by Liz Maverick
Bijoux stared at her in silence for a moment.
“I would!”
But Bijoux just shrugged. “Well, it’s not necessary. Off with the Jacobs. Try these.” She handed over a pair of orange Versaces. “Oh, God, no. Horrible. You look like some kind of alien J-Lo.”
Marianne stopped in her tracks and turned to Bijoux. “You really don’t want him. Right? I mean, he’s not rich. He does not match your purported criteria in any way. Am I correct?”
Bijoux stumbled a bit on her answer. “Well, no, he doesn’t meet my purported criteria, but—”
“Good, that’s settled then,” she said, handing back the Ver-saces and putting on some deep purple Guccis.
Bijoux stared down for a moment at the orange bling-laden sunglasses in her hand. “So, uh, how was it?”
“It actually rated pretty high. It had a lot going for it. Well, it started out as just a kind of a joke thing, so there was humor—”
“A joke? A kissing joke?”
“Well, right. So there was this sort of spirit of fun, you know, with a bit of swashbuckling behavior and a dash of . . . oh, I don’t know . . . drama and occasion.”
“Jesus,” Bijoux muttered.
“And he was . . . I don’t know . . . nuanced about it. Very different from Donny. Equally good, but very different.”
Bijoux rolled her eyes. “Let me guess. I’m Donny. ‘Hey, Marianne . . . wanna fuck?’ And now I’m Peter. ‘Hey, Marianne . . . let me make luuuuuvvvvv to you, my fragrant little flower.’ Is that the difference we’re talking about?”
“Don’t be mean to Donny,” Marianne said, cracking up.
“I’m not being mean. Would you please take those off? Try these.” Marianne swapped her the purple Guccis for a pair of green Diors. Bijoux put the rejects in the reject pile and said, “You know I love Donny. But he’s so ‘Me man. Grunt. You woman. Grunt.’ ”
“He is not like that. Well, not exactly. I mean, his caveman tendencies are not without technique. Besides, sometimes you just want a guy who’s gonna—”
“Throw you down on the bed and ravage you,” Bijoux said calmly.
“Yeah.”
“But not every day.”
“Maybe not.”
Bijoux shook her head, frowning at the green Christian Diors. “They engulf the top part of your head like some kind of flesh-eating plant. Not good. Maybe we should just go to Coach. They have a store here.”
“What’s wrong with the Sunglasses Shack? I could get some really fabulous crazy ones on the cheap.”
Her friend looked at her with a pained expression. “Do you want to be on national television wearing cheap sunglasses?”
Marianne thought about that one for a moment. “I’m not entirely sure I care. I just want to win.”
“This was so not originally about winning.” Bijoux huffed. “It was supposed to be about you and me and men.”
“Peter’s a man.”
Bijoux nodded. “True. But you don’t have to go for the first one who shows interest, Marianne.”
Marianne wheeled around. “Ouch.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that you should have your pick. You’re a . . . you know . . . you’re a catch.”
“You sound like my grandmother. If there were really so many good fish in the sea, we’d be out there enjoying both fish and sea from an expensive yacht with our wonderful husbands in the Caribbean.”
“Maybe we just haven’t met them yet.”
“My point exactly. All in good time. Which is why I’m here to win. If you can’t meet ’em . . . beat ’em,” Marianne said with a grin as she turned to the door. “And if we can’t find a decent pair at Coach, I’m going to the Sunglasses Shack.”
“We’ll find a decent pair at Coach. I promise,” Bijoux said grumpily. They thanked the saleswoman and headed back out to the other shops. “Well, poor you. A choice between the best of both worlds. Should you go with Colin Farrell? Or Cinderella’s prince? What a burden.”
“There’s no choice to be made here, unless it’s go for Peter or don’t go for Peter. Donny and I aren’t a thing. And he knows that when I find someone new—long-term new—all this messing about we do on and off is done with. And it’s the same if it happens for him first.”
Bijoux chewed on her lower lip. “Those things are more easily said than done. It’s easy to say you don’t care until the evidence is in front of you and you’re reeling with jealousy.”
“He has no right to be jealous. If he really wanted me, he would have made some sort of effort by now.”
“You don’t think he’s made an effort? I kind of think he has . . . in his Donny sort of way.”
“ ‘Wanna fuck’ is not an effort. It’s a sporting event. A fine sporting event, mind you. A Wimbledon or a Super Bowl—”
Bijoux held up her palm. “Thank you. I get it.”
Marianne followed Bijoux into Coach and tried to focus her brain on shopping. Talking about Donny was making her feel weird. “Why do I feel guilty? I shouldn’t feel guilty. I haven’t done anything wrong. Donny and I have an understanding. Don’t you think?”
“You haven’t lied to him, so I don’t see the problem.”
“Good, good. Why is this so weird for me? I feel weird about Donny.”
Bijoux picked up a purse and looked inside. “For fuck’s sake. You guys need to clean-break it, clean-slate it, whatever. Or else get married and get it over with. Peter’s the best-looking, smartest, most qualified male individual prospective to come into your life for a long, long time. Do not let Donny guilt mess this up. Do not let on to Peter that it’s even an issue. Do not talk about Donny. Do not talk about how you’re over Donny. The minute these men sense weakness, their little feelers go up.”
“Their little feelers. Heh.”
“Stop laughing. This is serious. You know what I’m saying. The red flag goes up the minute you sense the specter of a fucked-up relationship not yet far enough in the past. Ex baggage is just a deal breaker. He’ll pull back. He’ll preemptively dump you—”
“He can’t dump me. We’re not really dating.”
They wandered over to the glass case with the sunglasses and Bijoux flagged down an assistant.
“Well, you are about to.” Bijoux stood behind Marianne and looked over her shoulder into the mirror. “All jokes aside. I beg of you, just keep Donny out of the conversation.” Bijoux took Marianne by the shoulders. “Look at me. Look right at me. You need to cut this thing with Donny off for good. Because just about every element, every angle makes you crazy. The guilt. I’m always hearing about the guilt. And you know you’re not going to get back together with him. He knows he’s not getting back together with you. Yet you never make a clean break and there’s always this . . . stuff . . . there between you, and you go through this cycle all over again with every guy you realize you might like. What about Donny? What about poor Donny? Cut bait, Marianne, ’cause you’ve both been fishing off that particular pier for a long time now, and if one of you was going to bite, you would’ve bitten by now.”
“But—”
“No but. No but.” She pointed to a pair of pink sunglasses and the sales assistant handed them over. “There is no more ‘poor Donny,’ do you understand that? Because you’re going to cut the guy loose, swear off him for at least six months to a year, and maybe even focus on this amazing guy who has just come into your life.”
“You’re right. You’re so right. Okay. Donny’s a big boy. He’s an adult. He makes his own decisions and he can take care of himself. You’re absolutely right. Thank you, Bijoux, for doing exactly what a best friend is supposed to do.”
Marianne tried on the sunglasses and studied her reflection.
Beside her, Bijoux threw up her arms in mock despair. “How do you do it? I mean, you weren’t even trying to get Peter. You were actually playing poker. God bless you, I don’t know what you did to deserve it, but where’s my amazing guy?”
“Don’t worr
y. First of all, we don’t know that Peter is so amazing. They always seem amazing at first, but within two weeks you know as well as I that all the annoying habits show up and the desire to impress disappears. And second of all, your amazing guy is just around the corner. He may literally be just around the corner.”
“Hold still.” Bijoux studied Marianne’s look. “Those are so much better.”
Marianne took the sunglasses off and nodded to the saleswoman, who took them over to the register. “Were you listening to me, Bij? I mean, he could very well be literally around the corner at the craps table. But you’ve got to remember that the difference between my existing possibly amazing guy and your amazing guy-in-waiting is at least a million dollars or so. So it’s not surprising that it’s going to take you just a little longer to find him.”
Bijoux collapsed into a chair by the register, head bowed, as Marianne signed her credit card receipt.
“No, don’t give up! This is Vegas. There are tons of fish here. You just have to keep looking.”
“I’m going to be poor. I can feel it.”
“You’re not going to be poor.”
“Are you into him?”
“Who? Peter?”
“Yes.”
Marianne shrugged. “He seems great.”
Bijoux cocked her head impatiently. “I didn’t ask if he was convenient; I asked if you were into him.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m into him.”
“Okay.”
“Why?”
“No, I was just wondering. You know, wondering if I should prepare myself for the obsessive analysis that we’re about to get into now that you’ve found a new guy. The endless comparisons to Donny, the endless questioning about whether it’s ‘right’ or not.”
“Well, not at the moment,” Marianne said, checking her watch. “Honestly, Bij, you’re obsessing over my obsessing over Peter more than I’m actually obsessing over him. Come on; I’ve only got a couple of hours left before I’m on, and I want to upgrade my makeup.”
They headed back to the hotel where Marianne beelined to the TV and turned on ESPN.
“. . . another player tearing up the series is one Marianne Hollingsworth.”
The girls shrieked and then quickly shushed each other as the recap package continued to roll, showing Marianne in action at the tables the prior day.
“Hollingsworth is a tax accountant from Los Angeles. . . .”
“Wait for it,” Bijoux said, staring at the screen.
“. . . but she doesn’t look like anyone I’ve ever discussed finances with, heh-heh.”
Marianne rolled her eyes.
“That’s right, she arrived in Vegas as ‘dead money,’ but she’s still here, and with a comfortable spot in the middle of the chip count, Miss Marianne is looking very much alive. And that’s our final player recap as play is about to start. This is Ted Wick on the morning of day two here at the Rio as competition heats up. . . .”
“Wait for it,” Bijoux said.
“. . . and the players try hard not to cool down, heh-heh. And now back to the studio.”
Marianne put the TV on mute and grimaced. “ ‘Miss Marianne’?”
“How much do you want to bet they pull you aside for one of those personal-interest interviews?”
“ ‘Miss Marianne’?”
“You’d better get down there.”
“Phil Hellmuth waits for, like, an hour after the day has already started before he comes down. It’s some sort of intimidation strategy.”
“Phil Hellmuth is a two-time winner of the World Series. Phil Hellmuth can afford to do whatever the hell he wants. You, my friend, cannot.” She put her hands on Marianne’s shoulders and turned her back to the door. “You should have your butt in your chair at the starting bell. Go down and start getting acclimated.”
Marianne shrugged and grabbed her purse.
Bijoux stuck her hands on her hips. “Are you going diva on me? Pride comes before a fall, missy.”
Marianne opened the door and looked back at Bijoux over her shoulder. “If ESPN does interview me, I’m going to tell them I don’t accept that nickname.”
“The point of nicknames is that you don’t get to choose them. Now get out of here.”
Marianne looked dreamily off into the distance. “Machine Gun Marianne. That’s so much better. I need something with a little . . . fear in it. Oh, well. At least I got airtime. Oh, crap. I almost forgot; toss me my sunglasses, will you?”
Bijoux walked the Coach pair over to her pal and checked her watch. “I’ll be down in about half an hour. So don’t even think about losing.” She gave Marianne a hug. “Good luck. Oh! Do you have your card cap?”
Marianne’s eyes went wide. “Oh, shit. Where did I put it?” She started lifting up magazines, poker books, hotel menus. “Okay, don’t let me panic. This is a bad time to panic. Where is it?”
Bijoux tried to hand her a quarter. “Just use this. If I find it, I’ll bring it down.”
“No! Donny gave that to me and it’s lucky. It was a stretched penny from New Orleans.”
“Listen to yourself. It’s just a stretched penny from New Orleans—and Donny gave it to you.”
Marianne looked up. “I want it back, Bij. Help me.”
Bijoux frowned and shook her head. “I seriously don’t get it. But whatever. Let’s calm down and be systematic about the search.” She started stacking things in neat piles while Marianne got down on her hands and knees and looked under the bed.
“Oh. Here it is. It must have just slipped off the bedside table.” She got to her feet and stood up to face Bijoux, feeling sheepish.
Bijoux stood there, her arms folded across her chest, tapping her pump toe against the carpeting.
Marianne stared down at the silly stretched penny. Donny.
She tossed the penny in the air, caught it neatly in her hand and tucked it into the tiny pocket on the outside of her purse.
Bijoux gave her a hug. “I’ll be right down. Don’t lose. Good luck.”
chapter sixteen
Things were getting really frenetic around the table. In particular, two of the men were arguing about seating. ESPN had done a good job picking a featured table. It was packed with a cast of characters that would certainly give a good story.
Marianne looked over at the spectator section. Bijoux was squinting, apparently trying to figure out who else was at Marianne’s table. She pointed at something in her tournament guide, and Peter looked down where her finger was trailing across the page. He looked over at the table and then wrote something down in his notebook. Donny looked straight over at Marianne and winked.
Marianne settled her water bottle down on the table, then decided she didn’t like where it was placed and fidgeted with where to put it for the next few moments. As she waited for the attendant to come around with their plastic bags of chips from the previous day, she tapped her index finger on Donny’s stretched penny. She had to confess she liked the idea of him watching her play.
Marianne pulled her new sunglasses from her purse and slipped them on. In the glare of the camera lights, it was actually helpful to wear them, though as Bijoux had warned, if there hadn’t been so much light she wondered how she’d even see her cards.
She’d had enough sleep, but almost wished she hadn’t expended so much energy on shopping in the earlier part of the day. Everyone was looking a little ragged, and it was only going to get worse.
The ESPN officials ran around organizing things, pointing camera lenses, lighting the area, taking down names, and getting waivers signed.
“You’re an asshole, Noonan,” the guy on her left suddenly blurted out, leaning over Marianne to direct his comment to the man directly on her right side.
Okaaay.
The guy on her right leaned over her. “You’re a bigger asshole, Pierce.”
Marianne leaned back as far as her chair would allow as the two men held a standoff, eyes narrowed, fists curled.
She cleared he
r throat. They both swiveled their heads and looked at her. Marianne smiled in hopes of de-escalating the situation with her innate charm. They smiled, looked at each other and glared, then sat back in their own seats.
Marianne looked across the table, where another trio of competitors were studiously avoiding eye contact with either of the men.
“Whatever,” she muttered below her breath, opening her bag of chips. “Focus.”
“Don’t even think about looking at my cards!” Pierce yelled out with the classic undertones of the deranged, apparently not realizing that with the seating arranged as it was, Noonan’s being able to see anything to Marianne’s right was patently impossible.
Suddenly the man on her right swooped in and practically tongued her ear in an effort to hiss, “You watch that son of a bitch on your left. He’ll try to sneak a peek at your cards. You just remember, pull the cards straight into the keyhole camera and peek—only enough so’s you can make sure you’re really seeing what you think you’re seeing—and then put that cap right down on your cards. You lean into me if you have to, sweetheart.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Marianne said, leaning distinctly away from the staleness of him and then recoiling back from the staleness of his adversary. She sighed. This was going to be a very long session. “Let the idiots shake out,” she muttered. All the same, she knew it was time to up the risk factor. As the players all emptied their bags and arranged their stacks she was actually a little alarmed to see the amount of chips the others had amassed. “Don’t get nervous. Just play your game.” She circled her shoulders a couple of times and stretched out her neck. God, she was tired. Everyone looked like hell.
Noonan put his hand on Marianne’s back. Her eyes popped wide-open, and she tried to form the correct words to scream under the circumstances. “If that son of a bitch tries to cheat, you call him out,” he said. “You just call him right out and I’ll support you.”
“Thanks. That’s . . . really . . . kind of you. So do you guys know each other, then?”
“Yes.”
No additional information was forthcoming, and the unpleasant sensation of his creepy hand on her back was just a bit more than she was prepared to tolerate. Marianne smiled, scooted her chair back, and stood up, running through a series of runner’s stretches, putting her shoe on the chair, stretching her back by bending over. Suddenly she noticed the ESPN assistant pointing in her direction as he spoke to a cameraman who appeared to be filming her.