I’m rearranging a small modern fiction collection to disguise several books on dream analysis when the phone rings. Hoping it’s Richard, I rush into the kitchen.
“Hi, honey!” It’s Mom, sounding offensively perky.
“Mom,” I say, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice, “it’s after eleven, you know.”
“Yes, Scarborough is in the same time zone, dear,” she burbles merrily. “You sound a little winded. Is everything all right?”
Since Mom is normally asleep by 10:00, she must sense I’m up to no good.
“Of course everything’s all right,” I answer, defensively enough to confirm her suspicions. “I just finished cleaning my apartment, that’s all.”
“Cleaning at this time of night?” She sounds skeptical.
“I’m not expecting company, I just find cleaning therapeutic. You know that.”
“How about some deep-breathing exercises instead?”
“Have you been meditating again?” I ask, suspiciously.
“I’ve started a yoga class with Joan from down the street,” she says, serenely. While we chat, I pull my best wineglasses off a shelf and wipe them with a cloth. “Anyway, dear, I just wanted to make sure you’re behaving yourself. I’ll let you get back to your dusting.”
I stick out my tongue at the phone and immediately feel guilty. After all, the woman’s calling because she cares about me.
“No need to worry, Mom,” I assure her. “Margo’s promo trip to the northern constituencies is a no-go and I’ve got some quiet days ahead.”
23
Elliot leads me past a long lineup and into the crowded night-club. I had no idea Günter’s band Glam Session was so popular.
“They’re a huge hit on the university circuit,” Elliot confirms proudly, seemingly oblivious to the fact that we’re the oldest people in the room. He slings his arm around my shoulders as we weave through the crowd. “By the way, Flower Girl, I had a strange vision yesterday morning. A tall man and a short woman were playing tug-of-war with a map and you were sitting in an enormous empty suitcase watching them.”
“And there I was thinking that love had clouded your psychic abilities. As it happens, the Ministry sideshow you forecast has been averted. Honestly—”
“There he is!” Elliot cuts me off, his face aglow. I follow his gaze to see two men near the stage shouting at each other.
“Ve told you ve only vanted Beck beer in our dressing room, yah? Vat is zis Molzonz scheisse?”
“His accent is very strong,” I whisper to Elliot. “Didn’t you say Günter left Germany as a child?”
“Yeah, sometimes he puts it on for effect. Isn’t it great?”
So this is the man who’s tamed Elliot’s roamin’ ways…. Somehow I didn’t expect the long, curly platinum hair, nor glittery blue shadow and opalescent lipstick. Conservative Elliot with a man in a mauve angora cardigan and purple vinyl pants tucked into silver platform boots? Unthinkable. And then there’s the hot-pink feather boa.
“Günter, I’d like to introduce you to—” Elliot begins as the club manager leaves to sort out the beer problem.
“Vy can’t zay ever get it schtrait?” Günter interrupts petulantly. “Every club ve play, zer iz alvays problems. Who is zis?” he asks, tossing his dyed yellow mane in my direction.
“This is my friend, Libby. I’ve told you about her.”
“Ze von on ze rock?” Günter says, taking my hand. “Guten abend, Libby.” And then to Elliot, without a trace of an accent, “You never told me she was so tall.”
“Vat— I mean, what—difference does that make?” I ask, testily.
“Relax, darling.” Günter wraps his boa around my neck. “I find tall women sssssexy. Rahrrr! Now tell me, sweet Amazon,” he says, pulling me closer with the string of pink feathers, “why do I always get shitty beer at these gigs?” When I hesitate for a moment, he adds suspiciously, “You do drink beer, don’t you?”
“I much prefer bourbon, I’m afraid,” I say, raising my glass sheepishly.
“Ooh, you like the hard stuff…” He slides the boa slowly from my neck.
Before I can question Günter’s allegiance to men, Lola arrives, attracting all eyes with her black suede miniskirt, fishnet stockings and knee-high boots. She tows Michael over to introduce him. Michael gapes openly at Günter’s ensemble as he extends his hand and Günter, in turn gapes openly at Lola’s. Then the muffled strains of “La Cucaracha” issue from Michael’s coat. He immediately retracts his hand, leaving Günter’s dangling in the air. As Michael pulls his cell phone out of his jacket, “La Cucaracha” increases in volume.
“Hello,” he barks into the phone. “Am I the only one with a brain in this company…? This is unbelievable… Do I have to come down there and sort this out myself?”
He steps into the middle of our little group, seemingly to provide optimal viewing of The Michael Show. Günter rolls his eyes dramatically at Elliot and stomps off to join the band. I sense Michael will be on the receiving end of a thick German accent when they finally meet.
Lola seems embarrassed by Michael’s behavior, because she attempts to divert our attention from him.
“Libby, I’ve discovered a whole new category of brides—the ‘Ultimatum Girl.’ My colleague badgered her boyfriend to marry her for a year before issuing the ultimatum: ask me before my thirtieth birthday or I’m gone.”
“I gather he relented.”
“He held out almost till the stroke of midnight on her birthday before proposing. She had the hall booked the next day.”
“That’s pathetic,” I say.
“Very sad,” Elliot agrees with me for once.
“We could write a sequel,” I suggest, “called Ultimatum Girls: Ten Years After. I can’t imagine these marriages work out.”
“Well, my boss is an Ultimatum Girl who’s had twelve glorious years with her husband.”
“God, I hope I don’t have to harass anyone into proposing. It’s so degrading.”
“Yeah, well pride doesn’t keep you warm at night,” Lola says.
Thoughts of a cold bed prompt Lola to take Michael’s arm proprietarily the second he puts his cell phone away. He reaches out and gives her ass a squeeze. She grabs his and suddenly they’re all over each other. Elliot looks at me, eyebrows rising, but before he can comment the announcer introduces Glam Session and we turn to the stage. The lights go down, except for a tiny pink spotlight that shines on one of Günter’s silver platform boots. His foot taps out a few beats, then the spot widens out to reveal the entire band as they start playing.
“Well you’re a dirty sweet flirt, in that skirt, I think that I love you…”
Even with the band, I can hear slurping as Michael works away on Lola’s neck. I try not to look but they’re like a bad accident—terrible, but riveting.
“Well you’re strong and you’re meek, your curves make me weak. You’re a dirty flirt and you’re my girl.”
Michael’s hand is crawling up Lola’s sweater.
“Get it on, make love till dawn, get it on…”
The crowd is pushing toward the stage and carrying us before it on a wave. Michael breaks Elliot’s trance by clipping him in the head while throwing an arm around Lola’s neck. In retaliation, Elliot attracts Günter’s attention and points to the happy couple. Günter, in turn, signals the spot operator, who focuses his bright beam on the tangle of limbs.
Lola’s suede skirt has flipped up in the back, exposing her thong and the crowd whoops enthusiastically above the sound of the band. Eventually, the noise brings Michael up for air and the two stare around, dazed. If I were in Lola’s boots, I’d die of embarrassment, but she simply yanks down her skirt and gives the crowd a sassy little curtsy. Günter pulls her up onto the stage, where she proceeds to bump and grind.
Glam Session is really very good and just as they strike up a favorite David Bowie tune, a faint, annoying noise interrupts my listening pleasure. “La Cucaracha.” Michael i
s reaching into his pocket for his phone. He glances at the incoming number, before turning away from the stage to answer it. Something about his secretive stance prompts me to step closer.
“… I’m at a concert with a friend of mine…it’ll probably be a late night…he’s going through a rough time…promise I’ll come by and see you tomorrow.”
As he slides his phone back into his pocket, Michael catches me watching and shrugs apologetically.
“The world of technology never sleeps,” he says.
That conversation had nothing to do with technology. I’ve heard that tone before—it’s the one a guy uses when he’s placating a demanding woman. I’m still speculating when his phone rings again. This time, he moves a couple of yards away. Straining, I manage to pick up a few words: “Okay, okay, I’ll stop by later.”
I may not have Elliot’s gift, but I can smell a cheating boyfriend a mile off.
Lola steps down from the stage and hugs Michael. Again his phone rings. This time he checks the incoming number, clicks off the ringer and puts the phone in his pocket.
“Work again, damn it,” he says. “Listen, I’ve got to get down there and sort these guys out.” He gives Lola an apologetic kiss on the cheek. “Sorry, babe.”
“It’s midnight, Michael. Surely they can manage without you?”
“No can do, sweetheart. I am the boss. But don’t worry, I’ll call you as soon as things calm down.”
Lola mutters something about walking Michael to the car and as she trails after him, Elliot dances up to me.
“The girl has ‘desperate’ stamped all over her,” he says. I nod ruefully. If I’m wrong about Michael’s playing around, he’s obviously a workaholic. Either way, Lola is not first on his list. “You know,” Elliot continues, smiling at me, “it’s amazing how many women are determined to see a lamb when it’s clearly a wolf at the door.”
In other words, cleaning my apartment was probably a waste of time. I hope I can still rescue the book on guardian angels from the trash.
Walking home past Sotto Sotto, I nearly jump out of my skin when a voice drifts out of the shadows.
“Shouldn’t you be tucked into bed, little girl?” Panic races through me before I recognize Richard’s burly form on the restaurant’s steps.
“Richard, you scared me. What are you doing here?”
“Having dinner, of course.” I can tell from his voice that he’s also had a few drinks. “Since you refused to try it with me, I invited Clarice instead. Julian’s out of town and the lady is lonely.”
The lady doesn’t have girlfriends to keep her company? Sometimes I wonder if there’s more between these two than an old friendship.
“And where’s the lady now?” I ask, wondering if I can escape without seeing her.
“Powdering her nose. Tell me what brings you to these parts.”
“I live near here—on Bernard,” I say. I can see Mrs. Cleary through the window, shaking hands with patrons as she makes her way to the door. I turn to go with a hasty “good night.”
“Just a second,” Richard says, grabbing my arm and pulling me close. His mouth practically on my ear, he whispers, “You are going to go out with me, you know.”
The alcohol on his breath isn’t enough to stop my heart from picking up the pace.
“Actually, I’m not. I’ve made my decision.” Be strong, Libby, be strong. The man obviously needs constant female companionship and anyone will do. I am not special. And Lola is not the only one who got hit with the “desperate” stamp at the entrance to the bar tonight.
“You’ll change your mind,” he says, practically nuzzling my neck. “And you will show me what was in that lingerie bag I saw. Are you wearing it right now?”
“I’m surprised you have to ask,” I say, disentangling myself from his clutches and moving to a safe distance. “I thought a superhero could see through clothes.”
It’s almost 3:00 a.m. when the doorbell awakens me. I creep to my bedroom window and peer out at the porch. Richard is leaning on my buzzer. Before I can figure out what to do, he looks up and catches me.
“Libby… Open up! Issme, Clark Kent!” Extending his arms like Superman, he takes a little leap, loses his balance and topples into the recycling bins.
He’s totally smashed and at my door in the middle of the night. I was wrong, I am special.
Clambering to his feet, he starts hammering on the door. I grab my bathrobe, run a brush through my hair and rush to the door, worried that he’ll wake Mrs. Murdock.
“I came to tuck you in,” he says, staggering toward me.
“How did you find out where I live?”
“You tol’ me the street, so I looked you up.”
“So you’re not too drunk to use a phone book.”
“I’m jus’ a lil’ tipsy, but you should see Clarishe! I had to put ’er in a cab after we closed down the piano bar at th’ Windsor Arms. You shoulda bin there, Lib, we were great.”
“The two of you performed?”
“Oh yeah, we were hhhhhot!” Richard says proudly.
This can’t be good. If anyone recognized Mrs. Cleary, it’s bound to get a mention in the gossip columns. Seeing the worried look on my face, Richard adds, “Oh, don’ worry your pretty head. There weren’t any reporters around— I can smell ’em.”
“Was she really that drunk?”
“Drunk enough to tuck her skirt into her panty hose. I had to pull her off the piano to straighten her out.”
“Tell me you’re kidding. Please.”
“Would you relax, Libby? Ish a shecret between me and the piano man.”
“Have you left anything out?”
“Invite me in an’ I’ll de-brief you in full.” He winks sloppily at me.
Although I hate myself for it, I find the offer vaguely tempting. Still, I say, “I don’t think so, I have to get up for work in a few hours.”
“But you haff some lingerie you want to model for me.” He leans in closer and belches, which has a distinctly sobering effect on my hormones.
“In your dreams, Dick,” I say, shutting him down.
“Hey, enough with the coy routine,” he says, suddenly harsh—and surprisingly articulate. “You’ve wanted me since the day I arrived and you still do, or you wouldn’t be standing here now.”
“I’m standing here because you rang my doorbell in the middle of the night.”
“But you took the time to brush your hair.” Grrrrrr! “Don’t tell me you’re holding out for that pathetic Mark? Is a dull consultant more your speed?”
“You’re a consultant!”
“Don’t be naive. I took this job as a favor to Julian. He begged me to give Clarice a hand, but I’ve got my own political career waiting for me in London. I just fancied a nice bit of Canadian crumpet while I’m here. To go out with a bang, so to speak.”
I step back into the hall and slam the door in his face and lean against it, stunned. Richard’s true character just emerged in that exchange: he’s a vicious and egotistical drunk.
But he’s also seen right through me, damn him, and that thought keeps me awake the rest of the night. In fact, I spring out of bed at 5:30, unaided by an alarm and fire up my espresso machine.
The phone rings at 6:00. “Libby,” Margo says, “I need your help.”
“What’s the problem?” I ask, closing the hissing steam valve.
“I’m at the hospital with the Minister. We need you to go to her house and collect some of her toiletries and a change of clothes. The housekeeper will have them ready for you.”
The paper arrives as I leave the house. To my relief, there’s no mention of last night’s piano bar antics in its pages, although the About Town column notes that the Minister dined with a handsome colleague at Sotto Sotto.
Looking more dishevelled than ever, Margo is kicking a candy machine in the waiting room of the emergency ward when I arrive.
“Is everything all right, Margo?” I ask anxiously, setting down the Minister’
s Louis Vuitton bags.
“No, the machine robbed me.” There are rings under her eyes and her hair is in knots.
“I mean with the Minister. You look like you’ve been here all night.”
“I didn’t get much sleep, that’s for sure, but Mrs. Cleary will be fine.” She looks around carefully before continuing. “It’s alcohol poisoning. Richard got her drunk. I could kill him.”
“Do you want me to cancel today’s events?”
“Laurie is already taking care of that. Let’s deliver the Minister’s things.”
She leads me to a private room where Mrs. Cleary is reclining in a mint-green hospital gown. She’s drawn and pale, her hair hanging around her face in dirty strings.
“It’s about time you got here, Lily,” she snaps, “I’m beginning to chafe in this gown.” Wincing, she hoists herself onto one elbow, and with obvious difficulty, swings her legs off the bed. “Help me to the bathroom, Margo. I’ll have a quick shower, then you can style my hair.”
They’re shuffling across the room when a stout nurse comes in pushing a wheelchair.
“I’m glad you’re up,” the nurse says. “We need to take you down to radiology.”
“Radiology? Why?” Margo asks.
“Mrs. Cleary’s wrist is swollen and we need to see if it’s broken.”
“It isn’t broken,” the Minister says. “Even if it is, I won’t wear a cast.”
“I think you will,” the nurse says, glowering.
“I think you’ve forgotten who I am,” the Minister retorts, drawing herself up regally.
“I think you’ve forgotten rank doesn’t matter around here,” the nurse counters. “But if you’d prefer to sign a waiver saying you refuse treatment, I’ll see what I can do. We need to protect the hospital in case your wrist heals poorly.”
The Minister stops to consider this. “What do you mean by ‘poorly’?”
Speechless Page 23
