lame, and glancing back at Martika.

  The guy was there. Her target was sitting on the chair she had only recently vacated, whispering something in Martika’s ear. Martika simply gave him a Mona Lisa smile before sauntering over to the bar. Sarah noticed that every set of male eyes was riveted to her walk.

  “Need help with that?” Martika said, throwing a twenty on the bar. She grabbed some change and left a tip, then took the drink and walked back with her sensual grace over to the table. Sarah followed her, feeling ridiculous.

  “Sarah, I’d like you to meet Rinaldo.” Martika’s smile was like Martha bloody Stewart, for God’s sake.

  “Nice to meet you,” Sarah muttered. Rinaldo nodded in response before turning his attention back to Martika.

  “Rinaldo, this really is a girl’s night,” Martika said pointedly, looking at Sarah, then looking at his seat.

  He got up, but then leaned over. “Can I call you sometime?”

  Martika smiled. “Got a pen?”

  Within minutes, Rinaldo was back at the bar with Fuzzy Guy, Martika’s cell phone number in his pocket, no longer doing the bored relook but sending smoldering glances over at their table.

  “How did you do that?” Sarah said, taking sips from the huge martini glass.

  Martika shrugged, grabbing the straw and taking a sip herself. “This may take a little while. I’ve never had to train anybody. Although I will say two things. One, don’t ever walk behind a guy, or try to be subtle. Men are like old computers. You want them to do anything, you’ve got to be painfully direct and relatively simple. Just trust me on this.”

  “Then why didn’t you just say, ‘Hi, whatever your name is…why don’t we go back to my place and fuck?’ instead of the whole brush-off thing?”

  Martika smiled. “I have used something similar to good effect. But the main reason to avoid it is, men are funny. They like to think they’re the hunters, that they made the move. Ridiculous, but there it is.”

  “So that was all about him doing the pursuit thing?”

  “Don’t make it sound so Mars-Venus,” Martika said disparagingly. “I don’t think men retreat to caves, and if they did I certainly wouldn’t wait for them. I know what I want, I know how to get it. EOS.”

  “EOS?”

  “End of Story.” Martika grinned.

  “So. What was the second piece of advice you had for me?” Sarah asked.

  Martika took another sip of the drink, and gagged slightly. “Rule two—don’t order one of these fucking things again. They’re awful. It looks like 2000 Flushes.”

  Sarah had made a chain of two hundred and eighty-five paper clips before she realized with a certain horrid fascination that she was reaching clinical, perhaps certifiable, boredom.

  She’d been at the job for a month now, and all she’d really done was exchange nervous greetings with her employer, Richard “call-me-Richard” Peerson. She’d spent the first week piecing together a calendar from his scraps of e-mails and letters and cocktail napkins, saying what he had to do on various dates. He had an inordinate fondness for Post-it notes in a variety of colors—they made up the bulk of her information. Then there was his handwriting. She’d found one piece of paper on which he’d scrawled and then written more legibly, apparently for whoever came before her. She was using it as
a sort of Rosetta Stone, and now could cipher what he was trying to communicate. By week two, she’d been given the suspicious okay to buy an attractive leather organizer (he insisted on burgundy, since “plain black was so blah”) and she’d managed to transcribe what she found into efficient to-do lists and monthly overviews. Richard had blanched just looking at it, so she simply told him each morning what he needed to do, while he handed her occasional scraps of paper where he’d jotted what it was he’d promised someone he would do, or letters from his publisher telling him when things were due.

  That usually took about half an hour. She tried to make it longer by punctuating each little task with a sip of coffee or something.

  Now, she was drinking whole cups between entering Post-it notes in the organizer, and she was still finished with her to-do list by nine-fifteen.

  The “office” she was set up in was very attractive—heavy wood desk, modern PC with a nineteen-inch screen and a DVD-ROM (she supposed she could watch movies, but that seemed way too blatant), and a sleek black phone that looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. There were tall bookshelves on one side of the room, filled with varying volumes of fiction and reference material. There were matching file cabinets made of wood and a credenza—all empty, so far as she could tell. Richard had tossed all the previous assistant’s disturbingly color-coded files in a box and stowed them in the cellar, apparently. A corkboard was set up on one wall, also denuded. The large window behind her showed his backyard and kidney-shaped, black-bottomed pool.

  The other eye-catching piece of décor was a large circular mirror, framed in brushed bronze. She could watch herself as she methodically fed her caffeine habit, as she was now.

  She stared at the mirror, looking at herself. Just like a cigarette ad: You’ve come a long way, baby. Her hair was now methodically kept up by Joey, her makeup was a tasteful blend of Lorac, Stila and Urban Decay, her clothes were the best she could afford from Fred Segal, Bebe and some funky boutiques Pink recommended. She looked great, not to be immodest. She felt sure it couldn’t be that.

  She grimaced at herself in the mirror, with her “Gash” raspberry-colored lipstick, making a grotesque pout. Well, she was striking out in the male department, granted, but at least she was looking good while doing it. Even Martika couldn’t find fault with that argument.

  The thing was, she wasn’t quite sure what she was doing wrong.

  She tried an experimental come-on smile, watching her own reflection. “Hi there,” she whispered. “My name’s…no. I’m Sarah. I’m Sarah. No, no, that sounds stupid. Hmm…I’m Sarah. Sah-rah. S’rah.”

  She wished she didn’t sound like a Powerpuff Girl.

  She got up, standing in front of the mirror. It’s not like Richard knew she was alive. She walked past him if she were going out to lunch, or if she was going home. Otherwise, she barely heard the clacking of his keyboard, and he wandered away often. Standing in front of the mirror, she got a look at her torso as well as her face. She crossed her arms, tilting her head.

  “I’m Sarah. Come here often?” She listened to it out loud. Way too cheesy. “I’m Sarah.” She smiled. Okay, yawn. “This is Sarah. And you are?” She laughed. She sounded like Martika on helium. This would never work!

  She crossed her eyes. “Hi, my name is Sarah, and I am flirtatiously challenged. Would you like to give a donation to the RHF…the Romantically Handicapped Fund? Otherwise, you can volunteer to be a pal and take out someone like myself and make her drab but well-dressed life a little more exciting.” She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, blaeugh. I must be losing my mind.”

  “But it’s been entertaining.”

  That would be Richard’s voice. Sarah peeked out behind her fingers, feeling the blush heating the palm of her hands. Slowly, she dropped her hands from her face.

  “Um, hi,” she muttered. “How long have you been there?”

  He was staring at her like she had grown another head—but he had a small smile, nonetheless.

  “Boy. Was that as embarrassing for you as it was for me?” Sarah said, with a weak half-laugh.

  “Actually, I thought the last one was the best one. At the very least it hasn’t been tried before. You might want to work on your pitch, though.”

  She wondered if jumping out the window might improve matters.

  “You know,” he said, “you are well dressed. And you’re a pretty girl.” He sent her a quick, startled look. “Not in any harassing way, of course.”

  “Of course,” Sarah assured him.

  “But you really could work on your presentation,” he offered, almost shyly.

  Sarah stared at him. Because this job just can’t get any weirder. Well, she’d been trailing after Martika to no avail. Possibly her eccentric multimillionaire boss might have some pointers. “What would you suggest?”

  He frowned, causing his snowy-white eyebrows to knit together with concentration. “Well, for one thing, you might want to work on your voice.”

  Sarah groaned. “I know. I sound like a Disney character.”

  “The problem is, you sound like Minnie Mouse…only Minnie trying to do an impression of Tallulah Bankhead. Work with your strengths, dear.”

  “You mean, sound young?”

  “I’m willing to bet that whoever it is that’s giving you tips right now is a real freelance dominatrix-type.”

  Sarah thought of Martika. “That’s pretty darned close.”

  “Well, that’s not you. I don’t mean that in a bad way, I just mean that you’re not the type.”

  Sarah sighed. “So I should just be somebody’s wife?”

  “Good God, no!” Richard said, aghast. Sarah laughed at his vehemence. “No. I was thinking perhaps of going for innocence mixed with mischief—white to her black, as it were. With your hair, face and voice—well, I’m no expert, but I’d say you’ll want to wear a lot more pastels.”

  Sarah frowned. “I like them, but thought maybe not. They make me look so young.”

  “That’s a plus,” Richard said, laughing. “Younger the better. I’d say border on schoolgirl. You can be like…oh, what’s her name? Alicia Silverstone. Shorter hair, of course, but that sort of vixen-y…what’s the word? Right. Womanchild.”

  Womanchild. All one word, Sarah thought, grimacing. Yuck.

  He put his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. “Yes, I know, it puts feminism back into the Dark Ages.” He made a little smirk. “But then, as I recall, so does hunting for men by practicing in front of a mirror.”

  Sarah couldn’t help it. She scowled at him.

  “You’re a lot more fun than Ms. Honeywell,” Richard commented. “Have you had lunch?”

  Sarah glanced at her watch. “Um, it’s ten in the morning.”

  “Oh.” Richard blinked for a moment. “Then I’ll take that as a no. How about brunch?”

  Sarah found herself accepting a “bruncheon” date with her boss. Rather than the usual introductory meal with an employer—which normally involved minor dissing about the previous occupant of your position, a brief diagram of the politics in the office (who to avoid/who to suck up to) and some vaguely probing business questions (“where do you see yourself in five years?”)—Richard went straight for the gusto. She found herself telling him about Benjamin and why she’d moved down to Los Angeles.

  “Why, that absolute prick!” Richard said, shocking her into dropping some of her Juevos Rancheros on the tabletop.

  “Funny how often that comes up,” Sarah replied.

  When they got back to the office, they’d managed to kill three hours by having a leisurely meal and by window-shopping on Third Street. He even stopped by Borders and bought her a few copies of his book. Sarah felt better than she had since she started this whole “assignment.”

  “I’ve got to write this afternoon,” Richard said apologetically, as he walked her back to her desk.

  “I’m sorry if I took up a lot of your time.”

  “No, no, not at all! This recharges
my batteries,” he said with a negligent wave of his hand. “Do I have anything else to do today?”

  Sarah flipped open the organizer. “Um…nope.”

  “Great. Why don’t you enjoy the rest of the afternoon?”

  Sarah blinked. “Really?”

  “Really! Get some of those clothes we talked about, take a bubble bath.” He grinned. “Practice in front of your mirror at home.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him. She gauged him correctly—he laughed with delight. “All right then, I’m out of here. See you tomorrow, bright and early.”

  “Oh, no stress,” he said with a laugh. “Come in whenever.” He wandered back down the hallway.

  Sarah gathered up her things, but before she could leave she heard the pounding of Richard’s feet on the hallway floor. “Sarah! Wait a minute!”

  She glanced over at him, puffing like a chimney. He’d run to catch up with her. “Yes?”

  He handed her what looked like a club postcard-thing, an advertisment, but on closer inspection it was an invitation—and a swanky one at that, with gold foil and the whole nine yards. It said:

  ANAIS.COM

  “What’s this?” Sarah asked.

  Richard shrugged. “It’s this…well, it’s this magazine that’s about sex. Very tasteful, of course,” he assured her. “In fact, it’s very intellectual. Covers all sorts of walks of life. Anyway, they’re an offshoot of my publisher, and I got to know the editor over a piece they were doing on…well, it doesn’t really matter now. But their parties are legendary. This is going to be someplace in Santa Monica, I think, or somewhere. You can bring your friends,” he said.

  Sarah looked at the card. “Well, I could certainly use a good party,” she said. Martika would approve of that.

  Richard beamed.

  Chapter 11

  Light My Fire

  “This isn’t a party,” Sarah muttered as best she could in Martika’s ear. “This is an orgy.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I like about it,” Martika replied.