After Her

by Amber Kay

  “You’ll be joining me for lunch today,” she replies. “This time, I'm not taking ‘no’ for an answer.”

  The unease in the pit of my stomach grows into a sinking sensation that makes my gut hurt.

  “I’d like to go home,” I say.

  Vivian chuckles and rolls her eyes, dismissing my request.

  “You’re not going home right now, Cassandra.”

  I reach toward the car door handle, seeking an immediate exit. Each door locks at once with a synchronized clicking sound. Vivian reveals a tiny remote control from within her purse with her thumb on the lock button. Her once expression morphs into something stern. She’s clearly made a decision about me that I'm not yet aware of.

  “What do you want?” I ask in a firm voice, this time with no trepidation impeding me. Any small hint of fear I initially had of this woman is on the backburner. That fear is now anger. “Are you kidnapping me?”

  “You’re the one in the driver’s seat Cassandra,” she reminds me. “If you didn’t want to come with me, you didn’t have to.”

  “You ordered me to drive,” I retort. “How else was I gonna get home?”

  Her composure remains intact, her face stoic.

  “Once we enter the restaurant and order our food, I’ll explain everything you need to know, but I am a woman of business,” she says. “I can’t conduct proper dealings without an appropriate setting. I don’t prefer to explain paperwork in a car.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. “What is this about?”

  She sighs, obviously exasperated with me.

  “Park the fucking car, Cassandra.”

  I stiffen in my seat, startled by her harsh tone. Once parked, I remove the key from its ignition and watch as she retouches her makeup in the rearview mirror. She kicks off her casual sneakers then replaces them with a pair of blue stilettoes that she retrieves from the glove compartment.

  As she abruptly begins removing her pants, I turn away for the sake of privacy, shielding my eyes behind my hand.

  “No need to be bashful,” she replies. “You aren’t the first person to see me naked.”

  I peek through my fingers to glower at her. Her lips curve into a smile as she wiggles her hips into a pencil skirt I’d seen her pull out from beneath the passenger seat. I can’t collect my focus. It remains elsewhere, traveling to the sight of her legs.

  I have never seen human flesh the color of her thighs. Within those inner crevices are large areas of discolored varicose veins. Her skin is cobwebbed with them. I turn away, suppressing my startled reaction.

  “It’s okay,” she says. “I wouldn’t consider it rude if you asked about them.”

  “No thanks,” I say, wanting to appear impartial.

  “My thighs aren’t what they were when I was twenty. Many things aren’t what they were when I was your age.”

  I notice her smile, but I pinpoint some contrasting emotion behind them. This is what nostalgia looks like. I'm tempted to take her hand, to ensure her that I'm not revolted by her thighs when it’s so obvious how self-conscious she is about them, but I don’t. I have yet to uncover the logic behind her motives.

  This isn’t some scheduled carefree get-together with an old friend. I'm not even sure whether I'm here against my will. I won’t jump to conclusions. I won’t allow myself to befriend her either.

  “Be grateful for your beauty,” she says after zipping her skirt. “Any day could be the day something swoops in to take it away. Sickness. Old Age. Anything could be the culprit. I learnt that lesson the hard way.”

  She frees her hair from a ponytail and combs the strands with her fingers, fluffing them until they lay atop her shoulders. After swapping her sweaty tank top for a satin blue blouse, she’s fully dressed in business attire.

  “Do you always keep formal wear clothes stashed in your car?” I ask.

  “I never leave the house without a pair of Christian Louboutin stilettos,” she says. “Pretty soon, you won’t either.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask another question that she doesn’t answer. I'm starting to notice a pattern with her. My questions aren’t vital until she decides they are. That’s the only time she ever answers them.

  “Let’s get inside the restaurant,” she says after grabbing a small leather briefcase from the backseat. “I’m ordering for us both. Your only job is to listen to my proposal and decide whether or not you want anything to do with it.”

  At this, I don’t question her. My words will inevitably fall on deaf or disinterested ear.

  I don’t get the chance to speak anyway. She exits the car before I can respond. I follow. Vivian moves with a jaunty bounce in her strut, reminding me of a fawn.

  It’s something a woman could only learn from some private finishing school taught by authoritarian nuns with rulers to smack the spine of any slouching girl. I imagine Vivian’s back covered in ruler welts.

  A man accompanying his wife into the restaurant stops midstride to hold the door open for us. I know he’s only being courteous for Vivian. I'm just deadweight that happens to be with the right companion.

  Even once we’re inside, he remains in the doorway, leering at her. She must be used to this kind of attention. Vivian doesn’t acknowledge a single man that stops to stare. I should feel offended, jealous even, but for some reason, I'm not.

  Vivian Lynch must have this effect on people. She’s either unaware of it or extremely modest about it. With her, I can't peg down a single certainty. I don’t know if her intentions are sincere or if she has something sinister in mind for me. Whatever the motive, my curiosity has latched on with suctioned fingers.

  “Welcome to Tropolis,” greets our waitress after seating us. This waifish, wide-eyed blonde could use a couple downers. Her caffeinated version of impeccable customer service exhausts me just by looking at the girl. I'm certain she’ll soon balance a ball on her nose like a trained seal.

  “What can I get you both to drink?” she asks. I open my mouth to reply. Vivian scowls at me until I remember the lecture she gave me in the car.

  “We’ll both have sparkling cider,” Vivian replies after a quick glance at her menu.

  She and the waitress lock eyes. The poor girl blanches a few shades paler. Vivian either intimidates or astounds every person she meets without trying. There is no in-between with this woman. You either love or fear her.

  The server scampers away. I imagine a tail hung low between her legs as she cuts through the center of the crowded restaurant. It’s an elegant venue with floral candlelight centerpieces atop each table, sleek bar stools for every patron and an oval stage in the center of room where two men entertain with classy music. One is on the saxophone. The other is behind a baby grand piano.

  Looking around, I notice that this place is what I expected it to be—too rich for my blood. My clothes alone make that obvious. I fidget with the unraveling hem of my T-shirt, tugging at loose threads.

  When I return my attention to Vivian, she’s thumbing through a pile of paperwork atop her briefcase and adjusting reading glasses over her eyes. Cobweb wrinkles frame her deep-set eyes, magnified by the lens of her glasses. I hadn’t noticed before. It’s rare that I'm reminded of her age when she visibly looks years younger than she actually is.

  On any other woman, a couple of grey hairs and soft wrinkles would be a sign of graceful aging. On her, it simply enhances what’s already there. Vivian isn’t a victim to these things. Wrinkles and greys aren’t an affliction. She is a genuinely attractive older woman with or without them.

  “I’ll begin by asking you a few general questions,” she says after the waitress returns with our drinks. I rattle the ice around inside my glass with my pinky, knowing I won’t drink it, but I need the menial distraction to take the edge off my nerves.

  “Is this job interview?” I ask after realizing that she still hasn’t explained a damn thing.

  She glances at me through the lens of her reading glasses as they slide d
own the bridge of her gaunt nose. “Sort of, yes.”

  “Okay, then go for it,” I say, finally at ease. “I'm good with questions.”

  She shuffles the papers in her hands then replies, “Where are you from?”

  “Hamilton, Montana,” I answer proudly. “Born and raised.”

  She smiles at my response. “And you were happy there?”

  I don’t reply immediately because the question feels so random. Why is she interested in my home life? These aren’t the kinds of questions I’ve ever received from any other potential employer.

  “Um…yeah, I was,” I say, scrambling for words. “I love Montana. It’s gorgeous every season. Cool in the springs. Mild in the summers.”

  “Sounds like a pretty wholesome place,” she remarks.

  “Yeah, I guess so. The town is pretty small so everyone there knows each other.”

  “So why did you abandon it for the cesspool of sin, Orange Country?”

  I feel like I'm talking to my mother. She’s asked me this question several times.

  “Well, I received a two year scholarship for Northham,” I say. “It’s not a university you turn down. I was waitlisted for months.”

  “And your parents?”

  I shrug, expecting her to elaborate further on the question. “What about them?”

  “What are their occupations?” she clarifies.

  I stare dubiously at her, trying to uncover her motives.

  “You’re asking about my parents? If this is a job interview, what do they have to do with anything?”

  “It’s sort of a psychological exam,” she replies. “All employees are screened. It helps filter out the crazies.”

  I remain stoic, for some reason unconvinced by her answer, but not wholeheartedly suspicious.

  “Well…um, my mom is an elementary school teacher,” I say. “And my dad has a farm back home. He is the local go-to man for the freshest milk, eggs and dairy in town. It wasn’t the most exciting upbringing.”

  “Your parents are divorced, I presume?”

  “Annulled,” I say as my mother would with an emphasis on each syllable of the word.

  “Why?”

  “Why…what?” I ask.

  “Why did your parents annul their marriage?” she asks.

  With a feeling of mental whiplash, I stare wide-eyed at her. “You’re asking about my parents’ martial issues?”

  “It’s pertinent for me to familiarize myself with your mindset,” she says. “If your parents separated when you were young, it’s possible that you could have suffered from the emotional backlash. I need to know about the environment you grew up in as a child.”

  “This is way too in depth to for a simple job interview,” I say. “What position am I interviewing for exactly?”

  “I’ve already gone over the rules Cassandra,” she replies impatiently. “Answer my questions first then I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

  “Asking me personal questions isn’t part of the deal,” I say.

  She chuckles dismissively as if my demands are trite and she’s choosing to ignore them.

  “Cassandra, I haven’t asked the personal questions yet.”

  I glare at her. I don’t know why, but that response irks me. Perhaps because of her smarmy voice or that strong sense of obvious entitlement she feels to ask these kinds of questions. She scrawls something onto a notepad that she pulls from inside her briefcase.

  I can’t read what it says since she purposely obstructs my view by holding it upright.

  “Will this entire lunch be spent with you asking inappropriate questions and me submitting to your every whim?” I ask.

  “I sincerely hope that you’re not the submissive type,” she says. “It’s such an unattractive trait in a woman.”

  “This isn’t a job interview, is it?” I say. “Because it’s starting to feel more like a date.”

  She laughs aloud, but doesn’t appear offended by my allegation.

  “I'm not a lesbian,” she says. “I have experimented with many alternative lifestyles, but lesbianism isn’t one of them.”

  I gape at her, stunned by her response. As I scramble to find some mental equanimity, I hear Sasha in my head chanting a single word: prude.

  “Are you surprised that I'm not a lesbian…or disappointed?” she asks with a fierce look of devilish intent in her eye. When I don’t reply, she adds, “Don’t worry. That was a rhetorical question. I don’t mean to put you on the spot…not yet anyway.”

  I need something to drink. I guzzle my cider until the glass is empty, still unable to find any relief. I sit in a puddle of my own sweat, fidgeting on pins and needles prickling beneath my skin like rampant ants.

  “When will I be allowed to know why you’re asking me these questions?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Not yet.”

  “Then can I ask you one?”

  “You just did,” she chuckles, but I don’t acknowledge her joke. I’m much too wound to indulge her inapt humor.

  “How old are you?” I ask, deadpan.

  “Forty-seven.”

  “Wow, I didn’t expect you to tell me the truth,” I say.

  “Why would I lie? I'm not ashamed of my age, Cassandra. Aging isn’t a curse. It’s a part of life just as birth and death is. If ever given the chance, I wouldn’t dare relive my thirties and certainly not my twenties.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  She shakes her head with no hesitation. “Of course not.”

  “Why not?”

  “I remember feeling so…lost during those years,” she says. “I made horrible decisions in my youth.”

  “What kind of decisions?” I ask.

  A furrow creases her brow, allowing her to emote something that resembles regret.

  “I dropped out of college to marry at nineteen,” she says. “Before long, I was divorced twice, heartbroken and extremely disillusioned by the entire idea of matrimony. As of now, I enjoy my forty-seven year old wisdom. I wouldn’t change a thing about it.”

  That was more sensible than I expected and it’s not like I expected much. It seems that Vivian is more than just a pretty face in expensive shoes. I don’t know whether to admire or fear that aspect of her personality.

  The waitress returns and asks what our appetizers will be. Like before, Vivian orders for us both—Tuna Tataki for us to share. For the main course, she orders me a California Roll and orders herself a Wasabi Salmon Roll along with a pitcher of water and refills of our cider. She must know that I’ll need water if I'm to survive the rest of this lunch date.

  After receiving our food, Vivian allows me a ten-minute reprieve from her interrogation while we both eat in silence. She finishes her meal first and continues skimming her paperwork as I gobble the last of the appetizers and listen as the men on stage transition to a livelier piano and saxophone rendition of It Had to Be You.

  “Would you like dessert?” Vivian asks me.

  I wipe my mouth with a napkin.

  “I’d like to know why you really brought me here,” I say. “You have been dancing around that topic for far too long.”

  “I thought we were just two new friends having lunch,” she says, knowing damn well that isn’t the case.

  “You don’t even know me,” I say. “We’re not friends.”

  “I’d like us to be,” she says. “These questions are to get to know you. I want everything I can get out of you. Your likes and dislikes. Your hopes and dreams. All of it will serve the greater good. I won’t be able to close this deal unless you stop being so damn stubborn.”

  “You talk about me like I'm some sort of an investment or a business endeavor.”

  “I hate to make you feel like property, Cassandra, but it must be done this way. So many other young women have disappointed me in the past,” she says. “I will not experience that kind of betrayal again. Although your background check returned with positive results, I’d like to be as thorough as possible.�
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  “Wait a second,” I say with a fork clenched in my fist. “You hired someone to perform a background check on me?”

  She continues coolly perusing her paperwork.

  “Let’s not make a scene,” she replies without glancing away from her papers. “You wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself in a crowded restaurant, would you?”

  I glance around and note my surroundings. We are within earshot of an elderly couple and a Hispanic businessman arguing with someone on his cell phone in a foreign tongue. She’s right. I can't make a scene. That’s probably why she brought me here because she knew that I wouldn’t.

  “Okay,” I reply after a deep breath. “I won’t make a scene, but you need to tell me what you want.”

  Vivian flips to a specific page in her paperwork packet then writes something else onto her notepad.

  “Answer my questions and I will tell you whatever you want,” she says. I realize that she’s not willing to negotiate on that condition. She has the upper hand and I have nothing in return to coax any answers out of her. Either I give in or I'm never leaving this restaurant, not with my sanity intact.

  “Fine, I’ll answer your damn questions,” I say.

  7

  Vivian orders dessert against my wishes.

  I don’t touch the red velvet cake the waitress places in front of me. I don’t even touch the fork. I gulp several glasses of water as Vivian continues busying herself with the mysterious paperwork she won’t let me see. The performers on stage transition to a jazzy rendition of At Last as I try to tune it out.

  “Vivian, just tell me what you want,” I say, my voice heavy with anxiety, thick with panic.

  She neatens the pile of paperwork and clears her throat.

  “I’d like more information about your outlook on life,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Where do you see yourself ten years from now?”

  After a sip of water and a deep breath, I reply, “I’ve never stopped to think about life after college. I guess if I'm really honest, college began as a smokescreen to keep me from having to go back home.”

  “Is there something in Montana you’re avoiding?” she asks after jotting my previous answer onto her notepad.