I wasn’t going to quibble. I loved white Burgundies. I just couldn’t afford them. “It’s fine.”
“So what kind of clientele do you have?” he asked me, when the wine rituals—the sniffing and the swirling—were over.
“All kinds,” I told him, not sure what the question meant. “I help artists starting out, and some who are famous. I have clients who are well-known collectors, and some who just want a nice painting for the corporate boardroom, one that doesn’t offend anyone’s taste. It depends.”
“I see.” He gave me a penetrating look that I was at a loss to interpret. “So your clients are mostly well-to-do?”
Since I was supposed to be well-off myself that could hardly come as a surprise. Besides, it was true. “I suppose you could say that.”
“I see,” he said again. “Shall we order?” It was another rhetorical question, because he’d already signaled to the waiter.
Despite my usual propensity to eat hearty in periods of stress, I chose lightly and took the filet of sole. He ordered sea bass. “Just grilled. No fat. Sauce on the side,” he said.
Uh-oh. Another fitness freak or a cardiac patient, neither of which was a plus. I hoped he wasn’t the kind who carried his own water bottle everywhere, too.
He saw my expression, and I’m sure he read my mind. He looked amused, but he didn’t say anything. He wasn’t giving anything away. I thought it was my turn to talk and was about to dust off my repertoire of innocuous “date” questions, revised since I’d last trotted them out more than twenty years before. I thought I could safely retire “What fraternity are you in?” but after that, I wasn’t sure how to proceed.
He preempted me. He folded his arms on the table and gave me another searching look. “How did you hear about Ivanova Associates?” he asked.
“A friend recommended it.”
“A friend in the art world?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“A client?”
There was something very wrong here. I might have been out of the social scene for a long time, but my instincts about appropriate dating banter couldn’t have been that out-of-date. This was no Bogey and Bacall movie. He wasn’t trying to impress me, or flirt, or stir up any chemistry. He seemed to be forcing himself through the motions, exercising the minimum requirement for civility. He seemed tense and secretive. In fact, the entire conversation seemed more like an interrogation. “Possibly,” I said, “What about you?”
He smiled. “Have you tried your salad? It’s delicious.”
It was. Maybe he was just nervous, despite every appearance to the contrary. Maybe he didn’t like to have to admit he’d employed the services of a matchmaker. I tried another tack. “So what do you do?” I asked him.
He sat back in his chair. “I’m an attorney.”
Ha. I knew it. “What kind?”
He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “A little of this and that. I’m retired now.”
He was being deliberately mysterious. It had to be high-tech. He’d incorporated some computer company when it was two guys working out of their garage and gotten a million dollars in stock when it went public. He was too young to have retired in the normal way, but, on the other hand, maybe he just had a trust fund.
“So you don’t work at all?” When it was out of my mouth, I knew it was a hopelessly middle-class question, but I couldn’t help it. The Anglo side of my inheritance (as opposed to the work-is-a-curse-to-be-endured Mexican side) made me sound disapproving.
“I didn’t say that. I take on projects I believe in. I’m free to pick and choose. I guess you could say I’m a sort of freelance consultant now. It’s very liberating to have the freedom to turn things down, don’t you agree?”
I thought of having the wherewithal to refuse to work with Valentin ever again. “Yes, it must be,” I said.
“Well, of course, you must be in the same situation,” he said pleasantly.
“Pardon me?”
“Free to pick and choose. After all, under the circumstances, you can’t be working for the money. I admire that.”
“Well…”
The waiter brought our fish and set the plates down in front of us. I concentrated fiercely on mine, hoping the arrival of the meal would deflect the conversation. There were baby vegetables surrounding the sole; I fixated on a tiny zucchini, as if might vaporize if I removed my gaze. I hadn’t thought the financial issue would arise as blatantly as this.
He was relentless. “That is correct, isn’t it, Ms. St. James? I don’t like to bring this up, but Ms. Klein assured me that all of the women would be carefully screened.”
My fork froze in the air with a bite of sole on it. Too bad; it looked delicious. The evening was over for all intents and purposes, but I might still be able to salvage some research. “So you’re only interested in meeting rich women?” I asked him.
To do him justice, he didn’t look outraged; he just smiled. “I thought that was the purpose of this entire exercise,” he said. “I take it you don’t agree that it pays to be extremely careful in these circumstances? I would have thought, for example, that a careful person would not want to accept everything he or she is told at face value.” He looked at me.
“What are you trying to say?” I asked him. I remembered Cynthia’s advice: Never volunteer. But if he asked me outright, I didn’t think I could bring myself to lie.
“What I’m saying, Ms. St. James, is that we’re both in this to meet somebody rich. Isn’t that the truth?” He cut himself a bite of fish, chewed it with evident satisfaction, and sat back in his chair. He looked as if he had just sent a big-time felon up the river to pay for her crimes. I would have loved to wipe the look off his face.
“Not on my part,” I told him. At least that was the truth.
He folded his arms and looked at me. “Come clean, Ellen. I’m on to you.”
“I can’t imagine what you mean,” I said. But I could.
“I did some checking.”
Uh-oh.
“I used the Reverse Directory. There is no listing for an Ellen St. James at your phone number.” He paused, certain that he was about to spring the goods on me. “Who is M. Laws?”
“My husband,” I said, looking away.
“You’re married?” he asked incredulously.
“I was.” I wasn’t about to tell him anything more. He could assume whatever he wanted. All I wanted was to extricate myself as quickly as possible and head for home.
“I’m divorced, too,” he volunteered.
“What a surprise.”
“You’re annoyed,” he said. “You don’t have to be. Look, I checked out your address. You have a nice townhouse, but it’s not worth a lot of money. You drive a moderately priced car. You’re using an assumed name.” He smiled consolingly, presenting his summation: “You are not rich.”
“Bingo, Counselor. What is it you’re implying?”
“There’s no need to get testy about it, I told you. You seem very nice. You look and act the part. Just because you misrepresented yourself—at least, I assume you did—at Ivanova Associates so you could land a rich husband, doesn’t mean you’re a terrible person. But what I—”
“I think I should clarify that, at this point, your opinion of me is immaterial,” I interrupted him, digging my nails into my palm. “But just for the record, I don’t suppose you’ve considered that there might be another explanation?”
He looked dubious. “Such as?”
“Such as, I’m working on a sociology project on matrimonial services, or I’m a journalist working on an article, or I’m an author trying to get background information for a novel. Take your pick. You haven’t considered the possibility that you might have made a big mistake?”
He laughed. “Actually, no, I haven’t. Have I?” I would have loved to sock him with the truth, but I didn’t dare.
I fumbled in my purse for my wallet. “Yes,” I said, “but never mind. Now that you’ve unmasked me, I assume the evening
’s entertainment is over.” I looked at him. “I do wonder why, if you knew all this before you called, you wanted to go through with this charade of a dinner. Well, on second thought, maybe I don’t.” I took out two twenties and put them on the table. “That should pay for my part of the festivities.” I started to get to my feet.
He put a hand on my arm. “Wait, please.” He looked hurt. I couldn’t believe this guy. “You think I set all this up just to embarrass you?”
“That explanation had occurred to me,” I said. “Please take your hand off my arm.”
He pulled it back as if it burned him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Look, you’ve got this all wrong. You have to understand. I’ve misrepresented myself, too. I—”
I snorted. “You mean you’re really poor and ambitious like me? You had designs on my nonexistent fortune, but now I’ve disappointed you?”
He took a deep breath. “I’m not poor, and I don’t have designs on your fortune or anything else. What I—”
“That leaves ambitious.”
He closed his eyes. “What I want is information. I’m hoping you’ll help me. Just tell me what you know about Ivanova Associates, about the men you’ve met through them. I won’t expose you. I can even make it worth your while.”
I stood. “That sounds precariously like blackmail. Or bribery.”
“You’re deliberately misunderstanding,” he hissed. “I’m not free to give you the details, but I am conducting an investigation. You could help me a lot by cooperating.”
“You’re the police? FBI? IRS? What?”
He shook his head.
“Show me your wallet,” I said.
He drew in a quick breath but didn’t say anything.
“Well?” I said.
“I can’t,” he mumbled.
“A card? A picture?”
Silence.
“What about your favorite color?”
He stared at me. The smart-ass mood was overtaking me. It was time to beat a hasty exit. Maybe he was a certified nutcase who got off on exposing the foibles of the underclass. That would make a good one for the article.
“Okay, then,” I told him. “I’m outta here, as they say.”
“You’re not giving me a chance,” he said.
“I’m not giving you a chance? That’s rich.”
I’d always wanted to say “That’s rich” to somebody. I was especially pleased by its resonance under the circumstances.
He extended his hand. I ignored it. “I’m sorry; I can see that you’re offended by my candor,” he said. “I wish there were some way to make you reconsider helping me.”
I stared at him. He reminded me of something for a moment, but I couldn’t think what. I picked up my purse, hoping I could get out without making a further scene. I prayed he wouldn’t follow me to the parking lot.
A hand touched my shoulder, and I practically jumped out of my skin. Mark and Andrea were planted behind me, their faces masks of concern. I stared at them in shock. I’d been so involved in my own little drama I hadn’t even heard anyone come up.
“Everything all right?” Mark asked me.
“I was just leaving,” I said. I glanced across the room to an empty table with two untouched salads. I was going to have words with Mark about this afterward, but right now I was grateful for the rescue.
“I’ll see you out,” Mark said and grabbed my elbow. We walked toward the door.
“It’s green,” William Collins called out.
I didn’t look back.
“What’s green?” Andy asked me. Mark’s face was expressionless.
“His favorite color.” I told her. Mark rolled his eyes.
“Wha—”
“Don’t ask,” I said to her when they had walked me out to the car.
Mark held out his hand.
“What’s that for?”
“The keys. You’re too pissed off to drive, I can tell.”
“Mark, we’re only six blocks from home.”
“You know what they say about accidents. Besides, you’ve been drinking wine. I saw it on the table.”
“I had less than one glass.” I regretted that, actually. The wine was first-rate. I gave him the keys. “What about your car?”
“Andrea can drive it home.”
I shuddered. Mark had a leased BMW 740iL, in pristine condition. “Drive carefully,” I called out emphatically to my daughter. I had problems enough, as it was.
“Oh, Mom, for heaven’s sake. Don’t be so paranoid.” She grinned at me.
“I can’t believe you were spying on me in that restaurant,” I told Mark, when he had closed the door and started the ignition. “You had no business doing that.”
He exited the parking lot. “After our conversation the other night? You scared the shit out of me, Ellen. Somebody needs to look out for you. Besides, don’t be such a hypocrite. I saw how thrilled you were with Mr. Wrong in there. What was he, Charles Manson in Armani? Does he like whips and chains? What?”
“A lawyer,” I told him.
He slapped his forehead. “Oooh.” He paused. “Not medical malpractice?”
I laughed. “No. At least, I don’t think so.”
“Then what’s the big deal?’
“Don’t ask me to explain, Mark. It’s too weird, and it’s not worth going into. Let’s just say the chemistry wasn’t right.”
“I’m an expert on chemistry.” He looked at me. “You know, if you have to have somebody fulfill some perfect picture, everybody you meet is going to fall short. Maybe you should think about adjusting your standards a little. Otherwise, the only long-term relationship you might be having is with your fantasies.”
This from a guy whose principal dating criterion was the Recommended Height-Weight Chart. Still, I was too tired to argue the point. “So tell me how you just happened to be having dinner with Andrea in the very restaurant where I was meeting my date?” I asked him, to change the subject.
“Andrea told me, and I suggested it. And don’t be annoyed at her. She was seriously concerned because you didn’t know anything about the guy. She doesn’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’m not annoyed at her; I’m annoyed at you. You should have known better. It wasn’t the perfect evening, and I admit I was glad to see you, but I really didn’t need help. I was on my way out before you came.”
“And what if he’d followed you to your car? What if he followed you to your house? You’re so naive, you could get into all kinds of trouble.”
“Ridiculous,” I told him, though I’d wondered the same thing myself.
“And anyway, you should be grateful,” he persisted. “I had to pass up a perfectly good salad to rush to your side when I saw you getting into a flap. I had to leave a really big tip, too, so the waiter wouldn’t be disappointed.”
“Okay,” I said with a laugh. “I give up. Thanks. But please, don’t think you have to be my bodyguard. I’d much rather you didn’t. I have to do this on my own, really.”
“Do what?” he asked.
“I’m not sure yet.” I looked out the car window at the lights speeding by. “Remember how you told me to ‘get a life’?”
“Ellen…”
“Well, I’m getting one.” I laughed. “Flaps and all.”
Three A.M. Both sides of the pillow were hot, and I’d heard the clock chime every quarter hour since 1:30. I’d tried every possible stratagem to keep from reliving the evening’s events in my head, but finally, defeated, I let them unroll, like a movie.
Not exactly a triumphal reentry into the dating scene. I wondered what sort of shadow this would cast on my future outings with the opposite sex, in the unlikely event there ever were any that weren’t being paid for. I mean, even before he pulled his Grand Inquisitor act, I hadn’t exactly bowled him over with my cleverness and sophistication.
No witty repartee, no Nick-and-Nora sparring. Not even Moonlighting.
No chemistry, unless you count the kind that produces hydrochloric a
cid.
All right, to be fair about it, I was on the date on false pretenses, so I suppose I shouldn’t have minded so much being unmasked. But being thought a fortune hunter rankled. And anyway, he was there on false pretenses, too, wasn’t he? If he wanted me to help with whatever he was doing, he should have leveled with me from the beginning.
I wondered why I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
I wondered how I was going to nerve myself for the next Ivanova Associates close encounter.
I turned the pillow over again and punched it up with my fist. This was going to make one hell of an article for City of Angels.
Pow! I sat up so fast in the bed, I jerked my leg and got a charley horse in my calf muscle. While I was standing beside the bed, kneading my calf, I realized where I had heard “Mr. Collins’s” glorious bass voice before. Now that I’d thought of it, I couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to me already.
If there was any justice in the world, I was going to have a whole lot of fun with this one. Right before I made him squirm.
I walked off the muscle spasm and climbed back into bed. I set the alarm for 7:30 and plumped up the pillows again. Then I pulled the covers over my head and slept soundly for the remainder of the night.
19
It’s Just Lunch: a dating service designed to eliminate the biographical information overload through the brevity of the meeting.
—From the research notes of Cynthia Weatherford
Cynthia was not pleased at being awakened. “It’s only quarter to eight,” she informed me, in a voice that was less than newscaster-nice. “I never get up this early.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, secretly delighted to learn that she was peevish in the mornings. “I have an early appointment, and there’s something I really need to know.”
“You’re kidding, right?” she asked, when I had put my question and she had confirmed what I suspected. She sounded considerably more awake.
“I wish I were. I take it you didn’t set this up?” I asked her.
She snorted. “It’s beyond even my powers. Have you considered—”
“I’m so sorry, Cynthia, but I really have to go. We’ll talk later.” I paused. “Oh, and you should probably expect another call this morning, so don’t go back to sleep. Bye,” I said and hung up.
Staying Cool Page 22
