Wait a minute. I was his girlfriend? Jesus H. Christ. I’d known the man for less than a day. And for the bulk of our time spent together yesterday I was either tied up, unconscious or both.
This was seriously fucked up. And yet, it was turning me on. It was almost romantic, in a sick, convoluted sort of way. So he didn’t want me slumming it as a cocktail waitress, huh? He thought I could do better, that I could rise to some higher social echelon, preferably via him? How very Victorian. Wow, even my mother would approve of that.
And yet, I didn’t. “So was there anything else he said? About me? About anything?”
“No, that was about it.”
That’s it? I was gobsmacked. “That’s all? You wanted to go off the record just for that? I was under the impression you were going to tell me something really important.”
Benny cocked his head at me and smiled. “Funny, I think I did tell you something really important.”
I thanked Benny for his time, gathered my things, and headed back to the apartment, fuming the whole way. Who in the hell did this man think he was? Moreover, what kind of woman did he think I was? I was nobody’s chattel, and I didn’t take orders from men unless I was waiting tables. Peter’s behavior was outrageous.
And yet, I couldn’t help but feel a little flattered. Here was a man who had gone out of his way to remove me from a situation he viewed as demeaning. It was strange, even misogynistic---and yet, romantic. It made no sense, but it turned me on in the same way that being tied up had turned me on.
What on earth was the matter with me?
I hated to admit it, but the only thing I could think of all the way home was how Peter Rostovich’s hands would feel on my body.
****
Hannah was seated at our breakfast bar staring at her laptop screen when I walked in. Just as I predicted, she was unshowered, disheveled, and wearing her tattered flannel footie pajamas. A half-eaten tuna-salad sandwich sat beside her on the countertop, along with a stack of Art News Now back issues.
Hannah didn’t notice me at first; she was engrossed in typing an email. “I’m back,” I said as I tossed my keys in the glass dish and hung up my jacket. “By the way, I’ll need to use your car tonight if that’s OK. You know, since Ginger died.”
She looked up from her email. “Yeah, I got your email about that. Sure, you’re welcome to take my car. Bummer about Ginger though.”
“Yeah, Ginger was a good car. But I’m pretty sure she’s beyond repair now.”
“You’re sure? I thought you said Ginger could always be fixed.”
“Even Ginger has a limit. Engine’s totally locked up, transmission is shot. She’s done.”
Hannah finished typing her email and turned around to face me. “I’m sorry I couldn’t drive you to campus today. I was really hungover.” She began thumbing through the stack of Art News Nows. “Plus I had to make a layout deadline. It’s been making me crazy all day, what with the new page designs they’re using and all. By the way, how’s the Rostovich review coming?”
“Um, it’s okay I guess. He didn’t give me much to work with, though, other than some new images from his personal collection. He’s willing to give you an exclusive on those since the gallery opening was sort of a bust.”
“Oh? That’s cool. But I think my editors will be more interested in his personality and background.”
I scoffed. “Good luck getting anything like that out of him. The sum total of my knowledge of his background amounts to him being a tight-lipped weirdo who was born in the Ukraine.” Even so, I had news that I knew Hannah would salivate over. “But I’m having dinner with him tonight, so----“
Hannah jumped up from her barstool and shrieked. “What? You having dinner with him? When? Where? Why? How?”
“Jeez, Hannah, calm down. Keep your panties on.”
She giggled. “I’m just so surprised you pulled something like that off, and so quickly! Rostovich is a notorious recluse. Nobody can get direct access to him. That’s the word around the art press scene, anyway. And yet, you did! What on earth did you do, give him a blowjob or something?”
I reddened. “Hannah, that’s uncalled for. Of course not.” But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t considering maybe giving him a blowjob. Maybe not tonight, but at some point in the future. Possibly the near future. My inner self would have preferred tonight of course, along with a bit extra, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to indulge her yet. “But yes, he does seem rather, um, taken with me.”
“I’ll say.” Hannah gathered her stack of papers and magazine back issues and tucked them into her briefcase. “I probably should have told you this before we actually had an hour-long staff meeting at the magazine about how to handle the Rostovich review when the guy has such a strange relationship with the press. We considered not doing it at all and releasing you from the assignment.”
“Why didn’t you then?”
Hannah leaned back against the breakfast bar and sighed. “I have to confess, I pawned the review off on you because I didn’t want to have to face him myself. I thought you could do a better job than I could, and still do. I found the whole idea of reviewing his work completely intimidating.”
“How can you be intimidated by someone that nobody’s ever heard of?”
Hannah frowned at me, as if she were scolding a petulant child. “Nancy, anybody who’s anybody in the art world has heard of Peter Rostovich. Just because he keeps a low media profile doesn’t mean he isn’t famous. There are other ways to promote yourself. Better ways. He knows better than anyone about the power of guerrilla marketing. Anyone who follows the art press at all knows his work---not because he gets a lot of media coverage, but more for his strange antics. Think Joaquin Phoenix, except for the art world. I honestly didn’t think you’d get anywhere with the assignment, so it made sense to hand it off to a freelancer.”
Guerrilla marketing?Joaquin Phoenix? Sometimes I had to wonder if maybe Hannah didn’t have enough to do with her time. “You were too intimidated to face Rostovich, huh? Funny, I just thought you were handing me your table scraps.”
She shrugged. “A little bit of both. You have no idea how much pressure I’m under right now, Nancy. My workload is insane. The symphony thing was really just a ruse to get me a much-needed night off, even though I was technically still reviewing the performance. But it seems to have worked out for the best. For you, anyway.”
Hannah gathered her things and shuffled off to her room. I noticed as she did that the plastic bottoms of her pajama-footie feet were worn almost all the way through. She’d weathered so many breakup storms in those PJs. My heart went out to her and I followed her into her room.
“Hannah, I’m really sorry that Ted dumped you,” I said, sitting down across from her on the edge of her daybed. “But really, it’s for the best. You can do a lot better than him. Seriously.”
She hugged her pillow and wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “I know. You’re right. But it still hurts.” She reached out and took my hand. “Nancy, promise me you won’t make the same mistakes I have with guys. I know I’m constantly pressuring you to date and lose your virginity, but truth be told, I think you’re better off waiting as long as possible. The sooner you give in to guys and let the floodgates open, the sooner you get hurt.”
Her eyes welled up and she reached out for the Kleenex box on her nightstand. I got up to leave, hoping to give her some privacy, but she motioned for me to stay. After drying her eyes and blowing her nose a couple of times, Hannah regained her composure. “So, tell me about this meeting you have with Rostovich tonight. How are you managing it? I thought you always cocktailed on Friday nights.”
“Well, that’s sort of a long story,” I said. “I um, I was able to get out of work for tonight.”
“But isn’t that going to cost you a lot of money? I know you depend on your cocktail shifts to cover the rent and utilities.”
I smiled. “I have more than one iron in the fire. The freelance gigs I�
��ve picked up will more than make up for it. Plus, I wouldn’t miss this dinner tonight for anything in the world.”
“You make it sound like a date, instead of a routine interview.”
“That’s because it sort of is.” I gasped and clapped my hand over my mouth. “I mean, it’s different from a routine interview, is all. Umm---” I trailed off. Who on earth was I kidding? I’d already given too much away.
Hannah brightened. “Then it is a date. Oh, wow. I can’t believe it! I’ve always wondered why you’d held out for so long, and now I think I know.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were just waiting for the one nobody else could get. The perfect score. Seriously, getting someone like Peter Rostovich interested in you after only one meeting----jeez, that’s like, the Holy Grail.”
I didn’t follow. “Excuse me?”
She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Nancy, a lot of women wait their whole lives for something like this to happen to them, and you---well, it just sort of fell into your lap.”
“Nothing’s fallen into my lap yet.” I couldn’t help but note the double entendre in that statement, and felt my cheeks grow hot.
“Don’t worry, it will. Which reminds me.” Hannah stood up and walked over to her dresser, pulled open the top drawer, and took out a box of condoms. A pack of three, lubricated, with strawberry flavor “for extra fun,” according to the label. “I assume you know how to use these?”
“Um, only in theory. We practiced with a banana freshman year during dorm orientation.”
She sighed. “Right, I keep forgetting you have no experience. Anyway, make sure you take these along with you tonight. Just in case. Better to be safe than sorry. I’m assuming you’re not on any kind of birth control.”
“Um, no.” I took the condoms from her hand, holding them out at arms’ length. Wow, this was getting real. There was a very good chance I would lose my virginity tonight. Or at least, have the opportunity to lose my virginity. Whether I really wanted to go that far was another question entirely.
My inner self shot me a dirty look then. What are you talking about? she asked. Of course you want to go that far. And if you don’t, your body and I plan to make things very unpleasant for you.
Hannah patted me gently on the arm. “Whatever you do, just make sure your first priority is getting your story. Mine and the Plain Dealer’s. Even if this Peter Rostovich thing is a flash in the pan, at least you’ll be getting some long-term benefit out of the writing gigs. By the way, if you need any pointers on how to handle the sex end, you know you’re always welcome to borrow any one of my sex manuals. I highly recommend Kama Sutra for Beginners. There’s a whole section on which positions make losing your virginity the least painful.”
“Painful?” I sputtered. Was that really true? I always thought it was just a myth perpetuated in Victorian literature to dissuade young women from ruin.
“Oh, it only hurts for a little bit,” Hannah replied. “And if you’re lucky, you’ll be enjoying it too much to care. Do you want to borrow my vibrator for a little while? You know, to break yourself in a bit. It’s a Jack Rabbit, nice and thick and big. I can sterilize it for you.”
My upper lip curled in distaste. “Um, no. But thanks for the offer.”
“Suit yourself. Though I do recommend you invest in a good vibrator. You’ll find that men are only good for certain things. Other things can only be achieved with a quality sex toy, I’ve found.”
My whole upper body was in a state of flush by then. I didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking, so I decided to change the subject. “So I can use the car, right? I’ll fill the tank for you. Even get it washed if you like.”
Hannah dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “Of course you can. Knock yourself out. I’m not doing anything all weekend. Feel free to borrow some of my evening clothes if you like. Unless you want to go the informal route, which can have its advantages.”
“I was about to ask you about that. You see, I’m meeting Rostovich in his private suite at the Ritz-Carlton, and---“
Hannah jumped back up from her perch on the daybed and squealed. “The Ritz-Carlton? Are you serious? Oh my. This calls for a serious fashion intervention. Do me a favor and go shower. Make sure to wash and condition your hair. Use my green Rainbath, it’s in the hall cabinet. Follow up with the sesame body oil I keep next to the sink. Make sure to use it while your skin’s still wet. Meet me back here when you’re finished.” She rubbed her hands together and giggled. “Oh, I can’t wait to see what you’ll look like! When I’m done with you, Peter Rostovich will have no choice but to ravish you on the spot. And then marry you.” She paused. “Assuming that’s what you want, of course.”
“Let’s just start with a nice dress and go from there,” I said.
****
A little over an hour later, I walked out of Hannah’s room as a woman transformed.
She’d literally sewn me into her best Caroline Herrera cocktail dress, the finest piece of attire in her very expensive wardrobe. I felt a little nervous about wearing something so expensive, especially since she modified it to hug my thin, flat-chested frame so closely. But Hannah just shrugged it off. “I’ve only worn it once, to a family wedding,” she said. “It’s just been sitting in my closet collecting dust for a year and a half, you might as well get some use out of it.” She’d topped it off with a tailored bolero jacket in cream brocade shot through with gold thread and matching gold buttons, black silk lace stockings with a back seam (I hadn’t realized such things still existed), and dainty black slingbacks. She put my hair in an Audrey Hepburn-style updo, accenting it with the same antique comb I’d borrowed from her the day before. And she’d insisted on doing my makeup, since I had almost no understanding of how to apply the stuff at all, let alone the differences between day and evening eyeshadow patterns. As I stared at myself in her full-length mirror, stunned at the vamp who stared back at me, she spritzed me from head to toe with her expensive atomizer of Anaïs Anaïs perfume.
“This perfume was named after the author Anaïs Nin,” Hannah explained as the overwhelming cloud fragrance made me sneeze. “She wrote erotica, you know. Very sexy writer.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of her. But do you really think all of this is necessary? It’s just dinner.” I was not a perfume person. I wasn’t a fashion person, either. I was more of a throw-on-the-first-thing-I-grab-from-the-closet person. Besides, I was technically meeting Rostovich in a professional capacity---as a journalist, not a call girl.
“You can never be too careful,” Hannah remarked as she fussed with my hairdo, sticking in a few extra bobby pins for good measure.
“This look isn’t exactly what I would call careful.”
She folded her arms across her chest and gave me a probing look. “Nancy, it’s the Ritz. If you aren’t properly dressed, they aren’t even going to let you past the doorman, let alone send you up to Rostovich’s private suite.” She shook her head and clucked, as if I should have understood this already. “Besides, it never hurts to dress to the nines. It gives a woman a certain, shall we say, power. And you’re going to need that if you want to get your story. Among other things.”
Hannah kept fiddling with my updo, but I shooed her away. (Between the two dozen bobby pins and the half-can of industrial-strength hairspray she’d already used, my hair wasn’t moving an inch.) I sank backwards into a chair. “This is all very overwhelming,” I said, more to the air than to her.
“Your first love is always the best,” she replied dreamily. “And it never hurts to make a good first impression.”
“I think calling Peter Rostovich my first love is a bit of a stretch.”
She smiled. “Maybe. But I think this whole thing is really sweet. And you’re way past due for your first love. I had mine when I was fifteen, and even though it ended badly, I still have fond memories of him and the whole relationship.”
“Funny, I thought all your relationships ended badly.”
Hannah glared at me. “Now now, let’s not be mean. The important thing is, this is your first real date of your adult life, you’ve got a very important man very interested in you, and you’ve got a golden career opportunity out of it to boot. What’s not to like? Looking like a million bucks when you walk in the door is only going to make things that much better for you.” She retrieved a black velvet clutch purse from the top shelf of her closet and handed it to me. “By the way, you’ll need this. Ditch that denim purse of yours, it looks like something a thirteen-year-old would use. And if you drag that awful duffel bag of yours around, it’ll spoil the entire look.”
“But that’s my press bag! I’ll need it to do the interview.”
Hannah rolled her eyes. “I’ll lend you my good Coach briefcase. It’s black and good leather, it’ll do in a pinch. Seriously Nancy, you’ll need to pay more attention to how you dress and accessorize if you ever hope to make it in the publishing world. Doubly so if you expect to be in a relationship with someone like Rostovich.”
“Easy for you to say, Little Miss Trust Fund. I have a very limited budget for that sort of thing.”
“Yes, I am well aware. But there’s always consignment shops. And sugar daddies. I’m thinking that before this evening it out, you might have one of the latter at your disposal.”
“Surely you understand that would go against all my principles,” I shot back just as the door buzzer sounded.
Hannah and I exchanged looks. “Were you expecting anyone?” she asked. “I hope it isn’t Ted. I so do not want to deal with him right now.”
I shrugged and shook my head, then went to answer the door, since Hannah was still unshowered and in her jammies. As I always did, I glanced through the peephole first and was stunned at what I saw.
On the other side of the door stood a uniformed chauffeur. Behind him in the circular drive that fronted our apartment building was a shiny black limousine.
Domino (The Domino Trilogy) Page 11