by Robyn Sisman
“I doubt if she’d care, the way she keeps this place.” Betsy yawned. “I’m ready for bed.” She got off the couch, folded her blanket neatly and carried it to the door. “Why don’t you ask her if the vacuum cleaner’s working OK, just to see if she’s even found it yet? And make sure she’s watering the plants.” Her face clouded. “I hope she hasn’t filled the place with her men friends.”
It felt odd to call his own number and to hear an unfamiliar voice say, “Hello.”
“Is this Susannah Wilding?”
“Yes. Who’s that?”
Lloyd explained.
“Oh, hi.” She didn’t sound very interested.
Lloyd had hardly begun to unfold the plumbing drama when she interrupted.
“Buggeration. That’ll mean hundreds of pounds just to get someone to look at it. I hate plumbers, don’t you?” He heard a sigh and almost blurted out that it wasn’t his fault.
“Do you think you could very kindly get it repaired?” she went on, in her polite, English way. “I’ll pay you back.”
“No, no. It’s already fixed. I just wanted to let you know. One of your rugs is kind of damp, but there’s no serious damage. I fixed the leak.”
“What, you personally?” She sounded surprised.
“It wasn’t too difficult,” Lloyd began modestly. “All I did—”
“Oh, God, you’re going to start telling me about sprockets and bivalves. Honestly, I don’t want to know. You’re obviously a genius, and I’m getting ready to go out. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”
Lloyd felt snubbed. “Actually, a bivalve is a mollusk,” he said with dignity.
“Probably what I’m going to eat tonight. Oysters, champagne . . . That reminds me: I know I’m a few days late, but happy birthday!”
“How did you know?”
“You got a postcard. I haven’t got around to forwarding it yet. Sorry. Hang on and I’ll read it to you.” The receiver was banged down. Lloyd heard a rustling and an impatient exclamation as something clanged to the floor. “It’s from Palm Beach, Florida—blue sea, palm trees, the usual—and it says ‘Happy birthday from your loving father.’ ”
Lloyd felt his whole body stiffen. His “loving” father: that was a good one.
“Shall I send it on?” she asked.
“No.”
“OK, I’ll put it in your desk.”
“No! I don’t want it. Throw it away.”
“But it’s from your father.” There was a baffled pause. “I keep all my dad’s cards.”
Didn’t she know when to shut up? Lloyd forced a laugh. “I mean, it’s only a postcard. Some mail came for you too,” he hurried on, “an invitation, I think. It’s got that square, important look to it.”
“How exciting! Will you open it?”
Lloyd found the stiff cream envelope and slit it open. “It’s a birth announcement,” he told her, scanning the card. “Lawrence and Araminta Self have had a baby, Gioconda Lucia. Now there’s a name to live up to . . . Are you there?”
“Yes, I am,” she said, rather forcefully, Lloyd thought. “Does it by any chance give the weight? The size of a small elephant, for example? With tusks?”
Lloyd was beginning to feel out of his depth. “Ten pounds, seven ounces. Is that good?”
“Very satisfying, thank you. And you can bin that as well.”
Lloyd decided to change the subject. “How’s it going at work?”
“Very well. Although we had a terrible time with the Matsuhana invitation, thanks to you. I’m working on a special project with Sheri Crystal.”
“Which project is that?” What did she mean, thanks to him?
“I’m not supposed to say. It’s confidential.”
“Not to me, for Godsakes.” Lloyd laughed. “I am Sheri’s boss, after all.”
“Really?” she said, in a way Lloyd found maddeningly vague. “Listen, I must go. Hot date and all that. Just tell me quickly how Mr. Kipling is.”
Who the hell was Mr. Kipling? “Uh . . . I don’t believe we’ve met him yet. Unless he’s the old stager next door who’s in love with his flowers.”
There was a deep gurgle of laughter. “Don’t be silly. Mr. Kipling’s my cat—well, not really mine but we’ve sort of adopted each other and . . .”
Lloyd lowered the telephone receiver from his ear and held it to his chest, stifling her meandering burble. Oh, God, oh, Montreal. So that was Mr. Kipling! He felt a mounting, unreasonable rage at womankind. Why couldn’t Betsy have asked someone before she had the damn cat put down? Why couldn’t this Susannah Wilding person have indicated that Mr. Kipling had four legs and said meow?
“. . . just a bit of milk, and odd leftovers,” she was saying. Her voice was buoyant, her innocence of what had happened painful to listen to. He could not possibly tell her that the cat was no more.
Somehow Lloyd ended the conversation and hung up. His good humor had evaporated. He fixed himself a drink: Irish whiskey, with water, no ice and carried it back to the living room, trying to unwind. But the postcard from his father had upset him. He was concerned too, about work. What was Sheri playing at? What had Ms. Wilding meant about Matsuhana? Had Jewel been trying to hint at something? Why had Harry Fox been talking to Stateside? Eventually Lloyd decided he’d had enough for one day. He drank the last of his whiskey and walked through to the bedroom, in need of comfort. He wouldn’t mention the cat business to Betsy just yet. Somehow he’d sort out the situation himself.
Betsy lay with her back to him, head on her hand, reading in bed. Soft hair fell away from her pale neck. Her arms were bare and smooth. Lloyd took off his clothes, not bothering with pajamas, and snuggled up to her warm back. Slowly he kissed his way up her arm to the strap of her nightgown and peeked over her shoulder.
“You reading?”
“Yes.”
“Good book?”
“Very.”
“Want to read me some?”
A deep sigh.
“Aw, please.”
Betsy cleared her throat. “ ‘While it is part of the daily conversational commerce of women to touch base with each other about their desires and fears,’ ” she read, “ ‘men transfer their emotions onto the material world. Fearing that she may lose her job, a woman will express this anxiety to a co-female; a man in the same predicament will purchase a new car. While a woman may admit, ‘I feel deeply upset,’ a man will . . .’—want me to go on?”
Lloyd collapsed on to his back. “I think I’ll go to sleep.”
He turned away, drawing the covers around him. At least they had made love on his birthday. He mustn’t be too demanding. In the dim light he had the impression that the walls were closing in on him. There was a faint silver gleam from the frame on the dresser. It was too dark to see the picture, but he could remember the laughing, generous mouth and that strange hair, the color of cinnamon. “A hot date,” she had said, just like a teenager. Lloyd closed his eyes. He felt as old as a fossil.
Chapter Thirteen
Suze lay panting on the bedroom floor, naked apart from a liberal sprinkling of talcum powder. Why, oh, why, had she let Jay talk her into buying a rubber dress? It was like trying to get into a garden hose. A few moments ago the dress had got stuck around her shoulders, imprisoning her arms and threatening to smother her. Panicking, she had suffered a ghastly vision of herself found dead in the apartment, apparently the victim of some unspeakable autoerotic act, like those men found strangled with oranges in their mouths.
The dress itself was divine, a sleeveless low-cut sheath the exact color of an eggplant, with the same irresistibly tactile sheen, that reacted magically with her pale skin and bright hair. They had found it in a kinky shop down in the East Village during a rather long lunch break. She could still picture the look on Jay’s face when she had pranced out of the dressing room, and the way he had said, “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove to this Nick character, but you look sensational.” And she had snapped, “I’m not trying to
prove anything. I am sensational.”
Suze gave herself another shake of talcum powder for luck, squeezed the dress over her head and this time managed to unroll it slowly down her body, smoothing as she went. Phew! Too late now to wonder how she would ever get it off again. First she polished off the finger marks and talcum powder with a towel, then she completed her makeup and brushed her hair upside down so that when she tossed it back it fanned out like a tawny mane. Carrying her shoes, she padded along the hall to the living room and stood on the sofa to check out her reflection. Wow! Just as long as she didn’t sit down or bend over. Or breathe. Earlier, Suze had put on some music to get herself in the party mood. Now she couldn’t resist waving her arms about and trampolining gently on the couch springs, pouting at her reflection. She was happily warbling “Like a vir-ir-ir-ir-gin” when the entryphone buzzed.
It was Raymond, the doorman. “Your car is here, Ms. Wilding,” he said, in a suspiciously restrained voice.
“What do you mean, my car? Isn’t there anyone in it?”
“Just the chauffeur.”
Crikey. Suze strapped on her shoes, gave herself one last shot of perfume and rode the elevator down to the lobby. As she started on the long line of carpet that led to the street, she saw what was waiting for her and her eyes widened. “Car” was not the word. It was a limousine as big as a shark, with smoked-glass windows and a uniformed man holding the door open with a gloved hand. Exchanging a glance of wild surmise with Raymond as she passed, Suze stepped in. The door closed with an expensive click.
Inside, it was like a playground for grown-ups. Two long banquettes of white fake leather faced each other across a small lawn of fluffy black carpet that reeked of air freshener. At the front, more smoked glass and a curtain with gold tassels hid the driver from view; on the back shelf was a telephone and fax machine. Almost the whole of one side of the car was a cocktail bar, complete with mirrored shelving, plastic champagne flutes and a fantail arrangement of pink paper napkins clipped to the bum of a wirework peacock. Multicolored cocktail sticks rose out of the peacock’s head to imitate its crest. On the other side was an enormous television screen and what looked like a stereo system. Cautiously, Suze pressed one of the knobs and found herself watching a Spanish-language soap opera, which seemed to consist entirely of overdressed people wandering on and off the set, addressing each other in tones of controlled fury.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” said a disembodied voice. Suze jumped guiltily and switched off the television. “Mr. Bianco sends his apologies for not meeting you in person. Something came up at the club. He’ll meet you there. Meanwhile, please enjoy the vehicle facilities.”
“Thank you,” Suze said faintly to a little box she had located on the ceiling.
She opened the cocktail cabinet, which was lined with mirrors and luridly illuminated. Inside were miniatures and mixers of every description, teensy packages of smoked nuts and an ice bucket with an adorable little bottle of champagne resting inside. Was this a “vehicle facility”? Suze decided that it was. She eased off the cork and poured herself a frothy glassful. It tasted divine. This was the life. First she sat on one side, then on the other, then she lay down right across the back seat, lazily watching the buildings sail by. When the car stopped at a red light she could see the plebs straining to look in through the one-way windows, as though the stretch limo might contain Yoko Ono or Ivana Trump. Suze pulled faces back, knowing they could not see her. The telephone lay temptingly within reach. Neither her parents nor any of her London friends would thank her for waking them up in the middle of the night to boast, but just for fun she rang up the Speaking Clock and listened to the clipped voice telling her that it was three fifteen precisely.
The box in the ceiling crackled. “We’re almost there, ma’am.” Suze drained her glass, patted her lips with a napkin and peered out. She could see flashing lights and a swarm of people clamoring around a roped-off entrance, guarded by a man built like a fridge. Suze felt a clutch of anxiety. She remembered all the times she had agreed to meet Lawrence at a party, only to spend half an hour circling with a drink in her hand before discovering him holed up in a corner with a crony. How would she ever find Nick? As the limo whispered to a halt at the curb, the crowd swiveled to see which celebrity was arriving. They were all very young and very beautiful. Suze felt like dropping to the floor and asking the driver to take her around the block, but it was too late. The door opened. A blast of hip-hop hit her. Then a hand reached in to take hers and draw her gently out on to the pavement. There stood Nick, boyish in his cream suit, looking her over with frank delight.
“How could I have let you travel alone?” he asked in a slow, reproachful drawl, swinging her around to admire her from all angles. “I’m a boor, a cad, a total schmuck. Will you ever forgive me?”
Suze’s usual banter deserted her. “I should think so.” She smiled shyly.
Nick steered her through the crowd, which parted respectfully. The bouncer swung open the leather-padded door and Suze walked inside. A wall of sound hit her. The space was huge, with an industrial feel to it. Colored lights hung from high girders and raked across a mass of spinning, flailing bodies, turning them magenta and silver and aquamarine. Suze saw women wearing see-through dresses, PVC trousers, satin crop-tops and navel rings; men in leather, tight black T-shirts, denim waistcoats unbuttoned to show off their washboard stomachs. Up on the catwalk a transvestite was dancing in a repetitive, trancelike manner, teetering on six-inch platforms and occasionally tossing lollipops into the crowd. Suze tried not to goggle at his/her Perspex boobs inside which she was quite sure she could see live goldfish swimming. Around the dance floor giant screens projected strange, surrealistic images: wolves running through snow, tattooed musclemen doing circus tricks. Suze could feel the beat of the music pounding under her feet and rippling up her body.
“Let’s go upstairs.” Nick’s breath was warm against her ear.
Looking up, Suze saw that a deep balcony ran all around the interior, reached by staircases balustraded with steel cabling. There was a bar at each of the shorter ends, tables and booths along the sides where people could drink and smooch and observe the snake pit below. Nick took her hand, wrapped it over his arm and shepherded her up the crowded stairs. Everyone seemed to know him, including a worrying number of extremely pretty girls. At the top, she felt a warning squeeze.
“Uh-oh. There’s the model crowd, pigging out on their raw carrots and bitching about their agents. Quick, let’s hide.” He drew her deep inside a booth, handing her in on one side of the table and taking the seat opposite. “Sometimes I get tired of being polite.” Suze slid across the tickly velvet. It was like being in a warm, secret cave. If they leaned close, they could just hear each other speak.
At once a man in spiked dreadlocks appeared beside them, wearing a necklace made of scarred metal fragments that might have fallen off a spaceship on reentry.
“Two vodkas and cranberry juice,” Nick ordered, “and maybe one of those little bowls of caviar to keep us going.” He cocked his head at Suze. “OK with you?”
“Lovely.” Even in the club’s weird voodoo gloom, he seemed to exude a golden glow. His eyes were frank and curious, his mouth made for smiling. He looked as if he had been raised on steak and corn and sunshine. She could practically feel his body heat. “Did you say this club just opened?” she asked, trying to sound composed. “It seems very successful.”
“Last Saturday.” Nick nodded. “We had a fashion show, a rap artist and a total queen of a DJ who insisted on his own special brand of mineral water. Pandefuckingmonium.”
Suze leaned her elbows on the table. “What exactly does a party promoter do?”
“Makes sure the right crowd turns up. Creates a buzz. Checks that the ingredients are right—people, music, food, ambience.”
“But how do you do that?”
Nick reached for a cracker and started to smooth caviar on to it.
“Basically, you schmooze. First
you get to know the models, especially the young ones, new in town. Usually they’re sleeping in bunk beds in some cramped godawful apartment and they’re screaming to get out and meet people—magazine editors, movie producers, rich guys who can further their careers.” He sprinkled the caviar with chopped onion and egg. “And, of course, the rich guys all want to meet the models. Then there are the fashion houses, who are always looking for an event to showcase their designs, or a music company that wants to premiere a new song. I just stir all the ingredients together, and bingo! Instant fun. Here, try this.” He offered her his cracker and Suze took a bite, giggling as the crumbs fell into her cleavage. She tried to brush them off discreetly and caught Nick watching her.
“Wild dress, right?” She laughed nervously.
“It wasn’t the dress I was looking at.”
“So, um, going back to your job, does that mean you know lots of movie stars?”
“Sure. Let’s say Jack’s in town—or Dennis or Brad. These are cool guys, right, but they don’t know the scene here. So they give me a call and I fix them up someplace, make sure the guy on the door knows they’re coming, find them some female company, hustle them out the back way if the paparazzi sniff them out.”
“And what if Demi comes to town—or Sharon or Winona?” Suze asked provocatively. “Do they get the same treatment?”
Nick gave a big, gorgeous laugh. He reached out and caressed her cheek with a warm hand that melted her entire body. “Don’t tease.” He filled up her glass. “Now tell me about you. I want every detail, from when you were born to the moment you got into that distracting dress.”
Suze took a hunk of her hair and flipped it over to the other side of her parting, letting it slither down over one eye. “Well . . .” she began, “the first thing you should know is that my real name isn’t Susannah, or Suzanne, or Suze, but S-I-O-U-X-I-E, pronounced Suzie. My parents met at a pop concert in the sixties. They were only twenty when they had me. Embarrassing, isn’t it?”