Bitch Slap

by Michael Craft

  Extricating himself from a knot of workers, Neil crossed the foyer to me and repeated, “Let’s find Todd.”

  I nodded. “I wonder if he’s found Gillian.”

  “Has he ever!” said a guy trundling by just then with a Draper’s box on a dolly. He broke stride long enough to jerk his head toward the living-room doors, then continued down a hall toward the other end of the house.

  Neil and I shared a brief, concerned glance, then stepped together to the double doors. I wasn’t about to repeat a performance of yesterday’s awkward entrance, so I told Neil, “She’s your client.” Neil gave me a quizzical look that seemed to ask, So? Then he turned one of the knobs and opened the door.

  That’s when we plainly heard the yelling.

  “I already told you,” Todd shouted, “beaded fringe is wrong for this room.

  “And who the hell are you,” said Gillian, “to tell me what’s right or wrong for my own fucking living room?”

  “Unless you plan to use it as a bordello—and for all I know, you may—beads are simply inappropriate. You can’t have them.” Todd stamped a foot. “Period.”

  By then, Neil and I had rushed into the fray. Todd and Gillian stood near the center of the room, with perhaps a half dozen workmen stationed near various windows. Two extension ladders had been set up on either side of one of the two-story windows, and a single panel of drapery—excuse me, curtains—had just been installed. I wasn’t sure what Todd and Gillian were arguing about, and at the moment, I had lost interest, as my attention was instead riveted by the long, sensuous panel of fabric. A workman reached from the library balcony to steam wrinkles from the upper portion of the curtain while straightening its folds. The nozzle in his hand hissed and gurgled.

  Reading the look on my face, Neil stepped me aside, saying, “They’re incredible, aren’t they? No one does work like Todd Draper.” Gillian was still yapping and yelling in the background.

  I told Neil, “I admit it—I don’t recall ever seeing curtains so drop-dead beautiful. I’ve never even thought much about curtains, but these—wow.”

  “They’re hand-loomed Italian Scalamandré silk,” Neil explained, “and this room took hundreds of yards of it, with taffeta lining and two interlinings of English bump. The pattern is a subtle tone-on-tone vertical stripe of gray and silver; that’s what gives the folds such depth, as well as the overall effect of shimmer. It’s perfect for these high, narrow windows, especially in contrast to the dark wood of the surrounding bookcases and balcony.”

  “There’s fringe,” I noted, “and it’s gorgeous. What’s Gillian complaining about?”

  “She wanted bugles—small, hollow glass rods, strung like beads—but Todd refused, giving her classic bullion fringe—silk threads twisted into cords, with handmade bobble tassels. It’s all custom work, a foot deep, top and bottom, perfectly matched to the colors of the fabric and the paint palette of the room. Yes, it’s expensive, but for work of this caliber, Todd’s prices are not only customary, but reasonable. He’s a genius.”

  “Listen to me, smart-ass,” barked Gillian, “I was very specific in telling you how I wanted my drapes made.”

  Todd countered, “I was equally specific in telling you exactly how they would be made. The curtains are aesthetically correct as delivered—with bullion fringe.”

  “Bullshit! You seem to be unfamiliar with the concept, but this customer is always right.”

  “Let me remind you, Mrs. Reece, that you are not my customer. I was contracted by your architect, who also holds a stake in the finished appearance of this room.”

  Gillian crossed her arms, fuming. “But I’m paying the bills, dammit, and for fifty grand, I expect to get exactly what I want.”

  Todd paused, then stepped to within inches of Gillian, telling her flatly, calmly, “Then I suggest you phone Decorating Den. Not only will they be happy to give you exactly what you want, but they will charge you considerably less. You will never, however, know the satisfaction—or the prestige—of living with curtains so artfully fabricated as those from Draper Studios.” Harrumph.

  Standing ramrod stiff, Gillian took in his words, considered his ultimatum for a moment, and then, without flinching, stepped back for better balance, took aim, and stung him with a flesh-searing bitch slap.

  Only a day earlier I’d witnessed the depth of Glee Savage’s anger, which had allowed a perky little woman to deliver a surprisingly powerful punch, but now Gillian made Glee look like a welterweight, forcing me to wonder if Todd’s jaw was broken. During the seconds of breathless silence that followed, Todd raised his hand, feeling his face. I fully expected him to return Gillian’s slap.

  Instead, Gillian shrieked at him, “Get out!”

  With more restraint than I could have mustered, Todd glanced at one of his workers, presumably the installation foreman, signaled a thumbs-down, then walked straight from the living room, through the foyer, and out to the street.

  The other workers gathered with the foreman, discussing their next move—should they drop everything and leave, or pack up everything and haul it back to the truck, or simply wait?

  Neil, meanwhile, confronted Gillian, telling her point-blank, “I’m ashamed of you. Do you have any idea of the reputation of the man you just insulted? Do you have any idea how lucky you are that Todd Draper himself consented to take on this job, up here in the middle of nowhere? If you want to play with the big boys, Gillian, you’d better learn to work with the big boys. You’ve told me that your goal is nothing less than to have this house published. Fine. But if that’s the case, you’re playing by my rules. If you think Architectural Digest is going to beat a path to your door, you’re sadly mistaken, especially after word gets out that you’ve …” And so forth. I’d rarely seen Neil with raised hackles, and I was glad to note how adroitly he handled this more aggressive edge to his personality—he was being forceful with Gillian, but objective.

  Adding to the general atmosphere of consternation that filled the room, cell phones kept ringing, including that vapid, tasteless one that was still beeping its nasal rendition of William Tell.

  “Hi-yo, Silver!” said one of the workmen, passing by me. “I think that’s you, buddy.”

  I may have choked. As if in a state of suspended animation, all activity and noise in the room ceased, save the ringing of the phone in my pocket. As it galloped through another measure of its hackneyed melody, my mind raced through a spectrum of emotions that began with denial and ended with mortification. Had I myself caused this, fussing with buttons whose functions were unknown to me? Why in hell hadn’t I studied the instruction booklet that Lucy had given me with the phone? (Because it was two hundred pages long, that’s why, and why should a phone—a phone, for Christ’s sake—require instructions in the first place, huh?) Managing to get the damn thing out of my pocket, managing to flip it open and find the green button, I said into it, dry-throated, “Yes?”

  “Mark! At last—why haven’t you picked up?” It was Lucy.

  “Never mind. What do you need?” My wording might have struck Lucy as curt, but it was less testy than a more spontaneous question that leapt to mind, its phrasing inappropriate when addressing a lady (even Lucy).

  She said, “I just wanted to let you know that Perry Schield was here this morning, and he’s on the warpath.”

  “Oh … cripes. Now what?” The chief executive officer of Quatro Press had always struck me as pleasantly avuncular and disappointingly ineffectual, two qualities that were difficult to associate with a man on the warpath.

  “The merger, of course. He’s been talking with Tyler Pennell, and … well, Perry can tell you himself. That’s why I’ve been trying to reach you. When I told him you were over at the Reece house, he said, ‘Great, I can kill two birds with one stone.’”

  “What’d he mean by that?”

  “I presume he meant he could talk to both you and Gillian at the same time. Anyway, he’s on his way, and I thought you’d want to know.”

/>   “Okay, Lucy, thanks. I’ll see you later.” I disconnected, then squinted at the tiny buttons, well more than the necessary ten, wondering how to change the damned ringer. Fumbling to get out my reading glasses, I dropped the phone on the limestone floor. Satisfied that the question of the ringer was now moot, I returned both the phone and the glasses to my pockets.

  Gillian was saying to Neil, “ … so I hope you’ll forgive me. I’ve been under an enormous amount of stress lately.”

  “Gillian,” said Neil, offering a smile, “of course I forgive you, but will Todd? You slapped the man.”

  Her shoulders slumped as she heaved a weary sigh. “He probably won’t even listen to me. Can’t you intercede on my behalf?”

  “Then you do want him back on the job?”

  “Well … ,” she hedged, “I do want a shot at the Digest.”

  Both Neil and I understood that these words were tantamount to contrition, at least when uttered by Gillian. If we expected a more sincere expression of penitence for her behavior, we were unlikely to hear it. So Neil told her, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you, Neil,” she gushed, wrapping him in a mechanical embrace. “The main thing is, we just need to finish.”

  I couldn’t help asking, “What, exactly, is the big rush, Gillian?”

  “It’s a matter of—” she began, but stopped, as if something else had occurred to her. “Well,” she told me, “I understand your paper is planning a photo feature for this Sunday. We wouldn’t want to disappoint your readers, would we, Mark?”

  “No, Gillian, we certainly wouldn’t.” But her reasoning struck me as iffy. Though I took justifiable pride in the Dumont Daily Register, it was a far cry, in the world of interiors, from Architectural Digest. No, the truth behind Gillian’s rush was simply that she wanted something, and she wanted it now.

  Neil was saying, “First, I have to find Todd. I doubt if he tore out of town yet; his things are at our house. Maybe his crew has some idea where he went.” So Neil went over to talk to the group of workers, now assembled near the spiral stairway to the library balcony.

  Gillian turned to me. “You’re so fortunate, Mark, to have a man like that in your life.” With a snort, she added, “I’ll trade you for Esmond any day.”

  It was an odd sort of compliment, and I wasn’t sure how to respond. After a moment of grasping for words, I found that I needn’t bother—we were interrupted just then by Perry Schield, who blustered in from the foyer, telling someone, “I’m quite capable of finding them on my own, thank you.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Gillian told me under her breath, “here comes death-warmed-over. Who woke him up?”

  “Gillian, please—if you’re serious about this merger, it’s important to recognize Perry as half of the deal. You wrote the press release, remember. It’s a ‘friendly merger of equals.’”

  “I suppose you’re right,” she said, sounding bored. Obliquely, she added, “At least for a while.”

  “Mark. Gillian. We need to talk,” said Perry, huffing toward us through the living room, the very picture of agitation. I had rarely seen him exhibit much energy, physical or otherwise, so I was surprised to note that Lucy’s description had been accurate—Perry was on the warpath. Instead of a tomahawk, however, he wielded his linen handkerchief, hacking into it every few steps.

  I asked, “What’s wrong, Perry?”

  “Yes, Perry,” added Gillian, her voice dripping with concern, “whatever is the matter?” I marveled at her ability to switch gears so fast and play nicey-nice.

  “Well, I think you already know,” said Perry, pausing to clear his throat. “It’s Tyler Pennell.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Gillian, nodding. Leaning close, she said in a confidential tone, “Pennell is a problem, I agree. It’s astute of you to pick up on that, Perry. I meant to have a word with you about him.”

  Perry trembled where he stood, barely controlling his anger. “Pennell himself isn’t the problem. It’s the reports I’ve heard from him. First, he claimed to discover some irregularities in the accounting at Ashton Mills. Second, and worse, when he tried to bring these matters to your attention yesterday afternoon, you invited him to … to … to kiss your ass.” Bug-eyed as if choking, Perry dislodged a knot of phlegm from his throat and balled his handkerchief to his mouth to catch it.

  Gillian gave him an admonishing grin. “Really, now, Perry, I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.” She laughed airily.

  But Perry was not amused. “Tyler Pennell assured me that he was quoting you verbatim.”

  “Then his memory is as questionable as his accounting skills. Perry, I’ve said it before—he’s a rube, and he has no place on the merger team.”

  Stepping in, I reminded Gillian, “You, along with the entire Ashton board, agreed to retain Tyler for due diligence.”

  “We were sold a bill of goods. He’s awful, Mark.”

  “His credentials are first-rate, and both boards have agreed to abide by his findings. Ashton/Quatro Corporation won’t be created tomorrow without his blessing.”

  “And he’s getting cold feet,” Perry piped in.

  “Funny,” said Gillian, “that’s just what he said about you, Perry. Surely that’s not true. You know that AQC is a match made in heaven. And it pains me to mention this, but with retirement looming so near for you … well, let’s just say that it’s very much in your best interest to help shepherd this deal to completion.” She turned to me with a plastic smile. “Right, Mark?”

  Though I did not appreciate her manipulative manner, I could not argue with her premise. I told them both, “I’ve supported this merger from the start.”

  “Well, then,” said Gillian, flipping her hands, “it seems we’re all in agreement. And all of these so-called problems and issues are merely fabrications of a third-rate bookkeeper’s overactive imagination. Maybe Pennell feels that he needs to find something in order to justify his fee, which I suppose is commendable. The important thing is, after tomorrow, we’re rid of him.”

  Perry had listened quietly, but his stern expression said he hadn’t bought much of Gillian’s act. He told her, “I wouldn’t be so sure about tomorrow. This isn’t over till it’s over.” With a brisk nod, he bade both of us, “Good day.” Then he turned and trundled out of the room, his exit prolonged by the wake of coughing and hacking that trailed behind him.

  Watching him leave, Neil returned from the curtain crew, telling Gillian and me, “I get the impression Perry Schield is a less-than-happy camper.”

  “Perry Schield,” said Gillian, “is a boob.”

  “And Tyler Pennell,” I recalled, “is a rube.”

  “That’s right”—Gillian nodded emphatically—“boobs and rubes. We’re surrounded by them. Philistines at every turn.”

  Wearily, I asked Neil, “What’s the consensus on Todd?”

  “His crew thinks he just went somewhere to cool off. Maybe he went to have breakfast—or took a drive to the park. I’ll start looking.” Neil leaned to give me a good-bye peck.

  “Gillian!” said a voice from the foyer. “We need to talk.” These were the same words that had announced Perry’s entrance. Now what?

  We turned to see Esmond Reece enter the room with Tamra Thaine at his side. He wore the same ill-fitting gray suit I’d seen him wearing at Neil’s office the previous morning; she wore a similar outfit in white. I didn’t know if they had a yin-and-yang thing going on, or if the light and dark signified some rank of achievement in their studies, or if they simply preferred dressing in these colors.

  Gillian groaned. “Now, Esmond? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “It’s important,” he assured her with no apparent emotion. Then he brightened a smidge, greeting Neil and me, “Hello, gentlemen. So pleasant to see you again.”

  As Neil had not met Tamra, I introduced them, telling Neil, “I had a chance to visit the Eastern studies institute yesterday. It’s quite a project.”

  “That’s why we’re here,”
said Esmond. “The institute—”

  “Ughhh!” interrupted Gillian. “‘The institute, the institute’—that’s all I ever hear!” She clapped her palms over her ears, as if protecting her delicate senses from the assault of a jackhammer. It escaped no one that it was she who was making most of the noise.

  “Well,” said Esmond, stepping up to her, “I’m afraid there’s more to be said on the subject. Tamra and I have been working day in and day out, getting our project off the ground, but our—”

  “Your project? What the hell about mine?” She gestured about the sumptuous, surrounding room, as if it lay in shambles. “Do you think this just happens?”

  “But our future success at the institute,” Esmond persisted, “is contingent upon the funding you’ve already committed to. If you don’t deliver, Gillian, I may be forced to reconsider your stewardship of my assets; I may be forced to reclaim control of my own finances.”

  With a sharp laugh, his wife asked, “Do you honestly think I was dumb enough to leave you any loopholes?”

  “A bargain’s a bargain, Gillian, and you’ve—”

  “And I’ve hit a few snags!” she snarled.

  “Cost overruns? Neil tells me everything’s on budget.”

  As Neil was standing right there, Gillian was in no position to contradict him, so she took another tack, skirting the facts and launching a personal attack on her husband and his yogi.

  Sneering, she asked, “Just how long do you intend to keep this up, Esmond? These damn ‘lessons’ have been going on for years now, and what do you have to show for it? Back in Harper, when you first told me you were taking up yoga, I thought, Sure, why not? Maybe some good will come of it. What the hell’s to lose? But here we are, and you still haven’t learned any tricks.”