“Going out?” he asks, probably noting my breathless, I’m-nearly-late-once-again voice.
“Yeah, I have that party tonight. Remember, with Phil?”
“Phil-the-Pill? Oh, yeah, I remember.” He chuckles and I seriously consider slamming the receiver down.
“Funny. I’m running late. Can I call you back later?”
He is quiet a moment. I pull the phone away from my ear. Did I lose the call? But then his voice comes back on the line.
“Sure, it’s no big deal. I’m just, you know, considering a huge life change and seeking counsel from family and friends. But no big deal.” He says again, sighing dramatically. I can hear the laughter behind it, though. “Whenever you have time to fit me in, give me a ring.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake! We can talk while I’m on the road.”
“No, that’s okay,” he says. “I’m kidding. I mean, I do want your advice on something but there’s no rush. Have fun tonight,” he says, “on your date.” He laughs again, which turns into a snort. When I say something rude into the receiver and hang up, Ezra is still chuckling.
Hardy-har-har. Tayt gets herself into the most ridiculous situations ...
I meet Phil at the Hannaford shopping plaza on Shelburne Road. The wind is whipping when I leave my Toyota and I worry that all the hard work on my hair will be undone before I make it the ten steps to Phil’s Mercedes.
Wait, a Mercedes? Doesn’t the man work as a telemarketer?
“Hey, glad you made it. You look fantastic, Tayt,” Phil says as I slide into my seat. The cushion under my bum is toasty and the interior smells like cologne. Good cologne. Expensive. Not that cheesy stuff they sell at the local drugstore.
“Thanks. Nice car,” I say, hoping that he’ll tell me how he affords it.
“Yeah. A gift from my parents.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Wow. That’s quite a gift.”
“Mmm, it is. I get a new one every Christmas.”
I have no response to this, just sit there, blinking.
“They’re still holding on to the hope that I’ll rise to a career in which it makes sense to own a car like this: a banker, or a lawyer. They’ve given up the dream of a career in medicine. I’m too squeamish.”
“But you work in, uh, marketing?”
“Just now, to pay the bills. My partner, Chris, and I have a side business together. It’s not bringing in a lot of money yet, but we hope someday to work together on it full-time.” Phil glances at me. “Promise you won’t laugh.”
“Okay,” I say, biting my tongue as a preventative measure.
“We take glamour shots of people’s animal companions.”
Bite harder.
“Oh?” I manage.
“It’s great,” Phil’s voice raises an octave and he motions with his hands as he describes the bathing, grooming and manicures (or maybe paw-icures would be a better word?) that he and Chris give each animal before “staging them, like a real Hollywood photo shoot.”
“That’s ... interesting,” I say, unsure how else to respond. “Do the pets like it?”
“We find the term “pet” derogatory,” Phil says, smiling at me apologetically before continuing. “But, yes, for the most part, they really do. They really enjoy the pampering, just like humans. The treatments are very relaxing and the final effect ... well, you’d really have to see the photos yourself to fully understand. Their humans are overjoyed. We offer packages at different levels, depending on the number of poses and props that the customer wants. And of course, how the animal companion is taking to the process.”
“Oh, of course,” I say. “So, you do that around here?” I can’t imagine anyone in the state being interested. Most communities are made up of hard-working, dyed-in-the-wool types where “dressing up” means wearing something other than flannel and jeans. Nary a booming metropolis to be found in our beloved Green Mountains.
“No, well, not yet. We’re based in Burlington—that’s where we live—and have a room in our apartment converted for the studio.” Phil speeds up on the interstate and I watch the dark trees flashing past the windows.
We’re silent for a few seconds. Then he asks, “Do you have any animal companions?”
I think of the stupid cow constantly escaping the neighbor’s fields and helping herself to my gardens, my threats to make the Holstein into steak.
“No, I don’t have time right now.”
Phil nods approvingly. “I’m glad you see that. So many people don’t realize just how much time and effort an animal friend requires. Working ten hours a day is unhealthy for humans. Just as much for animals. I’m glad to see so many doggie daycares popping up these days.”
We drive in silence for a while longer.
I’m just starting to doze when Phil makes a left, following winding routes off Route 7 until we reach his parents’ house.
The house is large, a contemporary monster built of stone and steel and wood beams. The pea stone driveway is circular and there are cars parked in a second area off the circle. Lexus’, BMWs and Audis’ fill the area. I think of my rusty Toyota and grin. Imagine showing up in that? The other vehicles would surely shudder in embarrassment.
The air outside the house is cold, an icy wind blowing across the open meadow behind the house and circling around front. It whips my coat against my bare legs and tugs at the scarf around my neck. I hold onto it with one hand and Phil guides me to the front entrance, his hand on my back. He’s picking right up on this young-couple-in-love thing. I’m praying I don’t trip and face plant in the doorway.
A woman with a dark, sleek bob opens the door. She’s pencil thin, her skin pulling tightly against collarbones that would petrify any baby looking for a cuddle. Her dress is as long and narrow as she is, some dark color that I can’t make out in the low light.
“Darling,” she says, pressing her face against Phil’s. The door closes behind us and I hear the sound of low, classy jazz in some other room, the tinkle of glassware and murmured voices.
“Mother, this is Ashley,” Phil says, pulling away from his mother’s claw-like hands. She pulls back, looks at me, but her fingers stay, grazing Phil’s arm in a way that says, mine.
I smile, pray that I don’t have any dinner bits left between my teeth and say, “What a beautiful home you have. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I hold out a hand but she ignores it, instead pressing her fingers into her son’s arm.
“Everyone is waiting to see you,” she says, pouting, and motions toward another room down a wide hallway. I stand there for a second, hand outstretched stupidly, before letting it fall to my side. For a minute I feel like that kid in grade school that no one wants to sit with at lunchtime. Phil is no help; he’s already heading off down the hall.
“Sorry about that,” a man’s voice says from behind me. “Vivian is very protective of her little boy.”
I turn, see a man in his late 60s swirling amber colored liquid in a short glass. “I’m Philip’s father, Jacob.”
I grasp his outstretched hand, which is warm, and give it a firm shake. “Let me take your coat.” He deposits it into a wide hall closet.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asks.
“Sure, thanks,” I say. “Whatever you’re having.”
“This is thirty-year-old scotch.”
“Sounds great.”
He nods in approval and ducks back into the room, a kitchen I realize as I follow him in.
“So, you’re Ashley. We haven’t heard a lot about you, I’m sorry to say.” Jacob says this not unkindly. I lean against a stainless steel fridge that probably costs as much as my office rent for the year and smile.
“I hope you aren’t offended,” Jacob says. “Philip is a very private person, always has been.”
Because he’s leading a double life?
“Oh, no need to apologize. I think I know that as well as anyone.” I thank him for the drink he hands me and take a small sip. It burns like lava in my esophagus
.
I take another. Since Phil and I are supposedly hot and heavy, a little possessiveness is to be expected, right? It’s been awhile since I’ve been in a real relationship though, and I’m out of practice.
“So,” I search my mind for some neutral ground. “Are you a—”
“Darling, what are you doing in here? Our guests are missing you.” Vivian’s voice interrupts. She’s returned to the drag her seemingly-normal-compared-to-her husband out of my vicinity. What is it with this woman? Could she be any ruder? I draw myself up to my full height plus four inches (thanks to my spindly heels) and smile at her.
“Jacob and I were just talking about Phil,” I say brightly. “And he made me a drink.” I hold it aloft as though to prove I’m not lying. Vivian barely glances in my direction. Instead, she grabs her husband’s bicep and starts to propel him through the doorway. I trail along behind, like an errant dog.
We arrive in the great room—because really, a room this size is way too big to be called a living room—to find Phil in the center of a small group of people his parents’ age. All are chuckling and smiling at him in appreciation. Phil laps up the attention like a show pony.
“ ... I meant what I said,” he says, finishing the recounted story, complete with hand gestures. The group laughs again, a couple of the women closest to him drawing near enough to pat his cheek or arm as though reassuring themselves that it’s really, truly Phil in the flesh, not just an apparition.
Good grief.
The group starts to chat among themselves once again, except for one older lady who still has her arm locked through Phil’s as he turns toward his parents and me. I stand slightly behind them and try to look perturbed. I mean, I am supposed to be his girlfriend. Polite guys don’t just ditch their sweethearts the moment they walk into their parents’ home, right? I hear the front door close and heels clicking on the hallway floor, and I glance in that direction. Vivian is already halfway to that side of the room, holding her stick arms out in front of her, ready to embrace ... oh, no.
A woman that I very much don’t want to see stands in the doorway.
Chapter Twenty
I don’t think I ever learned the woman’s name from the house party in Colchester. I just refer to her in my head as “Hippy Skank.” Tonight, rather than a flowing dress and half-done braids, she is dressed to the nines and towers over Vivian. She squeals in what can only be described as joy and leans in for a strange air hug. I turn away slightly to avoid eye contact. My palms immediately dampen. Jacob notices my reaction, or more likely the grimace on my face, and misinterprets it.
“Are you feeling ill?” he asks.
“What? Oh, uh, just a little lightheaded. I think I might need some air.”
“That’s a strong drink if you don’t usually imbibe,” he says and nods, pointing across the room to a glass door. I hadn’t noticed it blending with a wall of windows.
“Thanks,” I say and head in that direction.
Phil is still in the clutches of the older woman, who continues to pat his arm and smile up at him. I veer in that direction.
“We’ve got a problem,” I hiss, drawing close to his ear. Phil laughs and nods and I want to deck him. Then I realize he’s just acting as though I told him something flirtatious.
“I can’t explain right now, but that woman that just walked in ...” I wait for Phil to nod, which he does. “I’ll tell you outside. Meet me, OK?” I say in his ear. I can’t explain any further because Vivian’s heels are chipping away at the stone floor behind me. I walk more quickly to the door, fanning myself with my hand and smiling politely at anyone making eye contact.
The icy air takes my breath away and I immediately start shivering. The thin dress feels made of paper. I long for my coat. Big puffs of white cloud my vision momentarily, but I continue walking around the side of the house to a spot in the shadows. I stand for a few seconds, staring in at the group of guests. It feels like a Christmas card come to life: all glittery lights and hors d’oeuvres on silver platters and thin-stemmed glasses and—
“Want a smoke?” A voice asks. It’s so close to my ear that I jump and whirl around, hands automatically going up into protective mode.
“Whoa,” the voice says. “I know smoking is unhealthy, but I doubt you’ll get cancer from one cigarette. And I promise, I’m not going to light you on fire or anything.”
The voice is male and I can make out the shadow of a figure, but no features.
“What ...” chatter, chatter, chatter go my teeth. “What are you doing ...” chatter chatter.
“Here, take my coat,” the voice says, and long arms move in my direction. I dance backward (not an easy feat in these heels) and say, loudly, “Hey!”
“Shhh.” The arms stop mid-motion. “I’m Chris. Phil’s partner?”
“You,” chatter, chatter, “are?”
“Uh huh. Take this before you freeze to death. And don’t tell him I’m out here. He’ll think I’m stalking. I just wanted to see what the party looked like. What his parents are like in their element, so to speak.”
I make a disgruntled noise, but accept the coat. It’s warm as toast on my frigid skin and smells like pine and vanilla. I pull it close around me without buttoning it and murmur a thank you.
“So you’re ... spying on him?” I ask.
“I prefer the term observing. Honestly, I don’t see what the big deal is.” He pauses to take a drag, the cigarette tip glowing orange. “I came out to my parents years ago and no one batted an eye. But Phil has his reasons and I respect him enough to let him make his own decisions.”
“Respect him? Is spying on him from the bushes part of respecting him?” Chatter, chatter. (So says the woman appreciatively wearing the spy’s coat.)
Chris sighs and I see a plume of white smoke coming from what must be his nose. I move further into the shadows and reposition myself so that the light from the windows isn’t blinding me anymore. He’s tall, slim and has a dark toque pulled low over his forehead. Lanky pieces of hair poke around the edges and I see a long, slender nose and slightly peaked chin. He looks artistic.
“Respecting his decision doesn’t make me any less curious. You must understand that in your line of work.”
“How did you know who I am?” The coat has thawed my arms enough to move them once again, however slightly, and I rub my hands against the wool to keep the blood flowing.
“Phil showed me your website. You’re prettier than your picture.”
“Oh. Um, thanks. It’s just the makeup,” I say.
We stand in silence for a few minutes, the sound of Chris dragging on the cigarette the only sound other than the wind swooshing through the pine trees nearby.
“So why are you out here?” he asks finally.
“I saw a client inside and had to make a quick exit.”
“Job gone bad?”
“It’s complicated. I’m not sure how I’m going to get through the rest of the evening without her seeing me though.”
“Is she a brunette and tall with killer gams?” Chris asks, facing the bank of windows.
“Yes. How did you ...”
“I don’t think you’ll have to worry about her recognizing you in a few minutes. She just sucked down a glass of champagne like it was a glass of water and she was in a marathon. And now she’s working on a glass of something brown. Might be bourbon.” He pauses for another drag on the cigarette. Seconds later he says, “Oh. That’s half gone, too.”
“Good. I thought of wearing a disguise tonight but didn’t bother.”
Chris laughs at this. As if I were kidding.
I wait another five minutes and then reluctantly pull off the coat and hand it back. “I should go back in. Phil paid for a night of my appearance and I guess standing around outside doesn’t count. How does she look now?”
Chris checks the windows.
“I’d say you’re good to go. She’s propped up on a houseplant and waving her arms around.”
“Gre
at. Drunks are much easier to deal with than sober people. And tend to be non-credible, so I should be safe.” My teeth have started rattling together again. “Thanks again for the coat. I hope you” chatter, chatter, “got what you came for.”
“You’re welcome. And yes, I guess I did. Nice meeting you; have fun in there.”
I nod and heave a sigh, heading back to the glass door and the warmth and loud awkwardness of a party where I don’t know anyone.
Time to double my rates.
***
The party lasted until the wee hours of the morning. Conversation and laughter flowing more easily as the hours, and booze, ran. I guess the plethora of cosmetics applied did the trick in making me look somewhat different. Hippy Skank, luckily, hadn’t recognized me. She’d mentioned twice during dinner that I looked “so familiar” but someone always interrupted her line of thinking with a question about her family or job.
In the end, the night was a success. At least in Phil’s eyes. He was so grateful he gave me a two-hundred-dollar tip. I thanked him and offered to be his fill-in girlfriend whenever needed. I didn’t say anything about Chris and Phil never apologized for forgetting to meet me outside.
I guess we’re even.
***
My bedroom is ice cold when I wake up. I stumble to the living room and check the thermostat while shivering. My teeth chatter together like a chipmunk on speed. I rub my hands over my arms, stomping my feet simultaneously.
The gauge reads fifty-two degrees. It’s surprising that I can’t see my breath. When I call my friendly fuel company they say they’ll see what they can do.
“See what you can do? I’m literally freezing here.”
“Well, ma’am, we have a lot of heating issues to deal with today. I’ll get someone out to see you just as soon as I can,” says a nasally woman on the other end of the phone, who sounds anything but concerned. Why would she be sitting in a toasty-warm office.
“That’d be great, seeing as soon all the pipes are going to burst and I’m going to have to sue you for negligence. I believe one of your technicians was out here, what was it, three weeks ago to clean the furnace?” I hear something on the other end. Is she eating something? “And now it’s not working. At all,” I say, voice growing louder. “So yeah, if you can squeeze me in that would be great.”
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