I am not beautiful. At least, I would never think of myself as such. I’m too tall, for one. I know my eyes are set too widely apart to allow me to be strictly beautiful. I think my neck is too long: like a blonde giraffe. With effort, I can, perhaps, be elegant. I can work my way up to a look of sophistication. And, on the right day, at the right time of the month and in the right light, I think I can sometimes even lay claim to being striking. But beautiful? Not so much.
There are times when I suspect that I’m beautiful on the inside. Like when I cry at sad endings in movies or I have a mad desire to rescue all of the world’s abandoned kittens or I read the newspaper and some colossal injustice makes me truly sad and embarrassed to be human. That’s when I suspect myself of inner beauty. But then usually something happens — someone cuts me off on the freeway and I shout and give him the finger or a stock goes down when it’s supposed to go up and I feel like ripping someone’s head off — that makes me suspect even this internal beauty I would love to be able to lay claim to.
So Steve’s compliment caught me off guard. And it was the oddest thing. You can hear compliments like that stacked on one another and not have them faze you. You know they’re empty or said for personal gain (to get into your portfolio, your bed or both) or just because it’s the thing that is said at a certain point like, “How are you today?” This didn’t feel like that. It felt real and sincere and unexpected. And, beneath Brian’s expertly applied foundation, I could feel a blush creep up my shoulders and over my cheeks. It was an unpleasant sensation and I wanted it to go away.
I did the only thing I felt capable of doing under the circumstances: I filled the fluttery void with empty chatter. A killer instinct for the trade, but I can go all gooshy at a single compliment.
“Steve Rundle,” I said, “this is Emily Wright.” They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries and, though I might have been oversensitive, I thought I heard the pause where I didn’t explain Emily’s connection with LRG. That was not something I was going to offer. Though when I found the courage to look more closely at Steve and saw the way he was looking at me, I could tell it wasn’t something he was going to press. At the moment, work was the last thing on his mind. Time to steer him back: on my terms.
“We got here late,” I heard myself explaining. “Did we miss anything?” Thankfully, Steve took the bait.
“You know, you didn’t. Except the expected round of rubber chicken,” he made a face. “Not a peep about the Billings guy. And he still hasn’t shown. Is that weird, or what?”
“With all the maybe-police guys in Culver City today,” I said, “you’d think something bigger than what appears to be happening is happening, wouldn’t you? Maybe something to do with him. Billings.”
Steve just shrugged. It was apparent that it wasn’t that he didn’t care, he just seemed to think it was something that maybe didn’t have so much to do with him. Something that would resolve itself if he left it alone.
I tried again. “Do you think we should ask someone? Straight out, I mean?” As if. That was like the last thing I could do at this point. But Steve might be pointed at the task.
“You’re kidding, right?” He passed a glance at Emily that was clearly meant to say: Is she insane, or what? Not one to miss a cue, Emily rolled her eyes as though she’d never seen anyone so silly.
“It’s just not the Langton way, is it?” he said.
“I guess not,” I said. “But aren’t you curious?”
He stood back on his heels, thoughtfully, as though considering. “Well, I guess on the one hand, I am. But really in a super broad way. The way I might wonder if the President will get back in at the next election. I mean, I’ll read everything about it so I know what’s going on and I’ll go cast my vote when I’m supposed to, but if the dude I vote for doesn’t get to work in that office, it doesn’t really have much to do with me, you know? That’s how I feel about Billings. I’m going to have to go to work tomorrow whether he shows up or not,” he shrugged, tipped his glass to me, “so why sweat it?”
Here’s what I was noticing while Steve spoke: the way his Adam’s apple dipped and rose in his throat as the words found their way to the air. That his hands were strong and well made. That his shoulders made themselves apparent through his evening jacket: I could tell it was him under there and not a lot of tailor-made buildup. I noticed that his chin was almost perfectly square — “lantern-jawed” was the phrase that sprang to mind — and that he was close but inexpertly shaved. And, most of all, there was an earnestness and an honesty in his face and voice that drew me. Why, I wondered, had I seen none of this earlier today?
“Our share prices go up and down,” he was continuing, “our management phases this way and that, but I work down in Orange, for crying out loud. None of this will affect me much one way or the other,” he waved a hand in the direction of the ballroom. “Not as much, even,” he said as he looked back into my eyes, “as seeing you again.”
Emily cleared her throat, “Well lookee me: my glass is all dry,” she chirped. “Off I go for a refill.”
Steve stopped her. “No, I’ll go. How about you, Madison?” It took me a second to focus on the unfamiliar name. “Would you like another?” I nodded, passing him my glass and feeling oddly and unexpectedly… whelmed by him. By the depth of his eyes. And, probably more importantly, the passion I could see rising there. Emily and I watched him go inside. And I watched his butt, simply because I suspected a comment would be coming immediately. She didn’t disappoint me.
“Well, he works out.”
“Emily.”
“Come on, you didn’t notice? That boy sincerely has it going on.” And then, as an afterthought, “and he sincerely has it going on for you.”
“But you said it Em: He’s a boy. Do I strike you as a cougar?”
“What’s a decade between friends?” she leered. “And, anyway, your age is the last thing on his mind. I’ll bet he hasn’t even noticed.”
“Whatever Emily. None of this has anything to do with why we’re here. We should be doing something.”
“We are doing something. We’re fraternizing. It’s cool,” she favored me with a less leering smile. A warm, Emily smile. I was relieved. “Seriously though, Madeline, he’s a charming, attractive guy. No matter where we found him. We’ll see how this all turns out. After this, I think I might have to revise my manhunting strategies,” she surreptitiously indicated a testosterone-laden trio on the opposite side of the terrace who were clearly checking us out. “You can come too,” she assured me. “This is fairly good huntin’” I must have looked exasperated, because she went on. “No, from now on we crash business functions, seriously. Think about it, all of these guys have jobs and it’s a fairly good bet they can read. That’s a lot better starting point than most of guys I’ve met at clubs.”
Fortunately, I was spared a reply because Steve returned with our drinks and a little tray of food he’d rustled up from somewhere. “In case you were hungry, because I know you missed the dinner.”
Emily took her drink, downed a couple of canapés, then excused herself. “I should circulate,” she said apologetically while she looked challengingly into my eyes daring me to say: But you don’t know anyone. Which, of course, I couldn’t. I could have excused myself to go with her, also muttering something about circulation, but I suddenly found I simply didn’t want to. A decade’s difference in age or not, I liked this guy. And it wasn’t just that he’d brought me food — though the canapés hadn’t hurt (you gotta like a guy who knows when you need feeding) — Steve Rundle just exuded this basic niceness and small town attractiveness that made me not want to put distance between us and that made me forget, even, why I was here.
Unintentionally, he reminded me.
“Tell me again what you do at Langton,” he was probably just making conversation, filling the void left by Emily’s departure, but it was a jolt.
“I don’t think I did tell you.”
“So tell me now,�
� it wasn’t probing. Just conversational. I told myself that while I tried to think of how to reply. But here’s the thing: It’s a lot easier to lie to someone you don’t like or care about than someone you feel some sort of connection with. At that moment, when he started asking me stuff I didn’t want to answer, I knew two things: I didn’t want to lie to him. And there was just no way I could tell him the truth. I opted to do neither. I touched him, gently, on his arm. “Do you mind very much if we don’t talk about work just now?”
He returned my touch with a gentle hand on my bare shoulder and a smile. “Actually, I don’t mind at all. In fact, why don’t we leave work behind us for the evening? Do you want to walk in the marina?”
Did it surprise me that I did? But I found I wanted to. Very much. I told him so. “Let me just find Emily and tell her.”
Emily was inside seated at the center of a group of laughing matrons. Unsurprisingly, they were laughing at Emily’s jokes. There’s no place she’s uncomfortable; no place she can’t win over a crowd.
“He’s asked me to go for a walk in the marina,” I told her when I’d drawn her aside.
She smiled wickedly though, thankfully, she didn’t crow triumphantly, just said, “He’s a nice guy.”
“Well, I’m going for a walk with him, anyway.” If I said it slightly defensively, Emily let it pass. “What about you?”
She pretended to look shocked. “You don’t want me to come?”
“No, I just meant…”
“I know what you meant, Madeline. And I’ll be fine. I’m actually having a very excellent time.”
“Really? Have any of them asked what you do for the company?”
“Yeah: I just keeping telling them I’m here with my friend Madison and when they ask me what you do I just play stupid,” she looked pleased with herself.
“That’s funny.”
“I know. Now off you go, Madeline, and don’t give me a second thought. I’m a big girl: if you don’t show up by the time I want to leave, I’ll catch my own cab,” she shushed away my objections, halfhearted though they may have been. “I’ll keep my ear to the ground. I have less at stake and less chance of recognition in this crowd. I might even hear something.” And with that she gave me a quick hug and returned to her group without a backwards glance.
Chapter Nine
The feeling that something was wrong — amiss, out of place — reached through my dreams and poked me awake. When I opened my eyes, it was confirmed. The clock on the bedside table said 7:30, which meant the markets had been open for an hour. But it wasn’t just time’s relationship to the markets. For starters, the clock I was looking at was unfamiliar. And I wasn’t in my own little bed over Las Flores. For a second, I wasn’t even sure exactly where I was. Then it came to me: in a hotel room in Marina Del Rey. The lack of light is what hadn’t wakened me — that and plain old exhaustion — because the curtains were drawn. I don’t have curtains in Las Flores. It’s not a view you ever want to block. But the view wasn’t here.
More: I wasn’t alone. Steve was there, beautiful in sleep. All hard angles and smooth planes. And I — and now it all came back to me — I felt wonderful. Energized. Beautiful. And torn.
Here is what I wanted to do: snuggle back under the covers against this lovely man and let the incredible, if somewhat inexplicable, physical chemistry we had discovered we shared do its work.
Here is what I did: Slipped very quietly out of bed and skulked around collecting my — or, to be more precise, Brian’s — scattered clothing from around the room. And how was I going to wear this clothing now? A slinky beaded evening dress on the streets of West L.A. on a weekday morning? It seemed the very epitome of the walk of shame. And the wig? Forget it. In the bathroom I washed the sleep from my face and smoothed my hair as best as I could with my fingers. Then I found a bag intended for laundry or shoe cleaning and stuffed the wig in there. It obviously wasn’t going to fit in my evening bag.
I headed for the door, then thought better of it. How could I leave without some sort of acknowledgment? I found the obligatory hotel stationary in a bureau drawer and scrawled a fast — and quiet — note:
Steve…
And then I hesitated. Now what?
Thank you for everything.
“Thank you?” How lame was that?
It was a very special evening. I’ll remember it always.
Blech! Yet it felt true.
And I signed it with a simple “M” for “Madison” because I couldn’t bring myself to write the whole fabricated name.
And it had been. A special evening. And, for obvious reasons, I couldn’t let it get any further. I wasn’t who he thought I was. So, when I left the room, I let the door close very quietly behind me. And then I walked softly down the hall, feeling like a thief. Feeling like I’d stolen something.
A cab took me back to where I’d left my car at the restaurant on La Cienega the previous night and then I drove myself home, feeling spacey and unreal the whole way: forty-five minutes on the Santa Monica Freeway and then PCH, going against nasty morning traffic all heading into the city. Away from me.
At home, Tycho was excited and reproachful at once. It’s a dual move that only dogs can do very well. I ignored the three dead lizards he’d lined up next to his bowl — I’d deal with them later. But I did replenish his water, which brought some slightly less reproachful tail wagging.
I noticed the message light flashing madly on my phone but ignored it as I’d ignored the lizards. I knew who it was. Emily would be looking for a full report and I’d give it to her, of course. Some version of it anyway. But not just yet. Right now I needed to change out of last night’s slinky clothes, have a long shower and pull on my usual work clothes: track pants and a T-shirt. “And no, Tycho: no run today,” I said to his delightedly reproachful face as I scratched under his chin. “Well, maybe later.”
So, twenty-four hours later and here I was: back in the shower. Would I never learn? Bath people don’t have to have those big, wet voids in their lives. If they want, they can take a cordless phone into the tub with them. It’s possible to stay connected in a bath. Not so with water that tumbles from above.
But it’s blissful. After fifteen minutes of hot, spiky needles of pressurized water slamming into your skin, it isn’t possible to only feel half alive. It wakes up even the sleepiest, out of sorts parts of you, forces focus where a quarter hour before there was confusion. And it’s nice to be that clean.
I padded around my apartment doing things as I dried off — a habit I’d picked up since moving to a warmer, moister climate. Plus living on a cliff just about guarantees total privacy. In Malibu it just feels right to me to not wear clothes to do things that would have seemed unthinkable in New York. I’d started a pot of coffee and was shuffling through my clothes looking for my most comfortable track pants when the phone rang. Still, even now there are some things I can’t do undressed and talking on the phone is one of them. (The other thing is eating hot food: I just find all of the possibilities too distressing.) I let the call go to voicemail while I pulled clothes on, thinking I knew who it was and not sure if I was ready to take the call anyway.
And I was right. When I played the message back, Emily’s voice began on a sigh. “Madeline. Shit,” she sounded unpanicked. Resigned. “Where the hell are you? And why can’t you carry a cel phone like a normal person? Well, I’ve left you all the details on the other messages and I’m not going to reblab them now but, as I guess you’ll figure, I’m just talking on and on and on in the hope that if you’re actually there and screening and you’ll pick up the phone and…”
I hung up the phone and dialed her right back.
“Emily… I’m here. I just got out of the shower.”
“So… are you completely freaked, or what?”
“Or what, actually,” I smiled. “Well, pretty much the opposite, when I think about it.” There was dead silence for a moment. “Emily?” I said. “You still there.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m here. I was just thinking about the meaning of the words you just said.”
I think I must have actually pulled the phone away from my head and looked at it questioningly, just like they do on TV, before I pulled it back in close and said “Whaaat?”
“I guess what I mean is: HOW COULD YOU NOT BE FREAKED?”
“Jesus, Em. He was sweet and everything. And it was very nice, but, I’m thirty-five-years-old. I have, you know, been down this road before.”
Another silence. And then Emily’s voice again. Ultra patient this time, as though she were talking to a much-loved but slightly learning deficient child. “OK. Madeline. Have you listened to your messages yet?”
I was blank for a second. And then the blinking light caught my eye. Messages. “No, I haven’t. I just walked in the door and hopped straight into the shower. I was going to call you right away and…”
“Never mind, Madeline. It’s cool. Just… shit,” that word again. “I dunno. I don’t feel like explaining the whole thing again. Just listen to them and call me back, OK?”
“That’s dorky, Em. Just tell me, already.”
“But…”
“Come on, Emily. I’m just not in the mood.”
She sighed. A resigned sound. “Where to start… OK. Well, after you left, I spent most of the evening with these three really charming women. I think you saw me with them? Turns out they’re all wives of executives — I don’t think that company has any girl executives, do you?”
“Not so many, maybe. But equal opportunity employment is not why you left 72,000 messages on my machine, right?”
“Anyway,” Emily ignored the barb, “we were drinking, laughing, you know: getting pretty chummy. I’m not sure who they thought I was or maybe after a while they didn’t care because… guess what?”
“I am not going to guess what,” it was possible I didn’t sound too friendly just then. I was tired and beginning to get annoyed. Emily didn’t care.
Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money Page 12
