Cocktail Hour

by McTiernan, Tara

  Margot sighed again, more heavily this time. "No. Wow, this is awkward. Um, we just can't take any chances. I'm sure you understand, considering."

  "I'm sorry, but I don't understand. What are you talking about?"

  "Well, we heard. About the food poisoning incident. Now, I must come clean and admit that before we heard about your recent troubles, we heard some silly talk about Nazism, but that's just ...ridiculous. We laughed it off, of course. But this, this is serious. And I'm sorry, but I'm sure you can understand why we wouldn't take any risks with our baby's party."

  Lucie took it all in while seeing Molly's evil eyes watching her, heard the hissing of the bathroom door at Bembe again. She took a deep breath. Deny it? Try. "I'm sorry, but I don't know where you heard such a thing. There hasn't been a food poisoning incident, not even one?"

  "Oh, dear," Margot said. "I'm sorry, but I have it from a very reputable source. They wouldn't lie to me. You obviously feel it's necessary to deny it, I guess. That's too bad. I've always believed honesty is the best policy. Well, let's just let this go. It's a bad situation and...I understand. Best of luck to you. Truly."

  Lucie shook her head miserably and said, "I...okay. Thank you." She stopped there, knowing there was nothing else that she could say.

  "Take care, Lucie," Margot said and hung up.

  Lucie stayed where she was, frozen in a squatting position by her work bag. How many more calls like this would be coming in, calls of regret? And what was she going to do about it?

  Her head spinning, she slowly got to her feet, pain shooting through her hip, and dialed Chelsea's number. She was late, but suddenly her plans for the night seemed flimsy and foolish, a fun night out with the girls she couldn't afford. She had to get locks for the refrigerator doors. Or did she? What difference would it make? Staring off into space, she listened to Chelsea's phone ring and then go to voicemail. She hung up without saying a word, all of them drying up in her throat.

  She would go. What good would cancelling do, anyway? Her apartment was cold and empty, Ryan's warming love having fled. Her budding business was being destroyed by Molly using the very thing that had started to build it: word of mouth. And Lucie had no idea what to do. Lifting up a glass of chardonnay and pouring it down her throat, letting the wine soften the world and banish her misery, was the only solution that seemed viable, though temporary.

  Mojito

  Bianca watched Chelsea approach. The girl looked different. What was it? Almost like a plumpness, a well-fed quality that had nothing to do with a few extra pounds. Satisfaction - that was what it was. Chelsea was satisfied. With what? She had lost her job and was practically penniless; she didn't even have a current boyfriend. Maybe she was just caught up on sleep. If there was one thing you could do when you didn't have a job, it was sleep in. Bianca remembered those lean years well, too well. Sleep was the only luxury you could afford.

  Arriving at the table, Chelsea only glanced at Bianca and then slid into one of the chairs, saying in a cool voice, "Hi."

  Bianca's eyelids fell to half-mast. Okay, something definitely was going on with Chelsea. Ever-effusive Chelsea who worshipped the ground Bianca walked on, being chilly? Bianca was going to find out the whole story; she just had to talk to Chelsea about John first. "What? No hug?" Bianca said.

  Chelsea startled. "Oh, uh, of course. C'mere!" Chelsea exclaimed and leaned over, giving her a one-armed hug before pulling quickly away. "So, you're here early! Wow! I feel important!"

  "You are. I need to talk to you."

  "What...what about?" Chelsea said, huge blue eyes growing even rounder. She looked like a quivering bunny rabbit.

  Bianca considered skipping her original plan, dying to know about Chelsea. But no, she had to do some digging about John before the others arrived. She didn't want the others knowing about her problem and they would have nothing to contribute but baseless speculation. Chelsea, on the other hand, knew John fairly well. She might have an inkling or idea that Bianca could pursue. "It's John. Something's going on."

  Now Chelsea looked actually petrified, and was it guilt on that pitifully dumb face? "What? What happened?"

  Bianca eyed her friend. If she wasn't utterly confident that John wasn't interested in Chelsea, she'd wonder if the two of them were having an affair. But no, he was too dismissive of Chelsea from the very beginning to have harbored any feeling for the girl. She remembered teasing him about Chelsea one night early in their relationship and his too-immediate-to-be-fake response.

  "Chelsea?" John had said and laughed, his white teeth flashing. "She's a sweet little ride, but all she does is go round and round. It was fun, but that's it. You, on the other hand..." He had reached for her then, grabbing her and pulling her roughly against him. "You're a lot more, aren't you?" They had fallen swiftly back into his bed, making them late for the dinner party where she would be meeting some of John's friends for the first time and eliminating any remaining concern Bianca had harbored about Chelsea.

  But the concern was back. John was different with her now. Cold, distant, and - notably - extremely angry after the Sebastian-emergency-room story worked its way back to him through the nanny. Bianca should have fired Camilla that night, but she'd gotten lazy, was too focused her career, her burgeoning social life, and her mounting pursuit of Grant. Then the latest event occurred, a phone call that shocked her and removing any remaining sense of safety.

  Bianca leaned closer to Chelsea and said, "I got a call from John's boss. It seems that John's been taking a lot of time off, and his boss, Brad, wanted to check in with me and make sure that everything was all right."

  "Is it?"

  "Of course it is. That's the problem. Why has John been taking time off from work? He told Brad he was attending to some personal things. But I should know all about it if it's personal."

  "Oh," Chelsea said, looking around and spotting a passing waitress. "Waitress! Over here? Yes, could I order a drink? Thank you. Do you make strawberry daiquiris here? No? Oh, okay. Yes, I'll look at your cocktail menu." Chelsea, with obvious reluctance, turned back to Bianca. "Sorry. I'm parched. So, you were saying?"

  "John. He's taking time off. Why, do you think? You know him so well."

  Chelsea blinked rapidly. "I...I don't know. Maybe you should ask him?"

  "Of course I could ask him. I'm asking you."

  "Why me? I don't know?"

  Bianca pulled away, sat back and took a leisurely sip of her mojito, looking at Chelsea over the rim of her glass. Chelsea lived for speculation and gossip; it ran in her blood. And here she was, not postulating a single idea or theory.

  Chelsea squirmed in her seat under Bianca's inspection, crossing her legs repeatedly and pretending to look around with interest at the other patrons in the bar. When the waitress brought over the cocktail menu, Chelsea snatched it up like a life preserver.

  Bianca shook her head slowly and said, "Something's up with you, Chel. Don't deny it. You're acting strangely. Very strangely. If I didn't know better, I'd-"

  "Hi!" Kate squealed, stopping next to Bianca.

  Bianca turned to look at Kate. "Ah...oh. Hello, Kate. What timing you have."

  Kate was standing with her belly pushed forward, obviously inviting the question. Then she even put her hand on her abdomen and patted it.

  Bianca smiled. Pat away, little mouse. I've got plans for you, and they're sitting right here in this box at my feet. She said, "How is the little mother?"

  "Oh?" Kate said and giggled. "Good?" She made a scene of climbing into the chair across from Bianca leaning backwards as if she was enormously pregnant instead of only a month along. Kate's makeup was tastefully applied, which infuriated Bianca, but at least her hair was now the ugly purplish brown that Bianca had suggested and she was wearing one of the worst dresses Bianca had been able to find: good and bunchy in the rear and flattening on top. Kate, thankfully, still took to her tutelage in those departments. Well, except for the heels issue, which would end up being a blessing aft
er all.

  Part one completed, Bianca was thrilled that part two of her Kate and Grant project was going so swimmingly, the only problem being Kate's tenacious pregnancy. Kate, after a visit home to Vermont - something about her retarded brother that made the girl unnecessarily weepy - returned and started her new job as a nursery school teacher at Second Congregational Church. As Bianca had hoped, the hours were longer than expected, and Kate usually didn't make it into the office until late in the day.

  The part-time helper at the office that Bianca had helped them find was as malleable as clay and almost as brainless. Tiffany Smith, a stripper desperate to break away from the adult industry she'd gotten tangled up in during her years as a crack addict, was thrilled to have Bianca's reference and help getting the position. Bianca had met her one evening when she'd been bored and desperate to get out of the house; strip clubs, particularly low-end ones, always lightened her mood and made her laugh. In Bianca's purse at that very moment sat the copied key to Kate and Grant's house courtesy of Tiffany, who had bought the story that Bianca had lost the spare the Palmer's had given her for housesitting when they were out of town, making a copy of the one they kept in the office for Bianca so she wouldn't be embarrassed.

  These days, Kate kept finding lipstick marks on her husband's collar, the lingering scent of an unfamiliar perfume on the sheets of their bed. Kate had told Bianca about these discoveries, wondering obtusely about them, as if there was some legitimate reason for these clues. If Kate didn't catch on soon, Bianca would start planting lacy underwear and Polaroid snapshots of her own naked body in places where she could count on Kate to find them. It would be hard to explain those away.

  Sitting in the dappled light of the Birdcage, Chelsea looked over at Kate brightly. "You're pregnant? How exciting! How far along are you?"

  "Four weeks? We still can't believe it?"

  "Why, was there a problem?"

  "Oh, yes? We took so long? It was hard...but Bianca was so supportive. But she knows what it's like. Because she had problems, too?"

  "What?" Chelsea said, screwing up her face and looking over at Bianca. "Wasn't Seb an accident?"

  Bianca felt her eyes bulge. Why, oh, why did she tell Chelsea anything? The girl knew far too much for her health. "It's Sebastian! Not 'Seb'. And no, we tried very hard. It was heartbreaking, really." Bianca put on her sad-saint face.

  "Oh? I must have mixed it up. My memory's been terrible lately," Chelsea said, her voice growing faint and eyes wandering away.

  Bianca turned back to Kate. Actually, Kate's timing was perfect. Chelsea may have been acting strangely, but she remained firmly in Bianca's control as evidenced by her quick retreat in spite of the truth about Sebastian's accidental conception. Chelsea would be an excellent audience and unwitting accomplice; much more so than goody-two-shoes Lucie or sharp-eyed Sharon. "Kate? Guess what? I got you a present."

  "Really? Oh! You shouldn't have?" Kate said, sitting up very straight in her seat, her affected reclining posture forgotten.

  Chelsea looked over with interest.

  Bianca leaned down and lifted up the signature twilight-blue shopping bag from Berdorf Goodman's and placed it in front of Kate.

  "Bergdorf's!" Chelsea squealed, bouncing a little in her seat.

  Bianca resisted the urge to shake her head at Chelsea's spot-on reaction. Exactly what she wanted. Thank you, Chelsea. "Yes, it's just something I knew Kate had to have."

  Chelsea made a tsking sound. "Oh, that's so thoughtful and so generous! I don't know how...I mean, anyway, you are!"

  "You are!" Kate said. "What is it?"

  "Open it and see," Bianca said, leaning forward and resting her chin in her hand.

  Kate pulled out the gift and opened it on the table. The sapphire blue of a Prada shoebox emerged from the wrapping paper. "What did you get me? Shoes?"

  Chelsea leaned forward. "Prada," she said in a breathy voice, nearly panting.

  "Very special shoes. Just for you."

  Kate pulled out the sky-high nude peep-toe heels that had been selected with a purpose: they would go with any outfit she was wearing that night. "Heels? Oh, Bianca? But you know?"

  "Those are gorgeous!" Chelsea said.

  "So? Try them on?" Bianca said, wanting them safely on Kate's feet.

  "But, but Bianca? I hate heels. You know that?"

  Bianca saw Chelsea flinch. She couldn't have picked a better person to witness this and champion her cause. Bianca said, "Kate. Please. This whole thing is ridiculous. I'm not asking you to hike mountains in them. Or even wear them all day! I'm just saying that you can't wear flats with everything. Especially in the evening. I mean, a dress like that with flats?"

  "Come on!" Chelsea said. "Heels are essential. And they'll be beautiful on you. Just put them on for a minute. So we can admire them."

  Kate tilted her head back and forth and then shrugged. "Okay." She pulled off the ballet slippers she was wearing and put on the heels.

  Chelsea flapped her hands at Kate. "Stand up! We can't see how they look when you're sitting down."

  Kate got to her feet, wobbling like a newborn fawn. Bianca was delighted to see the way Kate's legs trembled. How easy it would be. Just a little push.

  Chelsea gasped and clapped her hands together. "Oh, Kate! You have to wear heels! You look so wonderful! Look at your legs! Wow!"

  "Really?" Kate said, reaching out to put her hand on the table for balance. They were achingly high, those heels, and perfect.

  "Really," Bianca purred, her eyes sliding half-shut with pleasure.

  Vodka Martini

  Sharon drove through the downpour, trying to focus on the road, shaking all over as if freezing. But the interior of the car was hot, steamy really. Her shivering had nothing to do with the temperature and she knew it. It was the events of the afternoon replaying in her head - that was what made her tremble. Faces swam out of the splashing murk, intent, angry.

  "Focus!" she reminded herself, squinting through the sheets of water that were obscuring the road and other cars. Lights winked in and out. Flashes of color appeared and disappeared. Everything was reflective, nothing substantial.

  She took a deep breath and forced herself to slow down, lifting her foot off of the gas pedal. The car following her honked in reaction. Normally, her response would be to shout out, "Ah, cool your jets," her tone dismissive with an attitude to match, but the rock solid foundation that her inner wiseass required was cracked.

  The crack, split wide this afternoon, had been a mere hairline fissure slowly lengthening with each day working under Bob, each evening checking up on and taking care of Alan, and each week that went by without further contact with her neighbor, Dean. Bob and Alan were obvious straightforward problems: Bob was a jerk of the first order and Alan's drinking was barely controlled, artificially reined in by Sharon's efforts to help him as well as his denial that he had a problem.

  Dean was subtler, someone she didn't know she would miss until she stopped seeing and hearing him, the gangly character tiptoeing across her lawn holding a box of chocolates, the buffoon hooting and bouncing on a trampoline at two in the morning. Someone she thought she'd be glad to be rid of. Now, not knowing how, she never saw Dean at all, even when she watched for him. It was as if he was avoiding her. And it wouldn't matter, she could forget him, if it wasn't for the dreams.

  Almost every night, she would wake from a romantic dream starring Dean. Sometimes they would be kissing or walking hand in hand or having a supper by candlelight, his horsey face rendered handsome by the flickering glow. Sometimes they were just hanging out at her house, watching television or playing a hyper-competitive game of Scrabble. It was odd how realistic and mundane all the dreams were. And yet, in each love filled her heart, even the broken places, making her whole again and hopeful. Then she would open her eyes, spread her arm across the cool sheets of her solitary bed, and wonder.

  The crack in her foundation had opened at their team meeting this afternoon at work while r
eviewing the results of the team's data collection. Sharon had prepared the reports and distributed them. The information in them, about Solara Sunscreen, was clear cut. Yet Bob disputed every finding Sharon reported, pointed out small discrepancies and exaggerated them, questioned her work. And she, the fissure splitting, blew up.

  "Why are you attacking me, Bob? What is your problem?"

  Bob's head jerked back. "What?"

  "Every single thing I do, you question it. But there's nothing wrong with my report!"

  He stared at her, then shook his head and said, "This is about Alan, isn't it? Molly said you would have trouble."

  Sharon had a flashing vision of Molly's condescending poor-Sharon prediction, the two of them in Molly's office, discussing her. "Molly said what?"

  "Let's not make a bigger deal out of this than it is. I know that the changing of the guard can be tough. For all of you," Bob said, looking around and nodding at the diminished team, only three of the six remaining, the rest let go in the same reorg that had eliminated Alan despite Alan's belief that the team would stay intact. Bob was interviewing now, though, looking to "grow the department" - the same department that had just required cuts.

  "I'm not making a big deal out of it," Sharon said, clenching her hands at her sides. She took a ragged breath. "I just...may I talk to you in your office?"

  Bob's eyebrows flew up. "In my office?" he said, and paused, thinking. "No. I have a better idea. Why don't I come see you in yours? I have a few things to attend to first. Are we done here?"

  The rest of the team looked balefully back at him without reaction. They had learned to lie low. He put down Sharon's report on the small conference room table and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "All right. Thanks guys. See you in a bit, Sharon."