Fidelity Files

by Jessica Brody

Zoë leaned back against the couch. "Well," she admitted, "I didn't know exactly what she'd been up to, but I knew something was different. She hasn't been the same for a few years."

  I sat staring at my friend in complete astonishment. All this time I thought I was fooling everyone. And I almost was. Everyone except Zoë, that is.

  "Plus," she continued, "I ran into that guy Nate Evans last year at the movie theater. Remember the guy from Stanley Marshall who you tried to set me up with a few years back? Well, anyway, he told me that you quit, like, months ago."

  "But..." I couldn't even begin to make sense of what she was saying. Here I was thinking I would have to go through one more round of relentless questions from another close friend, but in all actuality it was the other way around. "Why didn't you ask me about it? Why didn't you confront me when you knew I didn't work there anymore?"

  Zoë took a deep breath. "I don't know. I figured you were doing your own thing. And when you wanted to talk about it, you would come to us. So I just let you be."

  "Wow." Sophie was bemused, looking just the slightest bit jealous that Zoë had so easily broken part of the code when she had been in the dark this whole time.

  "But good for you, though," Zoë offered. "I must admit, it's kind of nice not having to speculate on what you might be up to anymore. For a while I convinced myself you were stripping at that club down the street from here. But honestly, I stopped trying to figure it out about six months ago."

  "So you think it's a good thing?" I verified.

  She nodded. "Sure. I mean, I don't blame you for wanting to do it. After what happened with your parents."

  My shoulders slouched and I nodded softly. "Right."

  Sensing my discomfort, Zoë quickly changed the subject. "So what are you getting ready for now?" she asked, gesturing toward the wet towel clinging to my body. "Another night of flirting with the unsuspecting?"

  I stood up and hiked the towel higher around my chest. "No," I said quietly. "I'm ...well, I'm going on a date, actually."

  Both of my friends simultaneously jumped off the couch with more uniformity than an Olympic synchronized-swimming team. "What?" Sophie screeched.

  "It's that guy from the plane, isn't it?" Zoë speculated with exhilaration.

  Sophie turned to her. "What guy from the plane?"

  "Jen met this cute guy on the plane back from Vegas and they totally hit it off, and she told me that she wasn't going to call him, but I knew she would."

  "Well, you just know everything these days, don't you?" I asked, walking toward my bedroom.

  The girls followed shortly after, like two dogs persistently pursuing a toddler snacking on crumbling pretzels.

  "I know you, Jen," Zoë stated proudly. "You think no one knows you. But you are so wrong. You're more readable than you'd like to admit."

  "Not to the men she seduces," Sophie shrewdly pointed out, wanting so much to compete in what she now perceived as a "Who knows Jen better?" competition.

  "That doesn't count," Zoë replied. "They have so much testosterone running through their bloodstreams, I doubt they would notice if she wrote, 'This is a setup' across her forehead in red lipstick. Fooling an idiot male with a hard-on who's had sex with the same woman for the past twenty years isn't exactly a challenge."

  "Well, know-it-all," I began self-importantly as I stepped into my closet and began riffling through my ten thousand outfit selections. "Turns out you're wrong. I didn't call him. I bumped into him at the Range Rover dealership."

  "And you decided to finally listen to the universe," Zoë pointed out.

  I bit my tongue in defeat. "Okay, so you were right about that."

  Zoë plopped down on the bed with a bounce and smiled proudly. Sophie, slightly more dejected and feeling very out of the loop, settled with less celebration into the seat next to her.

  "Soph," I said, sensing her feeling of exclusion. "I'm so useless with these things. Will you please just pick out something for me to wear? Or I could be in here all night."

  Sophie's face immediately brightened as she eagerly rose to her feet and waltzed into the closet to perform her civic duty as the fashion-adept friend.

  WHEN JAMIE called my personal cell phone to let me know he was just pulling up in front of my building, I quickly interrupted him. "I'll come down," I blurted out before he could even finish his sentence, most likely leaving him with the suspicion of dead bodies that I had yet to clean up after, or a variety of illegal drugs laid out on the coffee table awaiting proper measuring and packaging, or possibly even an estranged husband who thought I was going out with the girls this evening. But truth be told, I wasn't quite ready to let him into my house yet. Giving him my address had been hard enough. But the thought of having him walk around inside my home made me just the slightest bit nauseous.

  I began to pack my Marc Jacobs clutch with all the essentials: breath mints, keys, lip gloss, credit cards, cash, ID... and, finally, my personal cell phone. I stopped and stared down at my Treo, lying lifelessly on the kitchen table. I reached out to grab it and then slowly recoiled, as if the small, metallic device was threatening to scorch my skin upon contact. For some reason this moment, this seemingly insignificant decision, seemed like a major turning point in my life. I took one last glance at the phone and then triumphantly zipped up my bag and slung it over my shoulder.

  It was amazing how much lighter I felt. Like I had not just left behind a six-ounce communication device but a two-hundred -pound burden.

  As I rode the elevator down to the ground floor, I started to get butterflies in my stomach. This was by no means my first first date. Technically, I go on "first dates" three or four times a week. True, they weren't exactly honest in their intentions, but I was supposed to be a pro at this... dealing with men. Getting them to like me. Playing their game. Reading their minds. But then again, that had always been Ashlyn's forte... not mine. And as the elevator doors opened menacingly, as if in slow motion, I felt like I was entering very uncharted territory.

  I checked my reflection in the mirrored walls of the lobby. Sophie had done an amazing job navigating through the treacherous jungle of my closet. After only a few minutes of sifting through rows and rows of hangers, ruling out selections at record-breaking speed, she finally arrived at a pink lace camisole with a cream cardigan and a pair of skinny jeans.

  Sophie had then moved into my bathroom, where she proceeded to make a complete mess of my accessories drawer and had finally topped off the ensemble with a ceramic bangle bracelet and dangling dark pink-and-nickel chandelier earrings.

  I exited and immediately spotted Jamie's white Jaguar XK convertible waiting in front of my building with the top up, lights on, and the engine still running. I approached it.

  The driver's-side door opened and Jamie stepped out to greet me. He looked amazing. Better than I remembered, actually. He was wearing a pair of light khaki slacks, a fitted black-knit shirt, and a black collarless jacket over it.

  He kissed me tenderly on the cheek and I felt a small chill rush up my body. I cleared my throat. "So this is the Jag?"

  "This is it. It's supposed to impress you. Is it working?"

  I laughed and shook my head. "Not really."

  "Damn. I'll have to ask for my money back," he said, walking around to the passenger side and opening the door for me. "The guy who sold it to me said it was supposed to impress all the ladies."

  Jamie got in the driver's seat and pressed a button on the console. The top of the car slowly started to come down, and I felt the cool night air hit my face.

  "What about now? Impressed?"

  I considered. "Getting there."

  "I'm five years away from forty. I figured I'd start the midlife crisis thing early with a convertible."

  "Wow!" I exclaimed. "Almost forty! You're so..."

  He shot me a warning glance.

  "...young-looking for your age," I said with a grin.

  Jamie nodded his head in gratitude. "I'll keep the windows up so it d
oesn't mess up your hair."

  "That's very considerate of you," I joked. But in all actuality, it was a concern that had crossed my mind when the top started coming down.

  "So," Jamie began while buckling his seat belt. "I figured that a girl like you probably goes on a lot of dates."

  "Oh, really? And what does that mean? A girl like me?"

  He adjusted the radio. "I mean, a girl as pretty as you."

  I swallowed hard and looked out the window to hide the warmth I felt come over my face. "Oh. Thank you."

  "So I thought tonight I should probably come up with a way to distinguish myself."

  I laughed nervously, thinking about how distinguished this night had become already, and we had barely left Brentwood. "And what did you come up with?"

  "Golf."

  I looked at him incredulously. "Golf?"

  He nodded. "Yes. Golf."

  "You came up with golf?"

  He smiled proudly. "Mmm-hmm. Have you ever played?"

  I turned my head again. In fact, I had played golf...several times. And after a handful of lessons to get me up to "par" with the husbands I inspected on the golf course, I was actually fairly good at the game.

  "Yeah, a few times," I said modestly. "But I didn't bring my clubs."

  "That's okay, we can rent some."

  "So we're going to play golf?" I asked again, still wondering when the "joke's on you" was coming.

  "You like saying the word golf, don't you? I mean, we can do something else if you—"

  "No, no! That's fine. I like... golf."

  "Good," he said with a laugh. "Now, what's the quickest way to get back to Wilshire Boulevard from here?"

  Without thinking I directed Jamie to make a right at the stop sign, then a left at the next street, a right at the next. Another left, then right, until we finally arrived on Wilshire.

  Jamie waited at the stoplight and shot me a strange look.

  "What?" I said, feeling self-conscious and instinctively smoothing my hair down.

  "I know this isn't my 'hood' and all, but wasn't that, like, the longest possible route to Wilshire?"

  I felt my stomach lurch. So much for appearing like a "normal" girl who dates all the time. I hadn't even realized that I had just taken Jamie through my six-turn safety route. Although now that my face was plastered all over the Internet, I had a hard time considering it very safe. I attempted to cover with a weak laugh. "Scenic route."

  Jamie looked in the rearview mirror at the rows of apartment buildings and condos that looked pretty much exactly the same. "Well, thank you for that," he offered sincerely, with just the smallest trace of friendly sarcasm.

  TEN MINUTES later we arrived at a popular nine-hole course in Rancho Park. I recognized it immediately. It had been the site of the Oliver Hender assignment. A high-up business executive who was in town from New York and wanted to fit in a quick round before his very important meeting with a group of Japanese investors.

  His wife had contacted me by phone a few weeks in advance and I agreed to take on the assignment. I paid the course attendant a hefty tip to be paired-up alone with Mr. Hender. Two lonely golfers just trying to take advantage of the beautiful L.A. weather before heading off to their respective meetings. One of these golfers just happened to be a sexy young lawyer named Ashlyn who was apparently just as good on the golf course as she was in the courtroom. Oliver was extremely impressed. And with those flirtatious looks she was tossing him in between practice swings, and that tiny golfing skirt barely covering her perfectly tanned legs, how could he not take her right there? After all, it was a fairly slow day on the course.

  I stepped out of Jamie's car and breathed in the night air. It was a beautiful evening, just around seventy degrees, barely any wind. The perfect night for a round of golf, although had I expected to be playing tonight, I might have chosen a different outfit. I could only imagine what golfing in my wedge-heeled espadrilles would be like.

  Jamie popped open his trunk and began to remove a set of golf clubs.

  "Wait a minute." I stopped him. "You mean I have to rent clubs and you get to use your own? Now that seems to put you at a very unfair advantage, doesn't it?"

  He considered that, and then placed the clubs gently back into the trunk. "You're right. I should rent clubs, too. That way we'll be on an even playing field."

  No such thing, I thought.

  We started walking toward the clubhouse, and Jamie glanced down at my feet. "Maybe we should rent you some shoes, too."

  AFTER THE fourth hole it was pretty clear who the better golfer was between us.

  "So," Jamie began as he placed the pin back into the hole on the green. "I actually chose this specific activity because I was supposed to impress you with my extraordinary golfing skills. But it doesn't seem to be quite working out the way I planned. Does it?"

  I shook my head. "Not so much."

  "You know," he continued as we walked back toward our awaiting cart. "I don't think you've been properly educated on the purpose of a first date."

  "Well, then, I guess you better enlighten me."

  "I'll do that," he asserted. "See, the purpose of the first date is for the guy . . . that would be me..."

  "Right..."

  "...to impress the girl." He emphasized the word impress as if I were a foreigner hearing the English word for the first time and he wanted to make sure I could properly pronounce it later. "You know, like show off his colorful feathers, bob his head up and down, play golf really well. It's all part of the ancient dating ritual."

  I pretended to be extremely intrigued by his lecture as we approached the golf cart, and I sat down in the passenger seat. "I see."

  Jamie got in behind the wheel and quickly marked down our strokes on the scorecard. "And the girl . . . that would be you...is supposed to be so taken by these impressive displays that you just can't help but..."

  "But what?" I interrupted him with a playful smirk.

  He shot me a knowing glance. "But swoon, of course. Fall all over yourself. Fail to find the ability to stand upright without losing your balance from all the swooning."

  I laughed. "Wow, you've really thought this through, haven't you?"

  Jamie pulled the cart onto the cement path. "There's nothing to think through. This is just how it works. It's the natural order of all things that you, Miss Jennifer H., are severely disturbing with your three pars and a birdie."

  "Hey, I let you drive the cart, didn't I?"

  He nodded. "That you did."

  I grabbed the bar on the outside of the cart as Jamie made a sharp turn. "Sorry," I said. "I guess I just come from a completely different school of thought."

  "And what school would that be? Please enlighten me."

  Well, technically, it was my own school of thought. Something along the lines of not letting yourself be swooned by any guy no matter how good their golf game or how bright their tail feathers. But at that moment, I suddenly couldn't remember where those rules had even come from. And I kind of liked it that way.

  "Well, basically it goes something like this: Old-fashioned dating rituals are completely outdated. Girls can be better at anything... even golf."

  Jamie nodded. "Well, it looks like I'll just have to rely on my charm, then. Since golf doesn't seem to be working."

  I smiled. "I guess so."

  He parked the golf cart in front of a small snack stand that stood off to the side of the cart path.

  "What are we doing here? The fifth hole is that way," I said, pointing back the way we came. "Maybe I should be driving."

  "Well, I did promise you dinner," he reminded me, motioning to the snack stand.

  I laughed. "Are you serious?"

  He straightened his face. "Extremely. I take my golf hot-dog breaks very seriously. As you probably know, it's customary to visit the snack stand after nine holes. But since we're on only a nine-hole course, I figure the fourth hole is probably the best place to break."

  "Well, in theory, it wo
uld be after four-point-five holes," I pointed out.

  "And here we go again with the human calculator."

  I laughed. The truth was, I'd actually never made it to the ninth-hole snack stand. None of my "golfing" partners had lasted that long.

  I glanced skeptically at the shack in front of me. "So . . . hot dogs?"

  "Do you have anything against hot dogs? Like a personal vendetta or something? Because I bet I could get them to whip you up a grilled cheese instead."

  "No. I love hot dogs."

  Jamie pantomimed a notch on an invisible scoreboard. "Jamie, one... all other dates, zero."

  I giggled, wishing I could ease his mind and tell him that there were no other dates to compare himself to. This was, for all intents and purposes, my first one. Although I was pretty confident that, had there been others, the scoreboard would have looked pretty much the same.

  We approached the counter and ordered two hot dogs and two Cokes. Jamie paid for the food and, in return, the cashier handed over our food and drinks.

  "How's that for fast service?" Jamie asked with a wink.

  I headed over to the toppings bar and started to spread ketchup on my hot dog. Jamie came up beside me and pumped mustard out of the dispenser. "I'm more of a mustard kind of guy."

  I made a face. "Just ketchup for me."

  Jamie took a bite out of his freshly topped hot dog. "So we could essentially buy one of those twin packs of ketchup and mustard from the supermarket and never fight over who gets what."

  "Unlike those Fun Packs of cereal. My half sister and I always used to fight over those."

  We sat down on a nearby bench and I placed my white paper plate on my lap.

  "I have to have the Apple Jacks," Jamie said, popping the top of his Coke.

  "No! I get the Apple Jacks!" I insisted before taking a bite out of my hot dog, and then with a mouthful of beef and bread mumbled, "They're my favorite!"

  "Well, then, this is never going to work. We might as well end it right now."

  I nodded solemnly as I chewed and swallowed. "You're probably right. It's better off this way. We won't ever have to deal with the problem of who's going to eat the Smacks. They're always the last box to go."