Call Me! Page 4

  While eating, we talk like married people. He wants to know if I’ll stay home tomorrow so the air conditioner guy can do the six-month maintenance. I can, and remind him the pest control guy is scheduled for Tuesday morning. Ben’s got that covered. We talk about our bills, then he yawns and says he couldn’t sleep last night because his back flared up.

  “You should have called me,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “I would’ve rubbed your back.”

  “You were in bed.”

  “Next time, call me. If you’re in pain, I want to help.”

  “Thanks. That’s sweet of you to say.”

  “I mean it. I’ll rub your back tonight, before you go to bed.”

  He shows me a weak smile. “I’ll be fine,” he says.

  I know what that’s about. He’s told me before. In the early days, the massages were sensual, a romantic prelude to sex. Now, any touching beyond a respectful hug or kiss is painful to him, because it brings back memories of how things used to be, and can never be again.

  The first time he tried to explain it, I said, “You’re better off without me.”

  “No,” he said. “I need you in my life.”

  “Can you explain that?” I said. “Because it sounds like everything I do reminds you I’ve turned into a frigid, uncaring wife.”

  He laughed.

  Then I said, “Wait. I just made that all about me, didn’t I.”

  He smiled. “You’ve seen those vodka bottles with a giant orange inside?”

  “Yes! How do they do that?”

  “Not important. The point I’m making, the only way to get the orange out is to crush it, or break the bottle.”

  “So?”

  “Our relationship is like the orange in the vodka bottle.”

  I think about that. Then say, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m the bottle, and you’re the orange in my life. I’m here to protect you from the outside world, and you’re here to complete me. You could leave, but you’d be vulnerable, and I’d be empty inside. You could leave, but it would destroy what we have together.”

  “But what we have sucks!”

  “Not true. Only the lack of intimacy sucks. And the two days you spend away from me doing God knows what. Everything else adds up to a great marriage.”

  “But those are huge issues!”

  “Two issues, and yes, I agree they’re huge. But you’re worth it.”

  “You just haven’t met the right woman yet.”

  “And don’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ve heard the expression apples and oranges? Compared to you, other women are apples.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re a hell of a catch. I could find you a dozen oranges in the space of a day.”

  “Perhaps you could,” he said. “But none like you.”

  “You need to replace me with a better orange, Ben.”

  “There are no better oranges, Dani.”

  FRIDAY

  THE BAD NEWS is the air conditioning guy was two hours late showing up this morning. The good news is it took less than an hour to replace the filters and check everything out.

  It’s noon. I’m in Neiman’s.

  The jewelry department is…over there. But I’m here…in handbags. I try to make my legs move toward jewelry, where Sophie’s trendy-but-tasteful birthday bracelet is patiently waiting in a case for me to discover.

  But I’m not moving in that direction. I want to, but my legs are stuck in Gucci quicksand!

  My plan had been simple. I intended to enter the front door and walk purposefully, eyes forward, directly past beauty, fragrances, fashion accessories, shoes, and handbags. In jewelry, as opposed to fine jewelry, I’d locate Sophie’s bracelet in a non-lighted glass case.

  Things were going great until a leather-scented tractor beam pulled me off course. I don’t understand quantum physics, but I do know there’s something magic about the scent of hand-tooled leather, and the urgency that comes with certain knowledge a shipment of designer handbags has recently been placed on display.

  “No, Dani. No, Dani. No, Dani,” I say loudly enough that a nearby child darts behind her mother to keep a safe distance from the crazy lady. But in my head I’m saying, a good friend would do a quick walkthrough to let Sophie know what’s arrived. And a good friend would, because everything on these shelves is within Sophie’s budget. Mine is…well, my budget’s a zip code away.

  I get about three feet before my eyes begin tracking the movements of a Gucci handbag heading toward me, held for my viewing pleasure by a young, foreign salesperson with a sinful smile. I don’t see him smile, but he must be smiling because my eyes are transfixed on the bag like a kitten focuses on something new, small, and alive that’s entered its environment.

  The salesman is young, gay, and good. He knows what he’s doing. Like a hypnotist, he stops four feet away and gently sways the handbag from side to side. Then he twirls it so I can hone in on the distinctive emblem, the exterior cell phone pocket, the hand-stitching, the gleaming hardware. Instinctively, my hands reach out to the object of my desire.

  “Gimme,” I say.

  “Ah, you like?” he says.

  I nod my head. “Gimme.”

  “You feel compelled to touch it, yes?”

  “Like a teenage boy with morning wood.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Huh?” The spell is broken. I shake my head. “Oh. Sorry. It’s an expression.”

  “An expression?” he says. “Is it popular with beautiful American women?”

  “Yes, staggeringly popular,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “I’m Georges,” he says, producing a business card from thin air. I study the card because I’m curious about the spelling of his name. Because he pronounced it Zorzay, if you can just imagine! Georges reminds me of a pretentious waiter friend of mine named Ralph, who calls himself Ricardo. One evening, on a lark, Ralph said, he adopted the foreign name, affected the accent, and doubled his tips.

  “Fifteen-fifty,” Georges says. Then sighs. “Outrageous, yes?”

  “Insane,” I say.

  “But made for one such as you, I think.”

  I study the bag without touching it, tell Georges I’ll have to think about it. Then I head straight to the jewelry department, while exorcising all thoughts of luxury handbags from my mind.

  Until I find myself back in shoes and handbags, minutes after purchasing Sophie’s bracelet.

  I have to see it one more time.

  But I can’t find the Gucci.

  I look around and see my young, foreign salesman carrying it toward the shoe section, where a stunningly attractive lady in her mid-forties is holding up a pair of Gucci sandals. The two were made for each other, meaning the purse and sandals, and I mean to have them both. It’s simple really. All I have to do is change my perspective. If I think of the handbag as an extravagant accessory, I’m toast. Because Georges is absolutely right, it’s outrageous. But if I think of the handbag as a mood-enhancer, it could be considered therapy. In other words, it would make me happy.

  No, more than that. It would thrill me to own this handbag!

  I’ve been years without a shrink. But if I decide to jump back into therapy, only a few sessions would cost more than this handbag. I know people who’ve been in therapy for many years and are still unhappy. I do the math in my head and realize how lucky I am to have found a handbag that can save me years of therapy.

  I start following Georges at a fast clip. Just as I’m about to overtake him, he says to the woman, “If you like to touch teenage boys with morning wood, you will love to touch this!”

  I abruptly turn and make tracks for the exit.

  SOPHIE’S PUZZLED TO hear I’m changing Tuesday lunch at The Hermitage to Monday dinner at Allez Vous.

  “That’s too extravagant,” she says.

  “I struck it rich. Really. You even get a gift!”

&nb
sp; “You’re overcompensating for something.”

  “You’re my best friend,” I say. “You spend tons of money on me. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Lunch is the least you can do. This is something else.”

  She thinks a minute.

  “You’re leaving Tuesday,” she says.

  “Damn, you’re good.”

  “I am good. Don’t forget it.”

  “Sorry. About leaving early.”

  “Hey, it’s okay. You’ve got a life.” She pauses, then adds, “A very complicated one.”

  “Tell me about it!”

  “What time are you leaving Tuesday?”

  “Early afternoon.”

  “So we can still do a casual lunch, and save you some money.”

  “Unacceptable. I’ve got money burning a hole in my wallet, and I need to spend it on something meaningful. Otherwise I’ll end up wasting it on something sensible.”

  She laughs. “You’re a nut.”

  “See you Monday.”

  We end the call and I open the door of the closet where I keep my evening wear. I start laying outfits on my bed, trying to decide which one will “speak” to a thirty-five-year-old venture capitalist who’s engaged to a wealthy, thirty-year-old woman.

  You might think it’s just a matter of looking hot, and for most guys, that’s probably true. But Joe Fagin’s a good-looking guy about to marry serious money. And his fiancé, Carter Teague, is a knockout. He’s not going to jeopardize the marriage by having a fling with someone who could come back to haunt him.

  Who could come back to haunt him?

  A prostitute. A police decoy.

  Who else?

  Anyone in Carter Teague’s social circle or anyone even remotely connected to that world. In other words, I can’t play my usual role as the spoiled, party-loving daughter of a wealthy businessman. I have to be—not the opposite of Carter, but I have to act differently.

  I think about that a minute. A pretty face and a hot body will usually get a man’s attention. But what makes a guy like Joe Fagin cheat when he has everything to lose?

  Challenge, the thrill of the hunt, and ultimately, the conquest. Followed by no strings and zero chance of future contact.

  My plan will have to fit all these elements into a short time frame.

  Carter wore an off-the-shoulder leopard tunic, expensive jewelry, and runway sandals. I’ll want skinny jeans and a moderately-priced, fashionable top. I’m thinking my long-sleeve navy blouse with black leather trim. It’s tasteful enough to get me into Simon Claire’s restaurant, should I need to enter, and the jeans are naughty enough to demand Joe Fagin’s attention. The blouse is loose-fitting, a nice counterpoint to the tight jeans. Also, it has a boat neckline, which will encourage him to peek down it if I can create the proper angle.

  I visualize him sitting at the bar with me.

  No. Bar stools are too high. The visual angles are all wrong for bending down to pick up my purse. Of course, I could lean into him, which might give him a quick peek down my top. I’ll keep that in mind, but prefer the sight lines that come with him sitting at a table. Of course, I’ll need to make sure he’s facing the exit. I can bend down to pick up my purse (no, not the Gucci. Even if I’d bought it, which I didn’t, the Gucci’s too expensive for this job). I’ll carry a hundred-dollar faux leather drawstring satchel. When I bend to pick it up, he’ll get a quick flash of cleavage. I’ll turn and walk away with a natural gait, nothing exotic. It’s a biological imperative for men’s eyes to be drawn to a woman’s backside. If I do my job properly, Joe’s eyes will be on my ass like a cheap tattoo.

  AN HOUR LATER I’m in my room at the Brundage, waiting for Carter Teague to call. I’m showered, dressed, ready to go. It’s six o’clock.

  Fifteen minutes later the phone rings.

  “You’re cutting it pretty close,” I say.

  “He checked in late. I wanted to make sure he was in his room before I enter the hotel. It wouldn’t do to run into him in the lobby or elevator.”

  “You’re spying on him?”

  “No, of course not. I told him to call me when he checked in. What’s our room number?”

  “You’re sixteen-twenty. I’m sixteen-twenty-two.”

  “Leave my door open so I don’t have to knock.”

  I do, and moments later she enters the room and closes the door behind her.

  “I hope I’m doing the right thing,” she says.

  There’s no reason for me to reassure or dissuade her, so I don’t respond. She uses the momentary pause to check me out.

  “You’re not dressed yet?”

  “This is what I’m wearing.”

  “You’re joking!”

  “You’ll have to trust me.”

  “You look like a college coed!”

  “In that case, we’re good to go.”

  She frowns. “Did you use none of the money I gave you to improve your wardrobe?”

  I feel my face flush. Carter’s wealthy, I’m not. She’s six years older, knows her fiancé, and I don’t. Still, I know I’m right.

  And yet she’s managed to intimidate me.

  “It almost sounds as though you want him to cheat,” I say.

  “Of course not! But I want to see him tested.”

  “He will be.”

  “For fifty-five hundred I was hoping to get your A game.”

  I sigh.

  “What, are you going to pout now?” she says.

  “When I get back, I’ll unlock the connecting door.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. If he enters the room with you, what reason could you possibly give for unlocking the door to the adjoining room?”

  “I’ll work it out.”

  “Leave it unlocked,” Carter says. “If the door is cracked slightly, and my side is open, I’ll hear everything that’s going on.”

  “Leave your door open,” I say, “and I’ll unlock my side when I get back.” By way of explanation, I add, “I’ll be gone a couple of hours. I don’t want to take a chance someone might plant video equipment in my room.”

  “Well, I can assure you no one will be allowed to enter your room while you’re gone.”

  I give her a look.

  She says, “What? You mean me? You think I’d do such a thing?”

  “I always enter a game trusting the players,” I say. “But I’d be a fool not to cut the cards.”

  “Frankly, I resent your attitude. As well as your choice of wardrobe.”

  “Just be ready to burst into the room when the clothes come off.”

  “Burst?”

  “I have no intention of standing around in my birthday suit any longer than I have to.”

  “Shall we use a signal?” she says, mocking me.

  “You’ll be able to peek through the crack in the door. The minute we’re both naked, I’m done.”

  “You’re awfully full of yourself, aren’t you?” she says.

  “I’ll see you later.”

  I leave her room, enter mine, then lock the connecting door. Then exit my room, close the door behind me, and test to make sure it’s locked.

  It is.

  I retrieve my room key from my purse, and swipe it through the lock. And get a red flash. I swipe it again, slower. Green. It clicks, and I open the door, then close it and retry. This time the door opens after one swipe. I close it and try again. One swipe.

  Carter opens the door to her room and peeks at me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It’s a decoy thing,” I say. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “You’re a fruitcake, is what you are,” she says.

  6:40 P.M.

  I take a quick stroll through the bar and restaurant, refreshing the layout in my mind. It’s early for the hotel bar crowd, in fact there are only two businessmen in the bar and both of them turn to acknowledge me. One holds his glass up, as if saluting.

  I smile, but keep moving.