An angry flush colored Amanda’s throat and cheeks. “You don’t understand, Nat, you never have, but you do understand how comfortable it is to live off my criminal earnings. You’re a hypocrite.”
The slap cracked across Amanda’s cheek and she saw stars as the force of the blow snapped her head back. This time she touched her stinging skin with shaking fingers and stared into Natalie’s furious eyes. She breathed deeply and exhaled slowly, hearing the shock of the blow echoing in her ears. She instinctively took a step backward as Natalie reached out for her.
“Hey, I’m sorry, babe, but you made me…”
Amanda shook her head, fingers still covering her throbbing cheek; her eyes filling with tears. “No, Nat, nobody made you. We’ve had this conversation before: no slapping, no punching. It’s not sexy, it’s not fun, it’s not how grownups settle arguments and this was not my fault.” She pulled open the front door. “It’s the end of the road for us. We are over.” And before Natalie could intervene, Amanda stepped quickly out of the apartment and closed the heavy door behind her. It shut with a solid “ka-chunk” that gave her an immediate sense of relief. Rather than wait for the elevator and risk having Natalie regain her composure enough to come out and make a scene, she risked her neck in the high heels and ran down the service stairs and out of the building.
* * *
Therapy was a good place to meet Malcolm. The likelihood of bumping into anyone they knew from work was slim to nonexistent. The bar was comfortable and smart, yet intimate and glowingly low lit enough where it counted for them to be able to snare a couple of stools and sufficient bar counter space to prop their elbows and talk close in the rowdy but benign racket of post-work early evening. There was eye candy for him to enjoy in a laidback way and a few women—gorgeous and not so gorgeous—in their very early, giggly twenties. Almost none paid the slightest attention to the pair huddled around a couple of large, frosty tumblers.
“Where to start?” Malcolm peered at her with a mix of amusement and concern as they clinked glasses and dipped into the frigid, salty margaritas.
“It’s been quite a day,” Amanda said with a sigh as the sharp-sweet salty tang made its way down her throat.
“You can say that again!” Malcolm ran his fingers through the mop of blond hair, causing his quiff to stand up even higher than usual. He was a blue-eyed, open-faced, bonily handsome man and unlike most gay guys she knew, he was comfortably clad in an easy masculinity and only turned to camp for comic effect. He worked in third world development policy, or something equally boring and worthy. He laid his hand on her knee. “Job first? Natalie first?”
“Job is easier: I got called in first thing and told to find the door as quick as I could without actually being run out on a rail. That was that.”
“Wow. This financial crisis biz is getting worse and worse. Tonight they’re talking about Washington bailing out the banks.”
“Oh, great. Fabulous timing for me. Huh! Maybe I can make a retrospective claim for a bailing bucket. Or a pump.” Amanda took another sip of her drink. “But jeez, if that’s the case, it’s totally unheard of. I mean, never in our lifetime and probably never at all.”
Malcolm took a deep swig at his cocktail, then another. “This isn’t just going to be about the US. This’ll be like—you know,” he tilted his hand in a series of falling motions. “Dominoes, right across the world.”
Amanda looked at him, speculatively. “You’re right, but I don’t know how many people understand that. Or will ’fess up to it at any rate.”
“Well, I was reading the internal memos today and they’re saying it’ll all be over by Christmas.” Malcolm grinned, then added, “But I think they said that about World War One and Two.”
Amanda shivered, despite the warmth of the bar. “Yep. This is different, Mal, and the difference is subprime. I’m now realizing it’s the biggest hole that’s ever been dug and an awful lot of people will fall into it before this thing is done.”
Malcolm swirled the ice cubes around in the bottom of his tumbler. “I think we need another drink, my darling, because I’ve got news for you too.” He glanced up at her and squared his shoulders.
Amanda saw that his happy-go-lucky face was suddenly somber. She frowned and reached for his hand. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
Malcolm’s grin was wry and he let out a long, deep breath before finally saying: “I got fired too. About ten minutes after we talked. Our department’s been wiped. Apparently everything we do will be managed out of the Nairobi office from now on.”
Amanda’s mouth fell open and the cold, hard lump in the pit of her stomach became another few degrees chillier as she stared at her friend, willing him to crack and tell her he was making one of his very bad jokes. Instead he caught the attention of the bartender and ordered refills.
Half an hour later, they were through another round of margaritas, were still bewildered by the financial crisis, and Malcolm said, “You haven’t mentioned Natalie.”
Amanda swallowed hard and touched her cheek where faintly raised weals in the shape of fingers were an inflamed souvenir of the recent encounter. She drew a shuddering breath, not sure whether she was about to laugh or cry. Instead, she raised her hand to catch the attention of a bartender.
By the time Amanda finished her description of the morning, from leaving Elleron Frères to walking out of the apartment, it was Malcolm’s turn to be dumbfounded. He gaped at her then licked his salty lips, ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head in wonderment.
“Crikey,” he said, solemnly, and then repeated, “Crikey.” He shook his head again and raised his eyebrows before lowering them in a frown. “Jeez. I think we should have something to eat so we don’t get totally legless. And in view of what you’ve just described, let me gently suggest you do not order the twelve-inch wiener, with or without fries and whether or not they do it in purple.”
Amanda half laughed and half sobbed; the laugh won, but only just. She leaned forward off her stool and threw her arms around her friend’s neck.
“You are the best, Malcolm, you know that? They are crazy to let you go. They’re crazy to let me go. It’s all crazy.” The words somehow slid into one long one and Malcolm steadied her and shoved her back on her stool.
“Food. Definitely. What would you say to one of their burgers? They come with Roquefort cheese, which is yumbo. And you also get fries.”
“Yumbo,” said Amanda, grinning at him. “What kinda language is that?”
“It’s English. Australian-English, now—you gonna be a good girl and eat a burger and fries for me?”
“Yep. Budiwannanotherdrink.”
“Coming up.”
The juicy burgers, topped with melting chunks of pungent Roquefort and sitting beside piles of crunchy golden fries, had a steadying effect on Amanda’s spinning head; but when she and Malcolm finally left the bar he still had to grip her arm firmly and prop her on a fire hydrant while they waited for a cab to come by.
“I’ll be okay to go home, Mal, honest,” Amanda said. “I can handle this y’know.”
“Sure you can,” he said doubtfully. “But you don’t have to and I don’t think you should. I’ve called Ted and he’s making up the sofa bed with clean sheets right now.”
Amanda smiled benignly. “Jeez, Mal, you have the nicest roommate. Why don’t you marry him, eh?”
“Because we’re good friends and marriage would ruin everything.” Malcolm put two fingers to his lips and blew an ear-splitting whistle as a cab came cruising round the corner. “Now try not to look like you’ll pass out or puke in his cab, okay?”
“Sir yessir! Coming right along, sir.” Amanda pushed herself upright, away from the hydrant, and flashed her eyes open wide. To all intents and purposes she looked as if she were actually alert rather than drifting steadily toward somewhere undefined, where the events of the day could not follow her.
The cab pulled over and Amanda allowed Malcolm to fold her int
o it. She crawled across to the far side and slumped in the seat, but Malcolm pulled her into his arms and settled her carefully against his shoulder and she sighed contentedly.
“Broadway and 113th, please,” she heard him tell the driver as she opened her eyes to see suspicious eyes viewing her in the rearview mirror. “She’s fine,” Malcolm reassured the driver. “Just a little tired.”
The cab driver’s eyes rolled, but he put the vehicle in gear and they were away. Malcolm opened the window a fraction and the chill wind riffled their hair. As the unwelcome cold air tickled her nostrils Amanda snuffled, grunted crossly and snuggled closer into his shoulder. Within minutes she began to snore.
“Hey, buddy! You got 113th.” The driver’s gruff tones cut through the companionable snoring and Amanda and Malcolm both sat up, wide-eyed and surprised. Amanda wiped a string of dribble from her chin and tried to moisten her dry mouth with an even drier tongue.
“Where the hell?” she exclaimed, then instantly put her hand over her mouth. “Oh God,” she muttered and scrabbled for the door handle. Malcolm leaned across her, pushed open the door and somehow managed to hold on to her as she leaned out and vomited neatly into the gutter between the cab and the curb.
“Great timing, buddy,” said the cab driver mildly as he exchanged bills with Malcolm.
“Yeah, really good,” said Malcolm, grinning at the sardonic eyes in the rearview mirror. “Had some bad news today. You know how it is. Tied one on.”
“It happens,” said the driver and shrugged.
Malcolm got out of the cab and went around to help a stumbling, shaky Amanda step over the puddle of her own making and safely onto the sidewalk.
“C’mon, kiddo,” he said softly. “Gotta get you upstairs.”
“Gotta go home,” Amanda muttered.
“You are home, at my home. Now come on, Amanda, no mucking about.”
Amanda sighed and allowed Malcolm to lead her away from the edge of the sidewalk.
“You are very good to me, y’ know that don’t you Malc, old son?”
“I do and you’re right. But you’d do the same for me. In fact, you have. So just shut up and let’s go upstairs and try not to wake Queenie Preston. You know how he loves to be disturbed and come out in his rollers to grouse.”
Amanda giggled. “He is so sweet in those rollers, all pink and blue and spiky. No wonder he’s always awake. How ’n hell could you ever sleep with your head like a plastic porcupine, huh?”
“Great description, and God knows.” Malcolm gently tugged on her hand to persuade her to make the six steps to the elevator landing. It was an unfriendly contraption with metal concertina gates that clanged and screeched horribly no matter how hard Malcolm tried to open and close them quietly. It also groaned like a soul in torment as it began its painful ascent to the third floor. Amanda groaned in sympathy, her eyes closed, a stupefied grin on her face.
Malcolm watched her with affection and concern. Aside from the faint sour smell of her breath, she looked fine and she stayed that way as they got out of the elevator and tiptoed along the landing; then he propped her against the wall as he tapped softly on his front door and made a face at the peephole.
“Teddles!” Amanda exclaimed as the lanky, shaven-headed African American peered out at them.
“Hot diggety damn, Amanda, what have you done this time?” Ted stood back to allow his friends to pass through the narrow hallway.
“Me? I ain’t done nothing, Ted, I am the innocent party in the series of heinous crimes in what I am about to unfold in evidence against them, whomever ’n wherein-so-ever what they may be.” To emphasize her point she hiccupped as Malcolm steered her purposefully toward the bathroom.
“Not until you’ve had a shower and brushed your teeth,” he said firmly.
“You are such a mean old meany man. I thought Australian men are all supposed to be gay and kind and nice.” From behind them Ted’s snort was barely stifled.
“Mal, how about some hot chocolate and a cookie for the patient?”
“Sounds great, Ted. Wouldn’t mind some myself, tell the truth.”
Amanda was humming tunelessly but there was an undercurrent of jumbled words about mean old Malcolm. “Amanda, shut up. Get your clothes off. Here’s a robe. Here’s a toothbrush. There’s the toothpaste. There’s a shower cap. Get in the shower. Can you manage that or do you need supervising?”
“Oooh hoo hoo, what a scary old wombat you are, Mr. Mean Malcolm. I can manage justfinethankyouverymuch.”
“Okay, but let’s see you do it.” Malcolm watched as she stood smiling at him, peering with unfocused eyes and swaying gently to and fro.
“Bossy, bossy, bossy,” Amanda muttered and began laboriously stripping off her clothes. Malcolm took each garment from her, neatly folded it and placed it over the towel rack; he sat her on the stool to remove her boots and socks and then turned on the shower.
“Shower cap?”
“Yes please, miss.”
“Cheeky.” He pulled the pink daisy-decorated plastic cap over her hair and tucked in the stray ends. “Okay, now I’ll get out of here and you can dump your fripperies and hop in. Can you manage that?”
“Fripperies. Frip-per-rees. Fripperies. I like that. Fripperies.”
“Shut up and get in the shower.”
Chapter Six
Amanda opened her eyes, moved her head slowly from side to side and moaned softly. The pain in her skull felt like someone had removed her brain and replaced it with a molten cannonball. It rolled and banged sickeningly in her head with the slightest movement.
“Oh mercy,” she muttered, and held it tenderly in both hands. She frowned, but it hurt more, so she stopped. She tried to think, but that hurt too so she decided to breathe slowly and deeply, not move her head again and see whether some idea of where she was—and why—might occur to her without any further effort.
A few seconds later the beginnings of remembrance of the previous night started to seep through the throbbing haze of headache, and again she muttered, “Oh mercy.”
Very carefully she opened one eye, then the other and looked about. It was not good; even her eye muscles hurt. Across the room from where she lay, a tall bay window gave her a good view of the topmost branches of a large tree whose sparse and yellowing leaves were partly illuminated by a street lamp and partly by the gray light of what might be dawn. After a minute’s careful listening, the tone of the hum and clatter of traffic noise traveling half a block from Broadway confirmed it was indeed early morning. She stretched carefully and sniffed with pleasure at the sweet, freshly washed cottony scent of the oversize T-shirt in which she’d been put to bed. She was snuggled beneath a puffy, dark green plaid-covered quilt that also smelled cotton-clean and possibly of lavender.
On either side of her head were the leather arms of the sofa whose pullout bed compartment had either been surprisingly comfortable, or she had been well and truly out of it. She stretched again and could detect no kinks in her back. If it hadn’t been for the excruciating pain of the invisible bald eagle’s talons as he sat on her head and tried to crush her skull, she would have been perfectly content. Amanda closed her eyes again and willed herself back to sleep to ward off the torture. But worse than pain was the certainty that no matter how hard she tried to block it, the dull throb reminded her of the morning after that evening with Clancy Darling.
“Oh God, no,” she groaned out loud and dragged the pillow over her face. “I don’t want to go there again. Please.”
But Amanda’s memory wasn’t being kind; it casually swept her right back to Clancy’s arms and the dark guitar riff and erotic rhythm of the Top Gun ballad. “That was soooo uncool,” Amanda grumbled into the pillow. “Why that?” She began to giggle, but the pain it generated threatened to shatter her cranium. She lay still and gave in to the vivid recollection of the dance as the palm of her hand against her forehead conjured the feel of her temple resting lightly against Clancy’s hair.
Th
ey had moved surprisingly easily together to the music, lubricated by three rounds of margaritas that were more than enough to put them dangerously close to the edge of What the hell. Amanda closed her eyes to the swirling lights and other dancers and felt Clancy’s hand warm in the small of her back. The sensation was at once comforting and electrifying and instinctively Amanda slid her own hand from where it lay on Clancy’s shoulder to the back of her neck, her fingers slipping into the lush, burnished gold pre-Raphaelite mane. She inhaled a subtle citrusy perfume and the honeyed scent of Clancy’s skin and hair and settled even more comfortably into the light embrace.
“What is it about this song,” she muttered into Clancy’s ear. “I can’t stand Tom Cruise but he was really cute in that old movie.”
Clancy laughed. “Yes but Kelly McGillis was in it too, don’t forget. Even I would have joined the air force if she’d been my instructor.”
Amanda laughed too, pulling back to look at her partner with surprise and unexpected pleasure. “You’re right.”
Clancy’s hold across Amanda’s back tightened momentarily as she spun them carefully. The maneuver avoided a collision with two small but erotically charged women who were oblivious to everything as they chugged their pelvises in unison and twirled to a double time beat only they could hear, looking like windup toys. Amanda caught Clancy’s eye and they both struggled in vain to smother giggles.
“Women haven’t danced like that in decades,” Clancy murmured, close to Amanda’s ear. “Have you ever seen The Killing of Sister George? Late night TV, maybe?”
As one of the two small women looked up at them suspiciously Amanda smothered another laugh. “You’re right, they’re like a pair of Sister Georges! You’re bad!”
Clancy grimaced. “I know. Sorry, it’s called Australian humor. Very politically incorrect.”
“I love it.” Clancy’s eyebrow rose and her eyes twinkled. Amanda hurriedly went on, “I mean I’ve gotten used to your brother—he says the most terrible things. He’s hilarious.”
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