The Client: A Playing Dirty Novel

by Pamela DuMond

  “Ladies!” Beverly lifted her red plastic cup high above the bubbling mineral waters. “In honor of the holidays—whichever one you celebrate I don’t care—I made Snowflake cocktails: vanilla rum, peppermint schnapps, and a pinch of Baileys. Cheers!”

  We lifted our cups, toasted, and sipped.

  “Yummy!” Luisa said, slurping the drink. “No calories, right?”

  “Better,” Beverly said. “Negative calories.”

  “I thought we were ignoring calories this holiday,” Mrs. D said. She was wearing a red shower cap emblazoned with green Christmas trees.

  “What are calories?” I asked.

  “Charlotte, the eye gel totally worked on you,” Luisa said. “You look completely refreshed. I almost didn’t recognize you when you walked into the place. How come you never called me this week?”

  “Super busy at work.”

  “This drink is delicious, Beverly,” Mrs. D. said. “I don’t remember schnapps tasting this good.”

  “I think you’re picking up on the Bailey’s,” Beverly said. “Much tastier than the peppermint.”

  “Aha. I knew it had a different kick to it. How was everyone’s week?” she asked. “Beverly, you share. Work first, then personal.”

  Beverly crinkled her nose. “I pulled that condescending jerk from the Maintenance department for my Secret Santa. I hate his politics and the stench of his cheap cologne. It’s too musky—like something a pimply fifteen-year-old with a few in-grown facial hairs should be wearing. I have no idea what to get that oily man.”

  “Cotton wipes,” Luisa said. “Real Fresh Organic astringent cotton wipes in lavender or chamomile are on sale until the end of this month.”

  “Sold,” she said and tossed back her drink. “On a personal note, I get to see my grandson for the holidays. Jamie’s coming back from Iraq after his deployment and he’s passing through Chicago.”

  “That’s wonderful, Beverly,” Mrs. D. said.

  “That’s great,” I said. “How long was he over there?”

  “A solid year this time. Second deployment.” She poured herself a drink from a stainless thermos. “Can I refresh anyone’s glass?”

  Luisa extended her cup. “Yes, please.”

  I leaned back in the soothing waters, letting the tub’s jets pummel my lower back. I smiled in spite of myself. I could get used to this. So what if the guy I crushed on for two weeks ended up banging some girl at a burger joint? Maybe that would work out for him.

  Maybe she was a producer and would cast him in a movie.

  A porn movie.

  A stupid low-budget porn movie with shitty music, saggy couches, and beds with satin sheets where people who weren’t Italian said, ‘Ciao’ to each other. The actresses would have no idea how to act, and instead would toss their teased hair around as much as their overly theatrical come hither looks. The title would be something like: ‘The Well-Hung Christmas Stocking’ or ‘Dingle Dangle All the Way’.

  Maybe late some night when I was sad and lonely I’d stumble across it on my fave streaming network, and see what I’d be missing because I’d never fucked Joe for real. And then I’d remember the good old days when for two weeks I’d had a smile on my face from a short, sweet, mythical relationship with the hot waiter who wanted to be an actor.

  “And how was your week, Charlotte?” Mrs. D. asked.

  I slurped my drink. “Matchmaking’s a dirty job. That said, I made a bit of progress for a few clients of mine. On a personal note, I’m officially unlucky at love.”

  “Oh, no!” Luisa said. “Pour her another drink, pronto, Beverly.”

  Beverly topped me off. “Screw him or her if they can’t figure it out,” she said.

  “Him,” I said. “And I think someone already beat me to that.”

  “You’re a bona fide matchmaker.” Mrs. D. regarded me with a different gleam in her eye. “Any successful matches?”.

  “John and Lesley Biltenhouse,” I said, sipping my drink.

  “Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m impressed.”

  “I was working at the hotel’s beauty parlor that Saturday when some guests came in to get their makeup and hair done for the wedding,” Luisa said. “They tipped twenty percent.”

  “I supervised Housekeeping that weekend,” Beverly said. “A lot of people came in from out of town for that event. They tipped my crew well.”

  Uh-oh. Both Beverly and Luisa worked at the Delacroix, which would explain the late night spa gatherings with booze and eye masks. But they also might know Joe, and I didn’t have it in my heart to get into explanations tonight. I needed to relax.

  “This man. Did you like him?” Mrs. D. asked.

  “I did. The little I knew of him. I liked him a lot, really.”

  “Maybe it’s not over,” Mrs. D. said. “Maybe it’s just a bump in the road.” She pushed herself up. I could almost hear her bones creaking. She ran her hands, back and forth, through the water as if to steady herself, then made her way slowly to the stairs. She was so little, her red shower cap was not that far above the water’s surface.

  A part of me felt protective. I stood and followed her.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  “Helping?”

  “I’m fine. I need to tinkle. You’ll be mad at me if I do it in the pool. Give me a push up the stairs please. The steps seem to be getting taller every year.”

  I took hold of her arm and helped her as she latched onto the guardrail and pulled herself up the steps, one creaky arthritic knee at a time.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Beverly asked.

  “No. I’m not an invalid yet.” She shuffled away, butt naked, red shower cap firmly in place.

  “She’s slowing down,” Beverly said once she was out of earshot.

  “It’s the booze,” Luisa said.

  “I made her drink a virgin,” Beverly said. “Poured it from the mini thermos, not the big one. Isn’t that what you do?”

  “How did you know?” Luisa asked.

  “You might be The Miracle Worker to someone whose eyesight is going. But Ms. Beverly is only in her sixties, sister, and nothing gets past her.”

  “Salute.” Luisa lifted her glass and they toasted.

  That’s when we heard the crash.

  The hotel was nearly empty at 11:30 p.m. on a Friday, but the slip, fall, and crash of Mrs. D. – who I finally discovered was actually the Marte Delacroix – stirred things up a bit.

  I was out of the water in a splash and reached her first, collapsing to my knees at her side. “Mrs. D. are you all right?”

  “No.”

  Beverly skidded up to us. “I’m calling 911.”

  “Are you okay,” Luisa asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “Wiggle your toes,” Luisa said.

  “No.”

  “No, you can’t?” I asked. Worry crawled up my spine and banged like a sledgehammer on my brain. “Or no, you won’t?”

  “No!” Mrs. D.’s voice cracked and she started to cry.

  “It’s okay, honey, it’s okay.” I squeezed her hand. “It’s going to be all right.”

  Beverly called 911. I sat next to Mrs. D. as she lay on the floor, her eyes open and blinking. I stroked her arm. “Shh. Shh. All will be okay,” I reassured her.

  Luisa covered her in towels and then pitched a few to me.

  “Grab my clothes from the locker?” I asked. “I don’t want to be naked when the paramedics get here.”

  “You need to put that on your bucket list,” she said. “They’re usually hot.”

  “Not tonight. The combination is Zero Six. Zero Six. Zero Six.”

  “No wonder you’re unlucky in love,” Luisa said, spun the dial with one hand and crossed herself with the other. She clicked it open. “666. The sign of the Anti-Christ.”

  “The combination came with that lock. It’s not like I picked it.”

  “I’d buy a different one,” she said and tossed me my clothes.
“Just saying.”

  I had my top halfway over my chest when the emergency crew burst into the spa. The paramedics checked Mrs. Delacroix’s vitals and whipped her down the hallway on a gurney.

  “It’s going to be fine, Mrs. D.,” Luisa said.

  “We’re coming with you, honey,” Beverly said.

  “You don’t worry about a thing,” I said, hustling behind them. I had my coat draped over my arm, and carried my shoes in my hand.

  “I’m not worried. I’m fine. Except for my ankle,” Mrs. D. said. “It hurts.”

  “Did you hear that?” I shouted. “Her ankle hurts!”

  The paramedic winced. “No need to scream.”

  An hour later, Beverly, Luisa and I gathered in a tight circle in the emergency room at Northeastern Hospital Emergency. “I think it’s postural hypotension,” the doctor told us. “She probably stood up too fast and her blood pressure plummeted. The ankle injury is most likely a sprain. The radiologist will look at the films when she arrives in the morning. I’m admitting Marte and keeping her overnight for observation. I’m assuming someone contacted her family?”

  Did someone contact her family?

  “Yes,” Beverly said.

  “Good,” the doctor said. “We’re transferring her to a room but it might take an hour or so. I’m here all night. Let me know when a relative arrives.”

  “Can we hang out with her?” Luisa asked. “We’re practically family.”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, no. Hospital rules.”

  I huddled with the ladies on tired blue vinyl chairs that had seen more than their share of worry. The clock over the admitting desk read 2 a.m. On occasion the doors opened, and chilly night air blasted into the room along with patients and their concerned friends and family. A young woman waddled in, holding her stomach and grimacing because she’d gone into early labor. A middle-aged man with a red drippy nose rasped for breath. A teenage girl wearing a look of shock held what looked like a broken arm awkwardly in front of her. It resembled an upside-down fork.

  “I should have gone with her to the bathroom,” Beverly said. “I am a horrible friend.”

  “No, you’re not. You offered,” Luisa said. “She turned you down. She has her pride, you know.”

  I peered morosely at my shoes and tapped my heels. “I was already helping her up the stairs. I’m the asshole not you. Why didn’t I just walk her down the hall?”

  The doors to the ER opened again. The winds gusted more ferociously this time. A guy in a black woolen pea coat with a thick head of dark brown hair and high cheekbones flushed red with the cold night air walked in. Worry marked his eyes.

  Joe!

  He strode to the front counter and hit the bell. When no one immediately appeared behind the protective glass he hit it again. “Hello! Here to ask about a patient.”

  The night attendant walked up. “Name?”

  “Marte Delacroix.”

  “Oh, holy crap,” I muttered under my breath. I dragged my fingers through my hair.

  “What?” Beverly asked, looking up from her phone.

  “That guy at the front desk. He works at the hotel. He’s asking about Mrs. D. He’s my unlucky-in-love.”

  “He’s your unlucky in love?” Luisa stared at him, her eyes narrowing, then widening.

  “Yes. The tall guy.”

  “That’s a twist.” Beverly stood up and walked toward him.

  “Are you related to the patient?” the front desk clerk asked.

  “Yes. I’m her grandson.”

  Oh, fuckity fuck.

  “Joseph.” Beverly put her hand on his arm.

  He swiveled and stared at her. “Beverly. Is she okay?”

  “I think so,” she said. “She fell. Doctor thinks she just got up too quickly. Hypotension. She sprained her ankle—maybe worse. They’re going to keep her overnight. Probably transferring her right now.”

  “Thank you for calling,” he said.

  “Of course.”

  I turned away from him and faced the wall. The blood abandoned my brain for parts unknown. How the hell I could get out of here without Joe seeing me? Mrs. D. was stable and in good hands. I could always come back and visit her the next day at the hospital, or track down an address to send flowers and a card. “Must run,” I told Luisa. “I don’t think my cat ate tonight. He’s probably panicking. You know how co-dependent they are.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Hold on just a quick minute. I’ll say hi to Joseph and go with you. We can share a ride. Don’t you want to say ‘Hi’ to—”

  “No. Clearly he’s busy.” I moved toward the exit and pulled my coat up high, nearly over my head in the hopes he wouldn’t see me. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

  “Stay, Charlotte. It’s so much warmer inside.” Joe grabbed my arm and spun me around. “Besides, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  Crap.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Joe

  After I got home from the bar I watched a little TV then fell into a restless sleep over-thinking things, tossing and turning. I finally nodded off and dreamt of a cloudy fall day, orange, red, and yellow leaves swirling around me. Then I heard the crack of a gunshot and startled awake. Sweat beaded on my neck and trickled onto my chest.

  Great.

  I’d been making progress, having therapy a few times a week for six months after the accident. Over the course of the next 12 months, my sessions had narrowed to once a week. The nightmares had decreased over time to the point where I went almost a month without the night sweats and terrors. But just when I thought it was over, bam, the nightmares came back and smacked my brain.

  I got up, hit the bathroom, and splashed cool water on my face. I walked to the kitchen, turned my phone back on, and spotted Beverly’s text.

  Time slowed down and for a second I couldn’t breathe.

  Get a fucking grip, Delacroix.

  I yanked on clothes and caught a cab to the hospital even though I probably could have run there just as quickly.

  I raced into the ER and spotted grandma’s crew—along with a plus one— Charlotte. I should have been more surprised, but I wasn’t. I discussed Marte’s medical conditions with the doctor. He suspected she’d be bruised and sore from her tumble. He mentioned there were a few suspicious spots on her X-rays that the radiologist could take a look at tomorrow.

  “Why not tonight?” I asked.

  “She’s not on the premises.”

  “She’s on call, that’s easily fixed, right?”

  “Don’t want to interrupt her unnecessarily.”

  I called my lawyer, who woke up the hospital chief of staff with a phone call. The chief of staff summoned the radiologist to check Grandma’s films. That took about five minutes. The radiologist ordered an MRI, which is where Marte was now. Now I sat on a bench across from Charlotte in the waiting room and stared at her, but she would not meet my eyes.

  She fit in perfectly with Grandma’s ladies: all opinionated, feisty, and funny in their own way. Charlotte had been hanging with Marte’s crew in the spa a week after I’d met her at the wedding. She’d had green slime oozing down her face in the elevator because Luisa Bananas had talked her into trying a herbal eye mask. So now that I’d found Charlotte—what would I do with her?

  Dirty thoughts popped into my brain, a welcome distraction to my fears about Marte’s health. “Go home,” I said to Beverly and Luisa at 3 a.m. No use all of us staying up tonight. I ordered you cabs.”

  They stood up, stretched, and shrugged on their coats.

  “Text me if you need anything,” Beverly said.

  “Will do.”

  “Tell Mrs. D. I’m sending healing thoughts,” Luisa said. “I’ll give her a massage as soon as she gets out of the hospital.”

  “She’d love that.”

  “Great running into you again.” Charlotte pulled on her coat and glanced at the door furtively, like it was an escape route out of Alcatraz.

  “Yes,” I said. �
��Do me a favor?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Stay and keep me company.”

  “Uh…okay.”

  “Oh, lordy,” Beverly muttered under her breath and rolled her eyes. She grabbed Luisa’s arm and hustled her toward the door.

  “But he’s her unlucky—” Luisa said, pointing at me, confusion plastered on her face.

  “Let it go, baby.” Beverly dragged her outside as a stiff cold wind blew into the waiting room.

  Looking at Charlotte, stupid, unwanted feelings churned in my gut. Mixed with my abject fear about Marte was something else that felt familiar and different—all at the same time.

  “I’m sorry about your grandmother,” Charlotte said. “She’s the grandmother I wish I’d had. But this isn’t about me. How are you doing?”

  “I think we dodged a bullet. And I’m tired.”

  “Me too,” she said.

  I held out my hand. She ignored it. “I need coffee,” I said. “Come with me. I’m buying.”

  Two cups of cafeteria coffee and a “healthy” but tasteless pre-made sandwich later, Charlotte accompanied me to Marte’s private room on the fifth floor. I poked my head inside. “She’s not here yet.”

  “Probably still getting her MRI,” Charlotte said. “Hey, if you don’t need company anymore I should get going.”

  Something was off with Charlotte. It was like she’d pulled so far back into herself that she was armored; hidden behind a wall that had been erected since the last time I’d hung out with her in the Delacroix kitchen. “Right. It’s late. I’ll call a cab. But first I need your digits, lady.” I pulled out my phone. “How I let you get away without giving me your last name is a crime.”

  “Bauer,” she said and recited her phone number.

  I entered her details. “How long have you known my grandmother?”