“All they have is a note with minimal instructions and the image of a single suspect who infiltrated the The Langton Group’s head office in Culver City yesterday afternoon.”
Then there I was. The pounding in my ears drowned out the droning of the announcer’s voice. It was me. OK: it was pretty grainy and the angle was sort of strange: from above. But I could tell it was me. I wasn’t entirely sure that even my mother would know it, but I did.
Then my grainy visage was replaced by that of Ms. Mauve Twinset, although there was no sign of the twinset today. And she was speaking.
“I was really quite frightened.” She was frightened? “She had this crazy look in her eyes. I thought any second she would pull a gun out of her purse or something.” Which of course brought a groan from me, because I had left my purse in the car while I was in there and she was the one that had been frightening.
Then the newscaster’s head filled the screen again. Obviously, some paraphrasing was in order. “Ms. Farenholtz reported that, when she confronted the woman, the suspect fled: not once, but twice. Investigators continue to try to determine the woman’s identity. For another aspect of this story, we join Cynthia Marlowe at the Sherbrook Hotel.”
The image cut to a newscaster — presumably Cynthia Marlowe — in front of a toney-looking low slung building.
“Thanks, Malcolm,” said Cynthia. “We’re here in Beverly Hills where Mrs. Arianna Carmichael Billings is scheduled to attend a luncheon benefiting the Stop Hunger Foundation. There she is.”
And the camera angle shifted to include the hotel’s port cochere where Arianna was unfolding herself out of a Porsche. A Boxster. And it was the most amazing green. A slightly different shade and it would have been vile, poisonous. But this managed to look bright, and right and rich.
Cynthia Marlowe — presumably with her news crew in tow — headed off toward the car just as Ernie’s wife got out and a parking attendant appeared to whisk the Boxster away.
“Mrs. Carmichael Billings!” Marlowe approached her breathlessly. “We were hoping you’d comment on you husband’s disappearance.”
Slow news day, I thought. And, really, what I wanted to know is what the heck Ernie’s wife was doing attending a benefit luncheon the day after her husband was kidnapped. Shouldn’t she be off somewhere wringing her hands or crying? On the other hand, I know Ernie better than most. Maybe the wife was just relieved.
Then she was filling the screen. And it was the oddest sensation, because it wasn’t something I’d noticed when I’d met her a Club Zanzibar. It wasn’t that Arianna Carmichael Billings looked like me, exactly. But it was clear that we were cut from the same sort of cloth, or pulled from the same kind of mold. She was — and I say this with no attempt at false modesty, but merely in fact — she was far more beautiful than I am. And perhaps five years younger. But the similarities between us would have been obvious to anyone who saw us standing side by side.
I didn’t for a second flatter myself in thinking that, in Arianna, Ernie had found a replacement for me. I’d never been that important to him. Rather, I realized what had been missing between us, as a couple. To Ernie, I’d probably never been anything more than the correct physical type. I had looked like the well bred boarding school brat. And I’d known when we were together that the fact that my looks didn’t really reflect my background was irksome for him. Hailing from rural Wisconsin himself — his family had been in the cheese business for three generations — he’d made no bones about making it known that he desired — no, required — a wife capable of opening the right kind of doors. The kind I clearly couldn’t open. Of course, it had never been that serious between us. Though perhaps the fact that he was always looking for Ms. Right in all the wrong places got in the way. And here, finally, she was.
“There is not a great deal for me to comment on,” Arianna told the camera in a controlled voice. “We’re hoping for further word. And praying that whoever has him is treating him well.” Though it was obvious Arianna was subtly trying to put distance between herself and the camera, Cynthia Marlowe wasn’t quite done and, in typical reporter fashion, having gone in softly for the first quote, she now came in blazing for the close. By that time, from a reporter’s perspective, there’s nothing to lose. I didn’t mind so much, this time, as it was a question I wanted an answer to, as well. I just hope if I’d asked it I would have looked less feral than Cynthia did now.
“Mrs. Billings, your husband was kidnapped twenty-four hours ago. Weren’t you afraid it would seem odd and uncaring to attend a charity luncheon today?”
Arianna stopped inching towards the hotel and turned to face the camera fully. “It is not odd,” and I could see the controlled fury in her stance. “It’s entirely the correct thing. My mother, Mrs. Nancy Enright, is the National Chair for the Stop Hunger Foundation. I’m representing her today since I live in Los Angeles and she does not. This is an exceptionally worthy cause. And, frankly, preparation for it has provided me with a diversion from thinking about Ernest’s plight. Good day,” she said, as she stalked regally off.
I found myself silently cheering her, this new me (Or was I the old her?) as the camera focused on the entirely unabashed-looking Cynthia Marlowe signing off, the hotel behind her, while Arianna Billings disappeared inside.
Before I really knew it was happening, a plan had formed and I was in action again, just as I had been the day before. For one thing, it felt like a better idea than sitting in front of my computer watching LRG go down.
I stopped at the house upstairs on my way out. “Jennifer told me she goes to school in Beverly Hills,” I told Tyler at the door.
“Yeah, the Hestman School.”
“I’m heading in that way this afternoon. I thought I might stop and poke around a bit at the school on my way home. Talk to people, you know. That is, if you don’t mind.”
Tyler looked at me blankly for a moment before answering. “I’m frankly embarrassed I didn’t think of it myself. And I can’t now,” he said regretfully, pointing behind him into the house. “I’ve got a script thing. But yeah, if you’re going that way, please. That would be so great. I’ll call the school and tell them to give you every cooperation,” he caught my hand, squeezed it. “Thank you, Madeline. Thank you so much.”
Chapter Ten
I skipped the valet, figuring that if I was trying to fit in at a charity luncheon with the daughters of socialites, showing up in a canyon-dusty Chevy — even a new one — was not the way to do it. Inside the hotel the heat of the day seemed a distant memory: not even a remote possibility. It didn’t make you think of air conditioning, rather “climate control” of the sort that is flawless and imperceptible. Everyone has different needs in personal temperature. But at the Sherbrook Hotel, it seemed likely that it would be effortlessly perfect for everyone.
A discreet sign in the lobby pointed me at the function I was looking for. I trusted I looked the part: a crisp white blouse over a delicately patterned skirt with complimentary heels. I headed to where the sign indicated.
Thankfully, there was no one at the door of the banquet room to detain me. Without Emily to guide me, I hadn’t been quite sure how I’d manage the crash, although I guessed that this wasn’t exactly a high security event. This was The Ladies Who Lunch to the max and anyone who didn’t belong here wouldn’t even want to go. Except, of course, for me.
The banquet room held about thirty tables, each with places set for eight diners. Some of the places held name cards, I noticed, and every table had one or two unmarked spaces. Presumably this was so the organizers could do last minute reshuffling, if advantageous, as well as having a place to stick guests that hadn’t signed up by the cutoff, or whatever. Pretending to look for my name on a place card seemed like a good way of scoping the room while figuring out what my brilliant next move was going to be. The happy news was: It was beginning to look like I might get a free lunch. My stomach growled most unbecomingly and, for the moment, it looked like the hungry waiting to b
e fed was me. In that regard, however, the stars had not aligned on this day because my quarry found me before I could even begin to look for her.
I was leaning over tables, squinting at place cards — ostensibly looking for my name, but actually looking for hers — when there she was, right in front of me, extending one well-manicured hand and looking at me hard, as though she were trying to place me.
“Hello,” she smiled. “I’m Arianna Carmichael Billings. Have we met?”
Her hand felt as cool and composed as she looked and, when I’d straightened fully I realized that I was looking directly into her eyes. It’s funny: you don’t think about being tall until you meet another woman of your own height.
“Madeline Carter,” I said, “we met the other night at Club Zanzibar.”
She looked at me more closely once I’d said my name, making me suddenly conscious of the way my skirt was hanging and the way my blouse was tucked in. Did I have lipstick on my teeth?
“Of course,” she said finally. “Ernest’s friend.” I tried to gauge her tone, but gave it up quickly. It wasn’t giving anything away. “You’re not a member of the foundation, are you?”
“No. I… I’m not,” I admitted.
“Then why are you here?” The question was politely, even gently, stated yet its directness caught me unawares. My professional life has not schooled me in the direct approach, yet I felt the need to return it here.
“I was hoping to have a word with you,” as I said it, I thought how that might sound. Especially in light of the videotape of me at the office she may or may not have seen, yet she didn’t look alarmed. In fact, I realized suddenly, she looked intensely calm for a woman whose husband had recently been snatched and who was now being approached by a woman apparently from that same husband’s past.
“A word?” she prompted, looking as though she might be deciding something.
“Yes, it’s… um… a little hard to explain,” I indicated the people around us, meanwhile wondering exactly what it was I would explain if she gave me the chance. While I wasn’t sorry I’d come, I was also a little unsure of what, precisely, I was doing there.
She was looking at me speculatively. “I would imagine it would be,” she said finally and I wondered if she had maybe seen the videotape of me, after all.
I tried again, matching her calm and level tone. “If I could have a few minutes of your time.”
In the thirty seconds she took to consider my request, I thought I could see emotions warring not far beneath the surface. Or maybe I was just imagining how I would feel if I found myself in her carefully-chosen shoes. I thought I saw curiosity followed quickly by fear. And then I decided I’d maybe just imagined it all, because — in the end — all I could see was resolution.
“That won’t be possible, Ms. Carter,” she said crisply and I could tell she wasn’t going to bother with an explanation. “And now, I have a luncheon to get underway. Do you have a ticket?” I shook my head. “Well then, it’s two hundred dollars a plate,” she smiled thinly. “But it’s a very good cause. No? Then good day.”
I’d lifted my hand, about to say something, but she’d already turned towards the door to meet a group of ladies who had just come noisily into the room. I was dismissed, that much was clear.
Another wasted trip. I left quietly, clearly ignored by Arianna Billings, wondering what to do next, although I knew that purchasing a lunch ticket wouldn’t get me anything except closer to broke, even if it was a good cause. I stood waiting for the elevator when a familiar voice spoke close to my ear, just behind me.
“Excuse me, Miss Carter.”
It was Arianna Billings, without the icy mask she’d been wearing just minutes before. She drew me out of the flow of women who were exiting the elevator and spoke quietly and quickly.
“I’ve thought it over and I’ve had a change of heart. I’d like to speak with you, hear what you have to say. But not now,” she indicated the people heading towards the banquet room. “I’ve got my plate full.” A charming smile, as though discussing her next charity function. “Could we meet for coffee later?”
Coffee is my most major addiction, if you don’t count the stock market. I seldom say no to it. We agreed to meet at a place she knew at three o’clock in Brentwood, close to her home and not far from Jennifer’s school. As I got on the elevator I felt a reluctant pang when incredible food scents wafted in from behind closed doors. My stomach, like my curiosity about Mrs. Carmichael Billings, would just have to wait.
I knew I had two hours before I had to meet with Arianna, and the most time I would possibly spend at Jenn’s school would be an hour. With hunger threatening to overwhelm me, I opted to get some food inside me before I tackled anything new and I headed — as new Angelenos tend to do — for the beach. Santa Monica, in this case, where there are about a million restaurants — or so it seems — within a few blocks, as well as interesting people to look at if you, like me, are dining alone.
I sat on the patio of a maniacally trendy little bistro on Main Street that nonetheless managed to produce a beautiful lunch for me. I munched happily on a “very colorful” salad and some Ahi tuna, rare. I’d just finished eating when a trio of rollerbladeing guys caught my eye. It wasn’t just the sweating maleness of them that interested me, though I admit it’s what I noticed first. But there was something vaguely familiar about one of them, in particular. And they were practically upon me by the time I realized what it was: one of them was Steve.
I think the reason I haven’t made room for a lot of men in my life is the fact that they can have such an unsettling effect on me. That is, the ones I like can and I could never be bothered with the other kind. But realizing that — almost as if by magic and against all odds — there was Steve right in front of me, just sort of filled me with this pleasant warmth. And it’s a slightly distressing feeling if you’re used to keeping things controlled.
So seeing him there, suddenly, unexpectedly, I wasn’t quite sure how to act — who to be — but the smile I felt rise for him was warm. I was genuinely happy to see him again. The smile didn’t last, though. It just took one look as he stopped abruptly beside my chair. “I can’t even believe you didn’t just bolt into the restaurant when you saw me,” he said icily.
“What?” I was mystified.
“You guys go on,” he said to his friends. “I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes.” I motioned to the chair opposite mine and he plunked himself into it angrily. “That was so cold.”
“Cold,” I repeated stupidly.
“Yeah. You. Are cold.”
I thought about the night we’d spent. About the way our bodies had fit so naturally: like two parts of a whole coming together. I thought about moonlight on the water seeming to cascade towards the hours we’d shared in his hotel room. And there had not been a great deal of sleep.
“Those,” I said carefully. “Are not the words I would have used,” even though I vaguely recalled thinking that myself when I’d written the note. I hadn’t felt cold. And I didn’t now.
“Ah,” there was a twinge of sarcasm in his voice. “What would you have said then?”
I looked at him closely. On the surface he was mocking me somehow, but I didn’t understand it. What I did understand is that I’d hurt him in a way I couldn’t see. In the face of all of this conflicting stuff, I opted to give him the truth.
“I don’t know, Steve. You just said I was cold and I thought… I thought we had shared something really special,” it sounded lame, but there it was. “And it felt very warm. To me.”
“We did, Madison. We shared something special. Or, I thought we did. Then I got up this morning and you were just… gone.”
I was beginning to get a glimmer of understanding. But it was faint. “I left a note!”
“On hotel stationary. Not even signed. How cliché is that?”
“But… it was all there was to write on,” I protested lamely.
“You could have woken me. Why didn’t yo
u wake me?”
OK. That was a valid question. Why hadn’t I? Even now, I wasn’t entirely sure. “Oh Steve…” I reached out to touch him, but he pulled back as though he’d been singed.
“Don’t ‘Oh, Steve’ me. It was just a cold, shitty thing to do.”
All I could do was shake my head: No.
“It was. And that note: you didn’t even leave a phone number. I thought your message was pretty clear.”
“Oh, Steve,” I’d said it again before I could stop myself, “it wasn’t like that at all. It’s just… it’s just all sort of complicated.”
“I get it,” he wouldn’t give up this injury so easily, “it’s all a little complicated for poor old Steve, huh? Like, for instance, just who the hell you are?”
This took me aback. For some reason I hadn’t been expecting it.
“Yeah: I wanted to find you. To find out why you’d left. So even though I took the day off, I called Anderson in personnel today. I thought I might be able to talk him into giving me your phone number. Do you know what he told me?”
I shook my head no, but I had a pretty good idea.
“We don’t have anyone named Madison working for us in any of our offices. And you know what else?” This time I just kept quiet. I figured I knew where it was going. “He said that there had been someone at Langton yesterday afternoon possibly pretending to be an employee and possibly also a kidnapper. And I’m guessing that was you.”
“No. I mean, I’m not a kidnapper. But yes: that was me and… oh Steve, I am sorry. I can see how all of this must look to you, but…”
“Can you? Well, try this: I meet this woman who I think I have this incredible connection with, we end up in my hotel room having fantastic sex. It’s like a fantasy, right? And… and I really thought we had something, you know, something going. Something… value added, maybe.”
Value added? If I hadn’t been so mortified, I would have laughed. Only a professional salesman would have put emotion in those terms.
Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money Page 14
