At Your Beck & Call

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  I surprised myself. Was I really considering leaving the business behind me? And do what? Be what?

  Without my permission, my thoughts wandered back to Laura. Would she book me again? She’d implied that she would and I had to admit it was refreshing to have a new client who didn’t want sex. Although, she could be different on a second date—that happened frequently. I was sure I’d be able to persuade her, crack that cool exterior and…

  I frowned at my random thought. Since when had I tried to get extra business? Try, never.

  Besides, she’d also implied that she didn’t come to LA that often.

  I put her out of my mind, concentrating on what I’d say to Eloise. We often met up for lunch or coffee, catching up with each other. She was the only person in my life that I was completely open with. Carl was a buddy, but we weren’t in each other’s lives in that way. And we rarely talked about feelings.

  I saw Eloise the next day. We’d arranged to meet at a beachside coffee shop in Santa Monica, only a short drive from her house.

  She was waiting for me when I arrived, although I wasn’t late. I wouldn’t have dared; Eloise hated tardiness the way other people hate politicians kissing babies.

  “Hallen, darling!” and she patted the empty seat next to her.

  I leaned down to kiss her cheek, and she frowned at my 16 hours of stubble.

  “I do wish you’d shave,” she grumbled.

  “Day off,” I grinned at her.

  “Hmph. Now, tell me—how did your date with Laura go last night?”

  “Yeah, fine. No problems.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  It wasn’t like Eloise to fish for details.

  “And nothing. We went to the gallery opening, we had a drink at her hotel, I said goodnight. Why, has she said something?”

  “Only to ask to book you again for next week.”

  I was surprised.

  “Yeah? I got the impression she wasn’t going to be in town that long.”

  “She’s moving back here. Permanently.”

  “Oh, okay. She didn’t mention that.”

  “Well?” said Eloise, her eyebrows raised. “Don’t you want the details?”

  She could sense my hesitation as I made a note of the date on my cell phone.

  “Something you need to tell me, Hallen?”

  I leaned back and pulled my sunglasses over my eyes, staring out toward the defined line of horizon.

  “I was thinking about cutting back. Taking fewer appointments.”

  She gazed at me appraisingly.

  “How many fewer?”

  I sighed and looked down. “Just the regulars, I guess—nothing new. And nothing that’s going to mean getting on another damn airplane.”

  “Noted. Any particular reason?”

  “I’ve had enough of airports to last a lifetime. Some months I clock more flight time than a commercial pilot.”

  She smiled. “A touch of hyperbole?”

  I shrugged, not really caring.

  She laid her hand over mine.

  “Hallen, dear heart, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine, Ellie. I just want to spend more time painting. I don’t want to be away so much.”

  She patted my hand and leaned back in her seat.

  “And how was the gallery last night?”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “I haven’t forgotten that you set me up!”

  She laughed lightly.

  “Not at all! A gentle nudge, at most.”

  “Jeez, Ellie! Your ‘gentle nudges’ are like being punched by Mike Tyson!”

  “Only because some people are so stubborn! Don’t forget, I’ve seen your work, Hallen. One of the very few, I might add.”

  “That’s because nothing’s ready.”

  She waved dismissively.

  “Well, now you’ll be working less, you’ll have time to readdress that. Won’t you?”

  She laughed at the expression on my face. Eloise was relentless. Almost since she’d known me, she’d been badgering me to contact galleries. Up until now, I’d always resisted. But saying that I wanted to spend more time painting, it had given her just the ammunition she needed.

  I had a feeling that she wasn’t going to let this drop.

  My second appointment with Laura was scheduled for Tuesday lunchtime and part of the afternoon.

  I dressed more casually this time, and as I walked into the lobby of her hotel I saw that we matched.

  I was wearing a white button down with khaki chinos, and she was in a linen shift dress the color of burnt umber. It brought out the russet tints in her hair and flattered her olive skin tone. As she stood up and collected her purse, I noticed that her legs were slim and tan, the three inch heels lengthening her calves pleasantly. And no, I didn’t get caught checking her out.

  She smiled as soon as she saw me, but still seemed a little ill at ease. I leaned down to kiss her cheek, hoping the gesture wouldn’t offend her. I had no idea what she had in mind for later on, and seeing the anxiety in her eyes, I wasn’t sure she had either. But a little encouragement wouldn’t hurt.

  “Lovely to see you again, Laura. How’ve you been?”

  “Good, thanks. In fact, I signed the paperwork to buy my new house this morning.”

  “Then we’re celebrating?”

  She laughed a little awkwardly.

  “Yes, I suppose we are. But actually, I was really hoping we could go and hear the lecture on German Expressionism at LACMA—they’ve got a small Otto Dix exhibition, so after we could...” Her words trailed off and she looked flustered, as if making a suggestion was unusual for her.

  “That would be a real treat, Laura. Thank you for asking me.”

  And I meant it. It would be an easy date to sit and listen to an art talk then look at paintings by an artist I admired. If I had to fuck her afterward, that wouldn’t be a hardship either. In fact, remembering how I’d felt the first time I met her, I was looking forward to it.

  I frowned at the thought. I was treating this like a date and not an appointment. Dangerous territory, I reminded myself.

  Suddenly she flushed red.

  “Oh! I should have offered you a drink or a coffee or … but the lecture starts in 20 minutes and…”

  Her words stumbled to a halt again.

  “I’m fine, thank you,” I smiled, politely. “Would you like me to drive?”

  “Oh, I…”

  “It’s a lovely day—if you don’t mind your hair getting mussed with the breeze.”

  Her hands shot to her head as if suspecting there was already a hair out of place.

  “No, I don’t mind,” she said, her words at odds with her nervous reaction.

  She was quiet as I drove along Wilshire Boulevard, seemingly lost in her thoughts. I didn’t interrupt her and I didn’t offer to play music either.

  I stopped outside the Urban Light sculpture and was given a ticket for the valet parking.

  She held onto my hand as I helped her out of my low sports car, but once again let go as soon as she was upright. I couldn’t help a small smile escaping at her behavior. I could tell she was attracted to me, but I’d never had a client who was so worried by that fact.

  We walked to the entrance and she paid the $15 entry charge for each of us. The lecture hall was filling up fast, so I placed my hand on her waist, steering her to a pair of seats near the aisle.

  She stiffened slightly, but didn’t risk a look at me. I have to admit I was enjoying the game. I wondered how many times I could discreetly touch her before she called me on it. A lot, as it turned out.

  I brushed my hand against hers when I passed her a leaflet about the talk; and our knees collided as I leaned across to pluck a non-existent piece of lint from her shoulder. I whispered in her ear that Otto Dix’s desire to be an artist had begun after receiving encouragement from his elementary school teacher. She leaned toward me and my lips ‘accidentally’ brushed against her.
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  I stopped after a while because I could tell that she was becoming really flustered. After that, I was hands off for the rest of the date, although a couple of times I thought I caught a look of disappointment in her eyes, too.

  Once I stopped teasing her and she relaxed, we had fun, laughing and joking and simply enjoying each other’s company. I was stunned when I glanced at my watch to realize that the date had already gone 25 minutes over time. I should have taken that as a warning sign—it was too easy to be myself with her.

  But when she saw me staring at my watch, she totally misinterpreted the look and flushed immediately.

  “Oh, I’m sorry! I’ll pay you, of course!”

  “That’s not necessary, Laura,” I said, rather coolly. “I’ve enjoyed myself.”

  “Yes, but it’s your time and I know this is a job to you.”

  “I said it’s fine!” My tone was unnecessarily harsh. It had been years since I’d spoken to a client like that and her sharp intake of breath showed me that I’d upset her. “Really,” I said, forcing a more conciliatory tone, “it’s fine. I’ve had fun.”

  She nodded silently, and I sighed.

  “Laura, I’m sorry. I don’t usually get paid to enjoy myself and look at paintings. Most clients want…”

  Her cheeks flushed red and she couldn’t meet my eyes. Of course she didn’t want to hear about other clients.

  “Shit,” I said softly, cursing my poor choice of words. “Do you want me to take you back to your hotel?”

  She nodded wordlessly.

  I reached out and took her hand.

  “Laura?”

  She looked up.

  “I’m sorry. I guess German Expressionism brings out the asshole in me.”

  I squeezed her hand and felt a gentle pressure from her fingers before she let go.

  We drove back in silence, and I hated that I’d put that defeated look on her face. I wracked my brains trying to think of some way of making it better, but for once my glib responses had deserted me—I had nothing.

  I saw her glance across at me a few times, and I wondered what she was thinking. She looked conflicted, as if she was trying to make up her mind about something.

  We drew up to the front of her hotel and she fiddled with her seatbelt.

  “I really enjoyed today, Hallen.”

  “So did I,” I replied, honestly. “A lot.”

  She smiled uncertainly, then took a deep breath. “I’d like to see you again.”

  “I’d like that, too. Another museum, perhaps?”

  Her whole body relaxed at my words and when she smiled, I felt my own tension drain away.

  “That would be great. I’ll call you. Um, I mean, I’ll call your agent.”

  “Sure, Laura. Take care.”

  The valet opened the door for her and she slid out, gave me a quick wave then walked into the hotel.

  True to her word, Eloise booked me on far fewer dates and had accepted my decision to take no more new clients for now.

  I finally felt like I could breathe again and realized how much I’d missed having time to just be me.

  But there was one new client that I was genuinely looking forward to seeing, so I was pleased when Eloise emailed me to say that Laura had made a booking for a fundraising event at MOCA.

  I had the tux dry cleaned and slid a new dress shirt out of its polythene wrapper, carefully fixing my cufflinks at the wrist.

  An unfamiliar sense of excitement settled over me, and I realized I was thinking of this less as an appointment and more of a real date. I knew it wouldn’t be like that for Laura, but what the hell. My job description didn’t say I couldn’t enjoy myself, too. It had been a long time since I’d wanted more from a woman. I found myself hopeful that Laura might suggest we spend some private time together—I’d be totally up for that.

  The arrangement was to meet her in the lounge bar of her hotel again. I wondered whether this was to keep me at a distance, or that she hadn’t moved into her new place yet. Fuck, I hated second-guessing myself. This wasn’t me—it wasn’t how I rolled.

  She was waiting, and she looked stunning. My throat dried as I took in the floor length gown in cobalt satin. It was long-sleeved with a faux bolero jacket, hugging her at the waist and flaring out at the back. Her shoulder length hair was swept upward into an elegant chignon, fixed with a pearl clip. She was stunning. And for tonight, she was mine.

  “You look beautiful, Laura.”

  She jumped slightly as I brushed a kiss across her cheek.

  “Thank goodness you’re here!” she muttered, her eyes flicking restlessly across the room.

  My smile faltered.

  “Am I late?” I knew I wasn’t. “My apologies, Laura.”

  “No, no. It’s just…”

  “What is it?”

  “A man tried to hit on me!” she hissed, her tone outraged. “I told him I was waiting for a friend but he didn’t believe me! I mean, honestly! Who sits in a hotel bar in an evening dress waiting to be picked up? Do I look like a prostitute?”

  I smiled a little tightly. “You’d be surprised.”

  She met my gaze and flushed, her expression a mix of dismay and embarrassment.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean…”

  She stared at me, frozen, appalled. Then she dropped her eyes to the floor.

  “Perhaps we should go?” she muttered.

  “Of course,” I said offering her my arm, letting no emotion show in my voice.

  I could see her watching my face, so I kept my expression carefully neutral, too. Inside, a wave of nausea rolled around my gut. It had been a while since I’d felt that burn of humiliation.

  The doorman nodded to one of the cabs waiting outside but Laura didn’t relax until we were nearly at Bunker Hill.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, at last. “I really didn’t mean how that sounded. I didn’t. I don’t think of you like that. I was just rattled by that awful man. I’m used to just waving my ring finger until they go away. I felt quite vulnerable when he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

  Her words sent a hot jet of anger pulsing though my body that took me by surprise.

  “How did you get rid of him?” I asked, as calmly as I could manage.

  “One of the waiters noticed and pretended I had a phone call. I left him a massive tip,” she said, finally managing a smile.

  I was pleased that someone had helped her, but more than anything I was jealous. What the hell was wrong with me? This was business—Laura was a client not my friend. I had to remember that.

  At the museum, we joined a line of elegantly dressed people making their way up the steps to the entrance.

  “Thank you for coming with me tonight, Hallen,” she said, carefully.

  As she said the words, I knew that I’d have come even if she weren’t paying me. I simply enjoyed her company. But I didn’t know what to do with the unexpected insight.

  “It’s my pleasure, Laura,” I said, smoothly.

  I wasn’t feeling smooth; I was confused and off balance.

  I collected two glasses of champagne, grateful that I’d decided not to drive tonight. I needed something to take the edge off.

  Laura chatted happily, enjoying the exhibits, commenting on everything she saw. I nodded and smiled and threw in the odd observation so that she didn’t think I’d completely tuned out. In reality, my brain was traveling a thousand miles an hour trying to work out what the hell was going on.

  Abruptly, her words died and she grabbed my arm.

  “What’s he doing here?” she gasped.

  I turned to look in the direction she was staring.

  A tall man in his fifties with distinguished silver-gray hair was gazing with a complete lack of interest at Roy Lichtenstein’s Man With Folded Arms. Gripping him possessively was a petite woman whose jet black hair fell almost to her waist. She turned, a bored twist of annoyance on her china-doll face. Her dark eyes hardened to slate when she saw Laura. S
he whispered something to the man and they both turned to stare.

  I glanced down at Laura, taking in her stricken expression, and guessed that this was the ex-husband and his new wife. His much younger new wife.

  “Do you want to leave?” I murmured, my lips almost touching Laura’s hair.

  She raised her chin defiantly.

  “No. I won’t be driven away. Besides, Jack hates art. I have no idea what he’s doing here.” Then her voice cracked. “Oh crap! He’s coming over!”

  The couple approached us slowly: dogged determination on his part; unhappy reluctance on hers.

  “Hello, Laura,” he said, his voice only slightly strained.

  “Jack. Hello, Yasmine.”

  Her voice didn’t falter, but I felt her body tense beside me.

  “Laura,” muttered the woman.

  “And who is your friend?” Jack asked evenly, but with the faintest note of possession.

  Laura pasted on the most artificial smile I’d ever seen.

  “Hallen, meet Jack and Yasmine Martin. This is my new friend, Hallen Jansen.”

  Yasmine shook my hand limply, but Jack had to prove he was a bigger asshole than I already thought by trying to squeeze my knuckles.

  I smiled coolly, but inside I was burning, unsettled by yet another flash of anger. I wasn’t used to such excessive emotional responses.

  I shook his hand stiffly, ignoring his tiny-dick attempt to intimidate me. Instead, I hooked my arm around Laura’s shoulder and grinned at him. I could tell that would annoy the hell out of him. I was in the mood for a pissing contest.

  “I didn’t know you were in town,” Laura said, stiffly.

  Her ex-husband’s expression was irritated. “I need permission to visit Joseph and Margaret?”

  “No, of course not.”

  There was a tense silence while Laura and Jack locked eyes.

  I squeezed her shoulder, grinned and nodded toward the painting behind us.

  “Gotta love Lichtenstein,” I said, raising my eyebrows.

  Laura smiled gratefully, while Jack and Yasmine turned to look, somehow having failed to see the large canvas.

  “It’s not very colorful,” Yasmine complained.

  “Maybe you’d prefer Cézanne’s version,” I offered.