"What the fuck are you doing?" I heard a loud shriek come from the front door as it slammed closed.
Clayton's head shot up like a rocket launch. "Rani?" His eyes glazed over with fear. "I...I thought you were in Cabo with the girls."
"I knew it!" she screamed, tears welling up in her eyes. "I knew you would do this! You piece of shit!" Suddenly, a small purse came flying through the air. I successfully dodged it, allowing it to hit Clayton squarely between the eyes.
That was my less-than-subtle cue to leave. I pulled myself to my feet and tried hard to tune out the sound of their voices as I picked my sweater up off the floor and slid it over my head.
Clayton quickly stood up and reached out toward the petite, Indian girl standing motionless (and purseless) in the middle of the living room. "Rani, I just wanted to—"
"Don't touch me. Don't you fucking touch me!" She stepped back and batted his hand away.
"Baby, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Clayton pleaded.
"I'm just gonna..." My voice intentionally drifted off as I grabbed my bag and quietly made my way toward the door, keeping my head down to avoid eye contact.
Clayton ignored me. It figured. I was of little importance now. Now that she had unexpectedly showed up. But I suppose I was used to that... falling from grace in a matter of seconds. In a normal week, I went from being the sexiest woman alive, to being, well, pretty much the devil in a blink of an eye at least three times. I've learned not to take it personally.
I've learned not to take a lot of things personally.
I watched as the argument escalated and moved into the kitchen, Rani storming through the dining room with Clayton following closely after her like a puppy begging for forgiveness for chewing on her favorite pair of shoes. I could hear their voices. Hers was loud and full of anger. His was soft and saturated with apologies.
As I placed my hand on the doorknob, I immediately heard the sound of footsteps getting closer. Coming back from the kitchen. I turned my head to see one angry woman stomping toward me. Fury in her eyes, and vengeance in her step.
I glanced anxiously toward the safety the front door promised to provide once I was on the other side of it. I turned the handle and pulled it toward me. But an inch was all I got. Her hand landed on top of mine, and in one swift motion and a very loud thud, the door was shut again. I froze and looked up at her. My face blank. My mind restless.
"Ashlyn," she said gently, her face softening for a moment.
I smiled back, unassumingly. "Yes?"
Her hand slid off mine, and I was suddenly free. "Thank you," she said with a painful sigh.
I let go of the door, now moist with the sweat of my hand, and patted her tenderly on the shoulder. "You're very welcome."
She wiped her tearstained face and sniffled. "I was right." Her voice was filled with paradoxical questions. Questions like: "Would I have felt better if I were wrong?" Trying to answer them was like setting your mind on fire and watching it burn.
I took a deep breath. "Unfortunately, you usually are."
She nodded and choked back a quiet sob. "Then I did the right thing?"
I craned my neck to glance past her into the kitchen. Clayton had taken a seat at the table, his head between his knees, his hands running through his hair. His regret seeping through every pore of his skin.
Then I looked back at Rani, her dark eyelashes damp with tears and her breathtakingly exotic features filled with uncertainty. She looked like a princess. The kind you read about in fairy tales of far-off lands and unfamiliar cultures. But tonight, here, unfortunately, the princess would feel the pain of a real world. The agony of a real life. And the bitterness of an unhappy ending.
Hers was a question I was used to answering. A comfort I was used to giving. And the response would be the same as it always is.
"Yes, Rani. You did the right thing by hiring me."
9
The Art of Bluffing
OKAY, SO I had a little help.
Rani had told me that Clayton liked karaoke. She even mentioned Def Leppard. And Family Guy. And all the other things that we were supposed to have in common. All the things she suspected would be true about the girl he would cheat with, the final detail being that she was white.
Rani didn't want the normal ending. The black card on the dresser. The cold, hard truth being explained as I pull my sweater over my head and leave him with one, drawn-out, pitiful glance.
It wasn't enough for her. She wanted to see it. She wanted to catch him. She wanted to look him in the face during the moment of his betrayal... and during the moment of his realization. She wanted him to know that she knew, and would always know.
It's not how I typically conclude my assignments. But then again, Rani wasn't a typical client.
I had met her in the self-help section of the Barnes & Noble on the Third Street Promenade. She seemed to share my thirst for knowledge. But her thirst on that day turned out to be quite different from my own.
As I browsed through titles on the far wall of the small alcove, filled floor to ceiling with books that promised to cure all of your innermost fears, I saw her out of the corner of my eye. She looked lost. Pulling books off the shelf, thumbing through a few pages, and then, visibly discouraged, placing them back with a despondent sigh. Although she was dressed simply in a pair of sweatpants, Ugg boots, and a hooded sweater, her exotic beauty radiated throughout the tiny room.
I inconspicuously inched my way closer to her, pretending to skim the authors that I passed along the way.
As I drew nearer I was able to make out some of the titles she was examining. Is He Cheating On You? 829 Ways to Tell; How to Catch a Cheater; 28 Telltale Signs of a Cheating Spouse.
I could see the longing in her eyes as she searched through the titles. It was a longing for something these books just wouldn't give her. I knew that, and deep down, she knew that too. But this was the only thing she could think of.
No wonder she looked so lost.
My heart went out to her. Her flawless face was lined with sleepless nights spent staring at the one she loved, watching him breathe, asking questions in her mind that she prayed would be answered in the morning...or the day after, or the day after that. Anything that would allow her to sleep again.
"Can I make a suggestion?" I asked gently, nodding toward the current book in her hand.
She looked up, at first ashamed, as if she'd been caught looking at porn in her grandmother's house. But then her expression clouded over with misplaced appreciation. "No good?" she asked, her voice craving assistance. An expert in this area was something she'd been yearning for, but she doubted the squirrelly guy with the mismatched belt and shoes working at the info counter of the bookstore would quite fit the bill.
I shook my head regretfully. "I wouldn't know. I haven't read it."
She quickly reached for another book from the shelf and showed it to me. "What about this one?"
I shook my head again. "Actually, I haven't read any of them."
She studied me with confusion. I certainly looked perfectly normal, but maybe I was just another nutcase wandering the streets of Santa Monica, doling out random relationship advice. "Then what's your suggestion?"
RANI WAS one of my "pro bono" clients. I didn't charge her a dime, mostly because she didn't have one. She was working night shifts at Starbucks to put herself through law school.
"We've been together since high school back in Iowa," she explained as we sat at one of the cafés on the promenade and sipped lemonade. "I've never been with anyone else. And neither has he."
"You don't look like you came from the Midwest," I joked.
She smiled and watched a pedestrian pass by on the sidewalk. "My family moved there from India when I was fourteen. My dad got a job running the local office of his technology firm, and it was the perfect opportunity for us to 'start a better life.' At least that's how it was explained to me." She paused and reflected. "I was popular in India. I was well liked. I had lots of frie
nds. I never wanted to leave. The kids in Iowa were mean. Really mean. They constantly mocked my accent and the way I looked. I was surrounded by blond hair and blue eyes. That was what was pretty. That was what was considered beautiful. That was what got you friends and a boyfriend...I guess.
"Nobody would let me sit with them at lunch, so I used to read in the library. Normally you weren't allowed to bring food in there, but the librarian made an exception for me." She chuckled to herself. "I think she felt sorry for me."
I nodded and took a sip of my lemonade, waiting for her to continue.
"Then one day, Clayton came in. I had seen him before. He was on the soccer team. And he was so beautiful. I thought he had come into the library to find a book, but his eyes found me instead, and he walked straight toward my table and sat down across from me. He said he knew I came in there every day and he wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Why the library was the new hot spot, or something like that."
"That's sweet," I said.
She nodded. "He was always sweet. He came and ate lunch with me every day. He never asked why I was there or why I refused to eat lunch in the cafeteria with everyone else. I don't think he needed to ask."
I was thoroughly engrossed in her story. "And then?"
"And then everything. We've been together ever since."
"So why the books? Why the doubt?"
She sighed and smoothed her ponytail with her hand. "Because we've been together ever since. I think he wants more...I think he's curious about what he's missing. I think he wants a white girl."
I nearly spit out my lemonade. "What? Are you serious? You're beautiful! Stunning! And he picked you out of a sea of white girls... because you were different. Why all of a sudden would he change his mind?"
She shrugged and shook her head helplessly. "I don't know. It's just a feeling. I see him looking sometimes. I just don't know if I grew up to be the girl he's supposed to be with. After ten years, how do you even know? How can anyone choose a soul mate at age fifteen?"
I pressed my lips together and looked away. "You can't," I conceded.
"He's not going to cheat with a one-night stand from a bar. I'm sure of that. He's not the type. If anything, he'll want to meet someone, go on a date, see what other genuine options are out there."
I nodded and reached out to touch her hand. "Let me help you."
She cocked her head to the side. "How are you going to do that?"
"I offer a very special service. For women like you. It's not something you can find in any book."
I could tell by the look on Rani's face that she was intrigued. So I continued to tell her exactly what I do and have done for the past two years.
Her reaction was interesting. I'm not used to having to explain this situation to someone who has no idea what's about to be presented to them. Most of my clients are usually at least somewhat prepared for what I'm about to tell them. After all, they did call me. And I half expected Rani to jump up out of her seat in disgust and storm off onto the Promenade, leaving me with the bill and lemonade dripping down my face. But she didn't. She simply looked at me the way a religious zealot might look upon a newly found ancient relic. At first, with disbelief... doubt that it was really authentic. And then finally with an awestruck numbness that changed everything she's ever believed in.
"But I don't have any money to..."
"I just want to help," I assured her.
I could see her eyes welling up with tears. Tears of thankfulness, tears of fear, and tears of relief that she would finally be getting the answer she'd been looking for.
And that she wouldn't have to rely on a book.
I STOOD outside the door of Clayton and Rani's apartment. I could still faintly hear the voices inside, arguing. That would last awhile, I imagined.
Rani was right. You can't pick your soul mate at age fifteen. But a small part of me wanted to root for them. Wanted them to work it out, to be able to see this incident as a breaking point and a place to move forward from. A hurdle that must be leaped and cleared before the road can ever be smooth again.
But I make it a rule not to root for anyone. And I also make it a rule not to make exceptions. So before I walked away, I let my hand softly touch the wooden door as I said good-bye to Princess Rani.
THE NEXT day was my third and final poker lesson before my assignment in Las Vegas on Saturday. I had found a poker tutor on Craigslist last week after I met with Roger Ireland concerning his daughter and her fiancé. And given the recent poker craze that had hit the country, it wasn't a difficult thing to find.
When I first made the call to the tutor, I told him that I wanted a poker mastery crash course. I needed to be able to impress a client during an upcoming business trip to Vegas, which was true enough. And my tutor, Ethan (or "the Cowboy," as he preferred to be called), didn't seem to care what my purpose was for learning the game, as long as my check cleared so he could deposit it into his online-poker account.
"So, during our last two lessons," he began, adeptly shuffling a deck of cards in front of him, "we focused on the rules of the game, the rounds of play, the strategies for calculating your odds based on how much money is in the pot, and of course, how to determine the hands of the other players." I sat in Ethan's basement, where he had set up a mini poker shrine. Photos of famous players decorated the walls, three professional poker tables dominated the center of the room, and the carpet looked identical to the noisy, colorful carpets you find inside any of the casinos on the Strip.
I picked up four of the chips in front of me and began practicing my chip twirls. Ethan had demonstrated them briefly during our last lesson, and I'd been watching the players on ESPN gracefully spin chips around their fingers while contemplating their next action. I realized after watching it on TV that the chip tricks were almost as important in appearing to know what you're doing as playing the game itself. And as much as I knew I needed to play the game well, I also knew that Saturday night would be all about appearances.
"But today we're going to add the final step of this process..." the Cowboy continued.
"Chip flipping?" I asked hopefully.
"Bluffing," he stated seriously, clearly enjoying the suspenseful spotlight.
"Ah."
"It's the hardest part of poker to master. But once you do, the rest of the game is easy."
"Lying?" I confirmed.
"Fooling the other players into believing you have something when you don't . . . or that you don't have something when you do," he replied self-importantly.
"So, lying," I repeated again.
Ethan took a deep breath, seemingly frustrated at my simplification of his big suspenseful moment. "Yes, I suppose you could call it lying. But bluffing is so much more than just telling a little white lie. White lies are easy. They're simple and believable because people have no reason not to believe you. Bluffing in poker is a different skill altogether. It's an art. You have to make someone believe you when they have every reason in the world not to."
I nodded and smiled to myself. "I honestly don't think that will be a problem."
Ethan considered my confidence and then tapped the deck of cards against the table and began to deal. "Okay, hotshot. Let's see what you've got."
FRIDAY EVENING rolled around, and I, of course, was running late...as usual. This time, however, it wasn't to an assignment but to my niece Hannah's birthday dinner in Westlake Village. I quickly slid into Hannah's favorite pair of jeans and a Baby Phat tank top and dabbed my eyelashes with mascara.
I drove to the entrance of the 405 and merged into what can only be described as a "parking lot," given the mobility of the cars around me. Hannah's parents and my mother lived in Thousand Oaks, which is about thirty miles north of here. But in Southern California, nothing is ever measured in miles. It's measured in estimated driving time, which is calculated by taking into account several different variables. The most important being: time of day and day of the week.
For example: If someone
asks the question "How far do you live from Thousand Oaks?" I immediately respond with two additional questions: "At what time? And on what day?" Because at eleven o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday, I live approximately one hour from Thousand Oaks. But at five o'clock in the evening on a Friday (like today), I live closer to two and a half hours from Thousand Oaks. And, lastly, at two o'clock in the morning on a Saturday, I live twenty-five minutes from Thousand Oaks (driving at a reckless ninety miles per hour).
In fact, most people in Los Angeles don't even understand the concept of distance measured in miles. If you say, "It's about five miles east of here," to a Los Angeles native, they'll most likely look at you like you're from a foreign country, and then ask, "Well, if I leave at four-thirty, how long will it take?"
Most people think the world is split into two measurement standards: the metric system that nearly everyone in the world uses and the pain-in-the-ass, inconsistent American system that even we can't seem to master. But in actuality, the world is split into three standards: the metric system, the pain-in-the-ass American system, and the SoCal system. Or what I like to call "the space/time incontinuum."
And it appeared that the SoCal system was accurate again. I exited the freeway approximately two hours later and sped down the suburban parkway toward the restaurant. I glanced at my dashboard clock. I was officially late. My half sister, Julia, would certainly have something to say about it. I pushed down farther on the accelerator. Just as I prepared to slow down and turn onto the correct street, I saw flashing lights in my rearview mirror. I looked up and groaned. Just what I needed right now, to have to deal with suburbia police officers who have nothing better to do than write tickets to people driving two miles above the speed limit. Although, I admit, I was doing more like twenty over.
I pulled my car to the side of the road and began to formulate an escape route. Not the kind where you jump from the car, run for the bushes, and wind up on the six o'clock news. The psychological escape route. It's much more effective.
Fidelity Files Page 12
