Fortune Is a Woman

by Francine Saint Marie

  “You’re talking foolish.”

  “It’s foolish? You’re my wife. What do you want from me?”

  “A divorce.”

  “A div–he hasn’t got a pot to piss in! How will–”

  “He can use the ground, money’s not the point. Besides, that’s not true.”

  “You’re sleeping with him.”

  She had denied this three times already. “I haven’t slept with anyone in twenty years.”

  “Now come on. That’s not fair.”

  “Oh, well, not counting the handful of times this ne’er-do-well I know skips into town.”

  “Ne’er-do-well? That’s supposed to be me?”

  “Edward…give me a divorce. You have no case and you know it and I’m tired of talking to you.”

  “Tired? I am your husband!”

  “Really? When did you figure that out?”

  “Come on, Marilyn.”

  “What?”

  “Are you still wearing your wedding band?”

  She pried the ring off. “No, Edward,” she answered gravely. “I’m not.”

  _____

  Fun and games were over and JP Beaumont was back on the job, a continent and an ocean away from her better half. It would be several more grueling weeks before she could be with Helaine again. That would be Madrid.

  “Christmas in Madrid, Del. I don’t know what I’ll do until then. Work, I guess. Paula’s taking most of the time off.”

  “You need a hobby, Liddy. Or a lover.”

  “Ugh. We can’t go there, Del.”

  Venus had taken a whole month for the holidays, out until the new year. Lydia didn’t know if she was still in town or doing Paris. They had run into each other twice since she had been back, just before Venus had left for vacation. Both times VP Angelo had been friendly and courteous to her, which at the moment had been a relief to Lydia. But then, in her absence, those meetings had begun to bother her. She couldn’t understand how Venus could manage to do it. To trouble her like this, whether she was cornering her or not.

  “How’s your mom and dad, dare I ask?”

  “Same. Helaine’s on it.”

  “You talk to Edward yet?”

  She was planning to. At least by Christmas.

  “Liddy…?”

  “I’m going to. He knows I’m disgusted.”

  “Poor Edward. All these women upset with him.”

  “It’s his own fault,” Lydia said defensively. “He wants his cake and–”

  “Forget it, Liddy, let’s go out.”

  “I can’t. I can’t be intoxicated when Helaine calls.”

  “I know, I know. Geesh, Dame Beaumont. Married or what?”

  She was married all right. The cell phone rang. It was her father.

  _____

  There was no problem buying men’s shoes or accessories. Venus selected a pair of wingtips and a pair of tasseled loafers, silk handkerchiefs, a Swiss watch with a narrow gold band, and, for her shirts, a set of cufflinks with sapphires the color of Lydia Beaumont’s eyes. She was so captivated by these stones that she had the salesclerk throw in a couple of tie pins and, oddly enough, even ordered a pair of ladies earrings to match.

  She had compromised very little with the haircut. It was short and sleek when not relaxed. A bit of a bob when it was. The point was that it looked very gender neutral and she could now fit it all under a hat.

  Buying a man’s hat to fit a woman’s head perfectly and still have it seem masculine? Now that wasn’t quite as simple. First of all, men didn’t wear hats like they used to. Secondly, boys didn’t either. Eventually Venus found what she was looking for in the costume section of a historic downtown department store.

  _____

  “I don’t think I can do this, Queenie.”

  “I know you can, Daddy. I understand your fear, but I know that you can do it.”

  “Your kitten says I should go into counseling. You think your mother would–”

  “No, it’s too late for that.”

  “It’s too late. You’re right. I know.”

  “It’ll work out, you’ll see. Not much will change…for you.”

  “Queenie, I’m…first your brother won’t speak to me, now I’m…my wife is…am I going to lose you, too?”

  “Never. You’ll always have me. I promise.”

  “I couldn’t do it without you. I’d go–”

  “You don’t have to, Edward. I promise.”

  “Queenie…you free for lunch or dinner this week?”

  “This weekend I am. How about this weekend?”

  “Saturday then, one o’clock? How’s that suit you?”

  “That’s perfect, Daddy. I’ll see you Saturday.”

  “You can bring Del along if you like.”

  “Okay. I will.”

  Chapter 39

  Eminence

  Lunch at the club was not as festive as the music and decorations might suggest and Lydia was glad to hear that Edward had another appointment afterward, as did Delilah who needed time to prep and primp for tonight’s blind date. That would free up Lydia to do some Christmas shopping if she could only get in the mood to do so. If not, she would go home and nap till Helaine called. Sad dad and his questions concerning Roy Mann had drained her, and Delilah’s efforts to distract him from the subject had fallen flat.

  “How are you living these days?” he had inquired as they were leaving. “You look pale. What are you doing for food?”

  “Maid service and microwaves,” Lydia replied, as gaily as possible. The separation was taking a toll and she was aware that she had lost some weight. “Don’t worry, Daddy. I’m eating.”

  “And on the weekends?” Delilah asked.

  “Weekends I have popcorn and cereal, like the rest of the latchkey kids.”

  “You’re a true survivor, Liddy. I swear it. Come for dinner tomorrow night–gotta go.”

  The streets, the sidewalks, the cafes and the stores were teeming with panicked buyers this weekend, fully the madding crowd Lydia had expected it to be. She drifted alongside them for more than an hour, hoping by association to be swept up with their jubilance and when that didn’t happen she figured she might as well break down and buy something.

  Helaine was easy: underwear, underwear and more underwear, an activity which brightened things up enough for Lydia to buy Marilyn a rope of pearls and yet another cardigan. What color had she given her last Christmas? Red. Or was it green? She had an unexpected vision dancing in her head, a real sugarplum. Creamy pearls against dark, smooth skin.

  “Wrap them?” the salesgirl was asking. “Do you want them wrapped, Ms. Beaumont?”

  Wrap them, Lydia affirmed. Wrap the creamy pearls. What do you buy your lover’s mother, that is your mother’s lover, for the holidays? Leather something, she mused. Lovers come in belts and coats, in hats and shoes and gloves and–leather she meant, not lovers. Leather belts and gloves. Something leathery for Mr. Mann. She didn’t think she could go wrong with leather.

  “Lydia Beaumont! What a pleasure. Care to join me for some eggnog?”

  She’d know that voice anywhere. “Anna, I–Merry Christmas.” Her hands were full with bags and packages and she knew she couldn’t trust Anna not to take advantage of it.

  “Oh, god, those cheeks,” Anna said, coming cheek to cheek with Lydia and making a kissing sound near her ear. “I can’t believe I do that to you. Let’s go celebrate my triumph with an eggnog.”

  Vanilla. Lydia smelled vanilla in the woman’s hair and her stomach growled. “I can’t believe it either–I don’t think I can.”

  “Oh, what skullduggery. What if I told you I have something that belongs to you?”

  “That belongs to me? What could that be?”

  “Eggnog first. We can go right upstairs on the mezzanine.”

  Lydia hesitated.

  “Come, my beauty,” Anna said, taking her arm and leading her. “Helaine can’t begrudge me an eggnog and a wink.”

  _
____

  From the mezzanine Lydia could see down four floors of merchandise and she could look out on the city to the street below, watch the frozen street vendors hawking their wares, listen as she watched, to the sexy hum of Anna Grisholm’s fabulous vocal chords.

  Sales were brisk, the joint president of Soloman-Schmitt couldn’t help but notice. Shoppers everywhere. Anna appeared to be the only person in this corner of the universe with no packages. Perhaps she just prowled the stores, Lydia speculated, looking for women. She did not care for eggnog or rum, spiced or otherwise. She shouldn’t dawdle here anymore.

  “How are you faring, Ms. Beaumont, without Herself?” Anna asked. “Meaning what are you doing for dinner tonight, gorgeous, and did you know that I’m a pretty good cook?”

  “A pretty cook,” Lydia said from behind her cup. There went her stomach again.

  “That, too, I’ve heard…thank you for noticing.”

  Lydia gave her a small you’re-welcome smile and deliberately glanced at her watch.

  “Sapphires,” Anna whispered, leaning forward intimately.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your eyes, my dear.”

  “My…thank you.”

  “And your necklace,” Anna added, producing the lost item from her purse.

  “Ah,” Lydia uttered. She had forgotten about the necklace with the sapphire studded pendant. It was nice to see it again.

  “I remembered you had it on the night of your birthday. Briefly anyway. You left it behind.”

  “Yes.” She did not want to venture in this direction. “Thank you, Anna. It’s very thoughtful of–”

  “It’s only one night, Lydia. That’s all I’m proposing. You must be terribly–”

  “Don’t, Anna–I’m not–don’t tease.” She dropped the necklace into one of her bags and slid the cup to the center of the table. Done here, these motions said.

  “Mmhmm. And what happens if I do, if I tease you, Mrs. Kristenson?”

  Lydia stood up and collected her packages. “Then I’d hate myself,” she replied, without looking at her. “And, consequently, I’d hate you, too.”

  “Well now, we can’t have that,” Anna said diplomatically. “Too much hate in the world as it is. You have a Merry Christmas, Lydia…and sleep well.”

  _____

  She did not sleep well, dreaming dreams that felt like nightmares, fighting to surface from them and plunging instead to the depths of another. Here is Venus, a kinder, gentler Rio Joe and then she is Rio Joe, a diabolical lover, taunting her, deserting her, a man, a woman, then neither. Effete. There is Helaine, but she is not Helaine either, not herself at all, and Lydia can think of nothing to say to this blond, one who doesn’t speak or can’t speak, this fuzzy version of Helaine Kristenson. They stand apart like strangers, on opposites sides of the room, both having nothing to say to each other. And from this standoff Venus emerges again, only now Venus is Venus, with a woman Lydia doesn’t know, a woman with sapphire pendants for eyes. She looks like her. They look exactly alike. Isn’t it herself in the mirror, herself with Venus in a room she has never seen before, herself lounging on a daybed, looking both sanguine and spent, smiling a practiced smile, bold and insincere? It’s Lydia. It’s Helaine. It’s Venus. It’s Rio Joe. It’s Anna. She sees Anna with Venus. Anna? It’s Anna, or a woman she thinks could be Anna, and Venus is speaking truculent things to her, words that Lydia has heard her say before. That is not Anna. It’s the other woman, the woman in the mirror, an insulted lover, her blue eyes moist and angry. Venus is not kind to this woman, not kind, not soft, not…slow, the woman is saying, but Venus goes fast and the woman moves violently with her, her voice drowned by the piercing cry of an alarm. Lydia hears it screaming above the woman’s calls. Rrrrrrrinnng! There is Anna. It’s Anna Helaine is calling to. It’s Anna and Helaine? Rrrrrriinng! Helaine? Rrriiiiiiiinng! On the daybed.

  “Hello…?”

  “Darling, I woke you?”

  “No. I was waiting up for you.” The apartment was in complete darkness and she couldn’t determine or remember if she was on the couch or in their bed. “What time is it?”

  “Here or there?”

  _____

  Sunday morning she stumbled around in the weight room for awhile and then ate dinner rolls and pate for breakfast, washing down hard to swallow lumps with bitter black coffee because she had forgotten yesterday to pick up sugar. The dark circles under her eyes she didn’t discover until around eleven. She eradicated them with a spoonful of foundation. The grays that stuck out from the top of her head like antennas she snipped away without ceremony. They were coming in fast, she lamented, selecting from the chifforobe a black and blue, wide-striped pantsuit with flared legs, a black mock-turtleneck sweater, black go-go’s with two-inch heels for some much-needed elevation. When was the last time, she asked the svelte Ms. Black ’n’ Blue, that you actually had intercourse?

  Weeks ago, her eminence replied. Do the math.

  The Kristenson Crusade, as the press was calling it, was buried deep inside the paper this Sunday, in approximately the same place where it had been every day this week. Today’s article cited sellout European engagements coupled with growing security concerns, though the doctor’s supporters far outnumbered the protesters at these events. According to current estimates, that ratio was reportedly ten to one in her favor, but crowds are sometimes dangerous beasts to be caught in, especially crowds comprised of dueling factions, and Dr. Kristenson didn’t enjoy being mobbed by anyone, fans or foes. That could explain the tighter security, Lydia reasoned. She would ask about it when they talked later, just to be sure.

  She was going through her purchases when Mom called. Santa was bringing her a divorce for Christmas, Marilyn announced glibly. Lydia introduced the cardigan conundrum as a diversion.

  “Green, I think. Or was that the year before? No, It was red, sweetheart. It was red.”

  Maybe she should take the sweater back. Get a monogrammed brown V-neck, or a big bawdy argyle. “How about brown then? That goes with everything.”

  “Well, I won’t say it’s the thought that counts if you get me anything brown that isn’t in suede, sweetie.”

  Nothing monogrammed, it suddenly occurred to Lydia. “Okay, Mom, besides a divorce, what do you need or want for Christmas?”

  “Since you asked, I want one of those things you and Helaine wear. I’m too shy to…I can give you the size.”

  “Things we wear? Briefcases, Marilyn?”

  “Lydia Ann, you know very well what I’m saying.”

  She understood the gist of it. “A push-me-up?”

  “No, for the torso. I can’t think of what it’s called. Your father would know.”

  It’s called a bustier. Dad must never know. “It’s a bustier, Mom.”

  _____

  She could give the red sweater to Paula, Delilah suggested. Paula was saucy enough to wear a red cardigan any time of year. She’d look like a jalapeño pepper in it, but that wasn’t straying very far from the usual lemon lime theme she had going.

  Good idea! “And the bustier?”

  “Liddy, of course you will. You have to if that’s what she’s expecting. How could you not? I say leather. Go for leather if they have it.”

  Leather was over the top, Lydia insisted. But brown was still in good taste. Cocoa actually, like skin. This she had gift-wrapped in the store so she could put it out of sight, and so she wouldn’t change her mind at the last minute and take it back. She sincerely hoped, she told Delilah, that she was doing the right thing.

  Sure she was, and saving money at the same time. Just think of the economy of it all. Now she wouldn’t have to buy Roy a thing. Gawd, what a man!

  “Money, my friend, is not the obstacle.”

  They weren’t stinking drunk when they wandered into Cicero’s. Stinking drunk would have required another martini which they had solemnly promised each other they wouldn’t have.

  “Cocktail, ladies?”

  “W
eeeeell, two gin mar–wait a minute–gin or vodka, Liddy?”

  “I guess gin.”

  “Two gin martinis.”

  Two gin martinis later they had finally and officially obtained stinking drunk status, the kind of drunk Helaine hated. But that was okay, Delilah assured Lydia, because there was vintage jazz tonight at Cicero’s and the place was jam-packed, and every single dark corner in the joint was occupied and every hedonist within walking distance busy holding up the bar or clogging things up on the dance floor.

  “We’ll just watch, clap, and go straight home. S’aright?”

  Lydia nodded tipsily. Why not, she asked herself. It was a raunchy atmosphere, but she wasn’t exactly eager to return to her quiet penthouse. Not in this state.

  “Here I am, ladies,” a balding man in his fifties announced in a spray of red wine. “Let’s dance,” he demanded, tugging at both of their arms, a flap of hair dangling comically to one side of his head, his tie loosened in the shape of a noose.

  Delilah was willing to placate him. Lydia had no desire to be tossed around by a jerk. She rose from her chair to escape him.

  “You too, gorgeous,” he shouted, getting hold of her by the jacket. “Hey, whatsamatta? I’m housebroken.”

  “Del…?”

  “I’ll take care of this. Come on, sugar! She can’t dance–wooden leg.”

  “Oh,” he mumbled, grabbing onto Delilah as if she were his lifeboat. “Poor kid.”

  Lydia rolled her eyes and scoured the room for a bouncer. There were dozens of weird scenes like theirs and not a bouncer to be found anywhere. An androgynous youth poised at the end of the bar was the only person assessing her safety. He smiled soberly in her direction, the whites of his placid eyes shining like a beacon. He had, those eyes informed her, been watching her since she arrived. She was suddenly watching herself, too, from his coign of vantage. She gasped, disrobed.

  “Don’t worry, Liddy. Just relax. I’m going to jig with god’s gift here and I’ll be right back.” Delilah stopped the waitress on the way to the dance floor. “Two more,” she told her.