Sarah pushed her salad to one side. “I don’t know how, honestly.”
“Well, good organization and keeping your priorities balanced, basically,” Judith said. “I’d love to help you out. I can give you the name of my meditation coach…”
“I’m unemployed right now, Judith,” Sarah said. “I don’t think I can afford him.”
Judith looked away. It would help if Sarah wasn’t so negative about the whole thing. There was always a solution. “You know what…I’m going to loan you a book that might help you.”
“Really?” Sarah said unenthusiastically.
“Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. It’s been a godsend in my life,” Judith said.
“Judith, can I ask you a question?”
Thinking it was about the book, Judith smiled. “Certainly.”
“Are you really happy?”
Judith blinked. “What a question!” She paused. “Of course I’m happy.”
Sarah looked at her suspiciously, then shrugged.
Judith waited for clarification—when Sarah didn’t respond, she finally asked. “What brings that up?”
Sarah shrugged again. “I don’t know. It’s just that—well, you always seem to be in a hurry to do something, you know? You’ve got everything neatly compartmentalized. I’ll bet you’ve got me written down in your notebook as a to-do item. You know, something like ‘get explanation from Sarah’ or ‘get Sarah to take job back.’”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Judith said sharply. It was listed in her “friends/family” section as “provide emotional support.” Sarah would understand when she read the book—no point in mentioning it to her now.
“Anyway, I guess you’re right, to a point,” Sarah said. “I let my life spin a little out of control. I was totally focused on Benjamin, what he was thinking, what he would think—and then I was totally focused on work, because I thought it would help me prove something to Benjamin. Well, not this time around. I’m going to have some fun.”
Judith didn’t like the sound of that. “And get a new job,” Judith said.
“I figured I’d temp,” Sarah said casually.
Temping? Judith hid a wince. She’d had temps work in her department. They all seemed like submorons. Sarah certainly deserved better, after all her education. “Well, I’ll look around, too,” she promised, wishing she could write it down in her organizer. She would when she went to the ladies’ room, she decided.
“I’ll find something, Judith. Don’t worry.”
Well, obviously one of us needs to. “Read the book?”
Sarah sighed, then smiled. “Sure, Judith. After all, it’s worked like a charm for you. Who am I to argue with success, right?”
Judith smiled. “Right.” Worked like a charm. Of course it did.
Of course she was happy.
“Waiter?” She stopped the man walking past them with a little hand gesture. “You know, I think I’ll have a little glass of wine after all.”
“Sarah, are you ready yet?” Martika called.
Sarah adjusted her outfit…a bra-strap styled tank dress in pink. She thought it looked good with the new haircut, and she hadn’t worn it out yet. Frankly, she wasn’t sure about the straps, but she was in L.A. Hell, she was frosted in L.A. A little bra-strap tank dress was probably just the thing.
She stepped out. “Ta-daah-ah-AH!” The fanfare announcement turned into a disconcerted wail.
Martika was wearing a vinyl dress that ended somewhere just below her pubic hair, from the looks of it. It looked like she poured herself into it. She was wearing leather knee-high boots that were supported by absolutely mountainous black platform heels. Her hair flew out in a bloodred nimbus that made Fire-starter look like Alfalfa. She had everything but the whip and zippered mask.
Sarah quickly looked around. Nope, no accoutrements that she could see. She counted herself lucky.
Martika looked her over with a disdainful eye. “I thought I told you we were Goth clubbing.”
Sarah choked.
“Hmm. Well, we can see if I’ve got anything you can borrow.” She grabbed Sarah by the arm and tugged her into her room. Compared to Sarah’s relative neatness, Martika’s room looked like a war zone. She dug into her closet with relish. “Let’s see…it’ll have to be something small—you’re on the short side, aren’t you?”
“Five-six,” Sarah said. “Average.”
Martika laughed. “Average is never something to aspire to, darling…ah! Here we go.” She handed Sarah a plaid micromini with a white crop top that said “boys suck” on it in rhinestones. “If you’re going to go with the little girl look, be slutty about it.”
“Who said that? Betsey Johnson?”
Martika laughed again. She looked like some evil arch nemesis of, say, Wonder Woman. “Go on. And put some makeup on.”
“I have some makeup on!”
Martika rolled her eyes and followed her into the bathroom. “For God’s sake, we’re clubbing. You can’t wear Bobbi Brown neutrals clubbing!”
Sarah grumbled something. The miniskirt fell just above her knee…God knows where it fell when Martika wore it. She pulled the crop top on. It was less crop than Martika seemed it should be and she had to stop her from cutting it to make it shorter.
“Maybe you could wear the netting top…”
“No!” Sarah’s arms crossed protectively in front of her chest.
“Oh, all right, Sister Sarah.”
A half hour later, coated with a healthy shellacking of Urban Decay and enough eyeliner to give Cleopatra a run for her money, Sarah was pronounced “slutty enough.” She tottered on her highest high heels next to Martika, who made it look like she was born in stilettos.
“Just think attitude…attitude…”
As opposed to thinking “sharp, agonizing pain.” Sarah limped after her.
“We’re picking up Taylor, and then we’re going to Perversion. God! It’s been ages.”
They got into the Martikamobile, and went to Taylor’s place. Then they drove to Hollywood, Sarah doing her usual “brace yourself!” against Martika’s version of Offensive Driving.
When they parked, Sarah said a small prayer of thanks for arriving in one piece, then followed Taylor, wearing what looked like rubber lederhosen, and Martika the vinyl war goddess. The two of them looked like vampires, she noted. She must be the character of the little blond girl that Lestat changed. She snickered at that, until she saw the line to enter the club.
Oh, my God. Apparently, the memo had gone out to the other vampires, because they were there in full force. You couldn’t throw a dart without hitting someone with black clothing, pale skin…and a scary expression in his eye, for that matter. Sarah took a protective step behind Martika.
“It’s not that bad,” Martika admonished. “Come on!”
Martika and Taylor chatted while they slowly moved forward in the line. They were greeted by an absolutely huge guy in a yellow shirt with bold block letters that said SECURITY, for those who couldn’t have guessed. He was wearing one of those speaker-headphone things, like Madonna wore on the Blonde Ambition tour.
“ID?”
Sarah dutifully produced her awful driver’s license photo. He scrutinized the license, then her face. She expected some pithy comment, like “Related to Tammy Faye Baker?” but instead he just waved her on. She paid the cover, and then followed Martika and Taylor into a large, darkened hall.
The first thing that struck her was the music, and that almost literally. It had all the force of a cannon blast, and it kept going.
Martika turned and said something to her—she couldn’t make out what it was.
“WHAT?” she yelled.
Martika pointed to the bar, then broadly pantomimed getting a glass and tossing back a drink.
“OH.” Sarah shrugged. “HOW ABOUT WATER?” she bellowed into Martika’s ear.
Martika looked at Taylor, then rolled her eyes and dragged Sarah to the bar. She said something to the bart
ender. Sarah was then unceremoniously presented with a vodka and cranberry, which Martika paid for.
“To your first night clubbing!” she said, clinking her own drink against Sarah’s.
Sarah nodded weakly, then took a sip. It was strong enough to set her coughing. The cranberry was simply there for coloring, apparently. The bartender winked at her. She quickly looked away.
After a few minutes, Martika had finished her drink and was staring at the floor. It was eleven o’clock, late by Sarah’s reckoning, but apparently “when things got going.” Everything in Martika’s posture said that she wanted to dance.
“Come on, come on!” Martika nudged at Sarah impatiently.
Sarah forced down the rest of the drink, then fought off another fit of coughing. She was still feeling the burn of the alcohol in her chest as Taylor and Martika dragged her out onto the crowded dance floor. Taylor and Martika started to dance to the music. It sounded like a man singing…harsh and guttural enough to sound like some sort of German. Sarah couldn’t make out the words, but apparently the lyrics were secondary to the pounding electronic beat.
Taylor and Martika cut a stunning figure. Sarah, herself, felt like she was just shuffling. Other people jostled her. She felt an elbow prod into her side.
“Hey!”
She turned, only to see a man with one white eye and one red eye stare back at her.
“Sorry,” she muttered, and hastily turned back to Martika and Taylor.
She could’ve gotten into the music, maybe, but the bodies on the floor were crowding closer. Martika and Taylor were close dancing, to Sarah’s surprise…really close dancing. And nobody else seemed to notice. The other dancers were either all over each other, like Martika and Taylor, or else aggressively asexual, dancing like it was some sort of pagan ritual. Sarah, who was doing just above the high school version of a two-step and narrowly avoiding getting mauled doing it, was now distinctly uncomfortable. When Martika signaled for a drink, Sarah followed her with relief.
“So what do you think?”
Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Martika sighed. At least, it looked like she sighed. She did the little bosom bounce and shoulder heave thing. “Sarah, aren’t you going to even let yourself try to have fun?”
Sarah looked down at her drink. “I am trying to have fun,” she answered, then repeated it since Martika couldn’t hear her.
“Not from what I can see. You’re free! You aren’t dating that Neanderthal dickhead anymore!” She studied Sarah appraisingly. “Believe me, he’s probably more than fucking aware of it, Sarah.”
Sarah’s chin jutted up. “What do you mean?”
“Sarah, do you honestly think he’s saving himself for you?”
Sarah’s eyes widened. She hadn’t thought about that.
Sarah approached the dance floor with a vengeance. She closed her eyes, trying to feel the music, rather than just be deafened by it. She moved with an aggressive sensuality…all hips, boobs, everything. Martika was right. She wasn’t saving anything for that…that Neanderthal dickhead! If he was out haunting some sports bar or something, hanging out with the boys at the office, then she could sure as hell have a good time in what Benjamin would definitely call a den of iniquity. And who cared!
She noticed a man, fairly close, staring at her. He was attractive, in a Children-of-the-Night sort of way…long dark hair, waxy-pinkish skin. At least his eyes are the right color, she thought, trying not to be too obvious. She glanced away, continuing her sensuous dance, and when she looked back he was still staring at her.
No, more than staring at her. He was headed her way.
Play it cool, play it cool, she thought, continuing her dance. She wasn’t sure how she felt about this. It’s not like she had to sleep with him or anything, she reasoned. Just dance with him. There wasn’t any harm in that. She noticed she was slowly moving away from him, and then stopped, continuing to dance in place, letting him approach her.
He said something to her. She stopped dancing. “What?” she mouthed. She figured mouthing was probably sexier than yelling. Not that she had to have sex with him, she reminded herself. She wasn’t Martika, after all!
He frowned, and repeated it. Forget sexy. “What?” she yelled.
He leaned close to her ear. “I said, you’ve stepped on my girlfriend’s foot twice now. Could you please fucking watch it?”
She pulled back, eyes wide. “Oh, my God.”
He motioned to a woman with long jet-black hair with two streaks of silver, á la Frankenstein’s bride. She was favoring one foot and glaring at Sarah like a curse.
“Sorry! Sorry,” she mouthed, making the apologetic hand movements, like Moses calming the waters. The woman nodded curtly.
Sarah quickly retreated to the bar. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. She stood there, looking for Martika. Martika wasn’t far behind.
“What did that guy say to you?” Martika was in mother hen mode, glaring at the guy from the side of the bar. “Did he frighten you? I’ll kick his ass!”
“Martika, I have to go home.”
Martika stared at her, aghast. “Home? It’s only midnight! You’ve been here an hour!”
“I know, but…” Sarah didn’t know how to explain. “I just…I have to get up early in the morning.”
Martika stared at her suspiciously. “And do what?”
“I have to go to a temp agency,” Sarah said reasonably. “The rent isn’t going to pay itself, you know.”
“You can go to a temp agency on Monday, and you know it.”
“Martika, please.”
Martika stared at her for a minute longer, then let out a lusty, unmistakable sigh. “Let me go tell Taylor. You are going to owe me so big time!”
Chapter 7
Roadhouse Blues
The desk in Judith’s home office was heavy, expensive mahogany that she and David had searched for for months, right after he got hired at MacManus. As it turned out, David got tired of lugging the heavy case files and background from the office to home, and wound up camping out there as often as not. Judith brought work home occasionally, but she now had a competent staff and had her job so well in hand that all she had to do when she came home was go online. She had taken several classes that way, and it was easier than leaving the house and going to the UCLA extension courses she had taken last year. Now, she was still searching for something else to sign up for. In the meantime, she had what she supposed Newsweek would label a “cybercommunity” of sorts. The computer hummed happily and her fingers flew across the keyboard, each stroke sounding like rapid machine gun fire.
She was glad for their high-speed connection as she signed on to her favorite discussion group, “Busy People,” a group ostensibly started for professionals looking for ways to make their lives more time efficient, but one that had turned into a combination venting hall and coffee klatsch. She typed in a greeting, and got a chorus of replies.
Feyn: Hi, Judith 23!
Isabella749: Hello Judith.
Roger: ’Lo, Judith. :)
Ms. sexy exec: Hi there@!
Ms. sexy exec: Whoops! LOL.
She glanced over the few lines of discussion that she’d stepped in on—Feyn was ranting about something, as usual. Roger’s lines were blue and short. Isabella was talking about being at home with her child. The rather ridiculously named “Ms. sexy” was trying to hit on Feyn (whom Judith doubted was even male) and Roger. Feyn was too busy ranting—Roger flirted lightly.
“Not real full tonight,” Judith typed.
Feyn: No. But it’s only Tuesday.
Roger: How are you doing, Judith?
Judith pondered that. Actually, she’d been doing all right—she’d finally gotten back to her meditation, and had managed to get the last set of ad comps out for that big push for Becky Weisel’s client, as well as bring David’s car into the shop and squeeze in (no pun intended) an Ob-Gyn appointment. Her life was a well-oiled machine, if she said so herself.
“Not so good,” she wound up answering.
Isabella749: Why not?
Feyn: I’m telling you, cyber communities are replacing face-to-face contact, and I’m happy for that.
Roger: Are you okay, Judith?
Ms. sexy exec: Roger—what are you wearing?
Judith read over the responses. Feyn and Sexy were too wrapped up in their own conversations, which was fine. “I had a friend ask me a weird question. She wanted to know if I was happy.”
Isabella749: And you don’t feel you are?
Feyn: I have all kinds of people tell me that I’m just a geek for having so many online friends.
Roger: What did you tell her?
Ms. sexy exec: I’ve been thinking of trying out online dating. What do you think, Roger, Feyn?
“That’s just the thing,” Judith answered. “I said I was, but I had to think about it. I hadn’t thought about it.” She hit Send, then rapidly typed another question. “Are you happy?”
Roger: Generally, I’d say I’m happy. I mean, bad things happen, but it’s just a matter of how you respond to them.
Isabella 749: I used to have periods of unhappiness, but then I found Paxsel. It’s wonderful stuff…evens you right out. Are you on anything, medication?
Feyn: I’m very happy! I just don’t see why so many people think that a face-to-face social life is the only kind of social life you can have!
Ms. sexy exec: What? Who’s unhappy?
Judith sighed. And pandemonium reigned.
“Isabella—no, I’m not on medication. Roger—I agree with you, it’s all about choices. Feyn—I agree, cybersocial life is just as good. Sexy—nobody’s unhappy.”
Isabella749: If you’re not on medication, I’d recommend it. It’s really good, not that heavy, sleepy feeling like the stuff they used to prescribe in the ’80s.
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