The bartender was wearing formal attire, a black vest and bow tie. As befitted a servant, Mike thought with a righteous nod. Peggy asked for a sparkling water. Instead of his usual absinthe, Mike scoured the bottles and asked for a Remy Martin Louis XIII cognac. It was a special celebration, after all, and absinthe seemed a bit too outré, too puerile. And too cheap.
The bartender blanched—it was a $175 pour—and looked over at Peggy for guidance. This caused a spike of anger in Mike, but Peggy was laughing gaily and nodding her head eagerly.
“Whatever he wants. And keep his glass filled to the brim at all times. He is the star of this show, after all, our shining star. And he is going to make millions!”
...of enemies.
The bartender filled Mike's snifter with the 500 year old special reserve. It was worth it at half the price, Peggy thought. She grabbed his hand and led him to his destiny.
AMONGST THE BROWN LEATHER and the mahogany-paneled walls of the Special Members' Room, Gretchen, Roz, Darko, LeRoy, Vareen, Flora and Vince huddled together. The air crackled with anticipation.
Mags and Shirl had flown in from Las Vegas for the event—“This sounds like a hoot! How could we possibly miss it?” Pavel had paid for the buffet, and, Gretchen surmised as she had hugged her friends in the Room and thanked them with tear-filled eyes for their support, their new faces and boob jobs as well. Mags and Shirl had already been sent out into the literary masses to work their stripper charms on Mike; he had met them briefly at the beginning of the courtship, but if Gretchen could barely recognize them, there's no way Mike would.
Gretchen looked stunning in a little black cocktail dress. Darko had come in white tie. A bit overdressed, but maybe that's what they did in Svardia. He uncorked a bottle of Brut, they laughed as it sprayed over them, and after a toast to success, they guzzled down.
“You're a sweetie,” Gretchen told Darko.
“What this sweetie?”
“You. Very nice. Very kind. Thanks so much for renting this place. And paying for the open bar. And for letting us use your apartment to set the entire thing in motion. I promise I'll do everything I can to pay you back. I'll have you speaking English fluently if it breaks my brain and tongue to do it.”
Darko gave a guttural grunt. “This man he make you sad, we make him sad. I happy. You good girl. He bad man. And this party for my office worker too, so tax write off. I happy do.”
As Vince massaged her shoulders with his strong, gentle hands, Gretchen looked at her friends old and new. Her eyes brimmed with tears of gratitude.
“I don't know how I can thank you guys enough. I owe you all. Big time. Especially you, Roz. You had to sleep with him.”
Roz shrugged. “I've had worse. It's not something I haven't done before. Slept with an asshole. It wasn't really sex. It was a mission.”
Here Roz gave a secret look to the four soon-to-be out of work actors. She, together with the four, had devised some exciting twists to the evening that, they could tell from her moral compass, Gretchen wouldn't approve of. But they were creative people, and their minds had gone into overdrive. They were sure Gretchen would love what they had planned for Mike, no matter how much she might afterward protest they had gone too far. They had been unwitting pawns in his cruelty towards Gretchen and, now that they had met her and liked her, wanted to get Mike back as well.
After Gretchen had told them the entire sad story, they now saw that Mike had used their weakness, their need for employment, to dupe a nice person. And Vince's girlfriend to boot. Mike had always said to them that nobody was getting hurt. But that hadn't been true. He'd wanted to hurt Gretchen, not only in her bank account, but in her brain, her self-confidence, her life. Mike was her ex-boyfriend; soon he'd be their ex-boss.
SIPPING SOME CHAMPAGNE, her first, though Roz was on her third, Gretchen peeked through the door.
“That must be his parents.” Gretchen didn't know if their presence was a good thing or not. They had all discussed it at length: what would hurt Mike Brown most? Money didn't matter to him, people didn't matter. They didn't know about his relationship with his parents though. The only thing that seemed to matter, the only thing he cared about for sure, was his non-existent poetry career. Tonight would ensure he'd be disgraced before New York's poetry glitterati, and, they supposed, the rest of the world. With his parents looking on, hopefully crestfallen and disappointed. They should know their true son. Gretchen checked her watch. “The reading's about to start. I'd better head out soon. Remember, guys. I know you're longing to punch him, but no violence. Please. I only want to out him.”
LeRoy's eyebrows raised with sudden interest.
“No, I don't mean that. I mean...I want everyone to know about his duplicity, his cruelness, his lies. He had no compunction about spreading lies about me on national TV.” She had since learned from Vince that Judge Edna Lee was Mike's aunt. No wonder Gretchen had lost! How could he have humiliated her before 10 million viewers? What had she done wrong? Nothing. Except love him. “This won't be revenge. That's too harsh a word. This is Mike simply getting what he deserves. His comeuppance.”
They whooped and hollered, except Darko, who seemed a bit confused as to what was going on; Gretchen would have to focus on his listening skills in the future. But when he saw how excited the strange Americans suddenly were, he jumped up and filled all the glasses. As they clinked—“To Mike Brown!” Roz blurt out, quite intoxicated at this point. “May he rot in Hell!” They all cheered.
Gretchen pulled Vince aside, twisted the knob of a door, and was delighted to see that it led to an office-like space. An empty office.
“Come in here a minute.”
Vince followed, glass still in hand.
“What's up?” he asked.
Gretchen pressed him against the side of the desk, stared deeply into his eyes, then leaned forward and kissed him. His hands fumbled towards the zipper on the back of the dress, but Gretchen gently pulled them away.
“That's what I wanted to talk about,” she said.
He looked shocked.
“You mean...you're breaking up with me? But—”
“No, silly. But...well, do you remember our first, well, date, I suppose you could call it? The Thai lunch outside the hospital? And us in the bushes beside the ambulance afterward? That, uh, al fresco, er, sex romp?”
He grinned.
“How could I forget! I don't think I ever will!”
“I just want you to know...I don't know what possessed me that day. I'm not really like that.”
“I didn't mind. It was hot. You—”
She pressed her fingers gently against his lips.
“Shhh. There are a few things I have to tell you. Need to tell you. Before things kick off with Mike. And we don't have much time.”
Vince folded his arms across his chest.
“No, Vince, it's not like that. I'm truly in love with you. You are the kindest, most thoughtful, most genuine guy I've met in a long time. First there was Sam who, as I told you, was responsible for my Nickel and Dime hell, then there was Mike, who was responsible for a life of hell even outside Nickel and Dime. I'm so happy I met you. Shame about how it happened.”
“And so? What's up?” Vince still didn't seem at ease. He gulped down more champagne.
“When I overheard you guys talking about the scam, the things you were doing to me, my first thought was that I wanted revenge. I had been looking for love...with you, of course...but I wasn't going to get it. Even through my rage, I felt so disappointed. Again, love had passed me by. I'd have to settle for revenge. But now, I think it's possible to have both. Revenge against Mike. And love with you. I didn't know who you were. I thought you were David Lee Roth, the anesthesiologist. Now I know you're Vince Henderson, the actor.” And here a tiny part of her still brain wondered about the common sense of replacing a wannebe poet with an unemployed actor, though Vince had told her weeks ago not to worry; he knew how it sounded, but he had trained in medical billing, so
he could always fall back on that if need be. “You've revealed yourself, your true self, to me. I know now you're not an anesthesiologist. My mother would've been so happy. But now I feel like I'm the one being...disingenuous. You don't really know the real me. You think you do, but you don't. When I thought you were David, I had my dating face on. I still have it on. I normally wouldn't jump into the bushes, strip off and get down to it. And we haven't even ever had an argument. You've never seen me angry. And I can get angry. Very angry.”
Vince burst into laughter.
“Are you serious? Do you remember when you leaped into the cafe and attacked us all with your umbrella? Never seen you angry?”
“And now that everyone's being so nice to me...well, out there, I was all smiles. But, really, it makes me feel guilty. I don't deserve it, people being nice to me. Maybe I don't deserve love, either. Before you and I can go on, there are some things you need to know about me. I've done some terrible, disgusting, horrible things. Things that, though I've gone to confession and maybe God has forgiven me, I can't really forgive myself for. You might find them disturbing.”
He clutched his heart in mock horror.
“Now you tell me!”
“No, listen, Vince, I'm being serious. I've revealed them to nobody. Well, except a priest in the confessional. So let's call this confession part two. After you've heard what I've done, then you can decide. If you still want to be together with me.”
Gretchen's heart fell as she noticed he now couldn't look her in the eye. Was it her imagination, or had he inched away from her, sliding his rump ever so slightly down the desk? She took a deep breath, her eyes fluttering up to heaven. Then she spoke.
“You know I'm always telling you I'm waiting and waiting to hear back from the NYPD? How I've taken all the tests, and soon they should be calling me so I can start my training? To become a cop, ridding the streets of the drug dealers and pimps and so on?”
He nodded, his arms across his chest again, his eyes inspecting the stapler next to him, the pattern of the carpet, a thread on the strap of her dress. Anything but her eyes.
“It's never going to happen. A few weeks ago, the day I met you, in fact, they sent me an email to tell me I failed the NYPD Psych Exam. In fact, when Vereen and LeRoy attacked me, or pretended to, what I was doing was screaming down the phone at the cops. And I called them up for weeks afterward, roaring abuse at them on the phone. Refusing to take no for an answer. Proving I was the lunatic their tests said I was! And then, when I got sick of speaking to whoever it is they have answering the phones, I moved on to 311. Yes, I'm so ashamed, but I dialed 311 over and over, and just cussed out the operator. Then I hung up. I haven't done it in weeks, though. Since I've met you.”
The shock was plain on Vince's face. Even an actor couldn't hide his shock from the bizarre actions she was relating. Gretchen felt like she was digging her own grave. She grabbed the spade and continued, dirt flying through the air.
“And why was I fired from Nickel and Dime? I think I even lied to you when we met and told you I was still working with them. You know I'm teaching Darko now, but...but...I went crazy on the plane and beat the shit out a passenger! They had to restrain me! I'm so horrible!!”
She burst into tears. How she longed to sob into his chest, but by this stage he was a full two feet away from her along the length of the desk. She was alone in her grief and shame. Just as she would be alone in her life, a spinster without love. Forever. Her sobs and wails seemed to echo in the air. Gretchen jerked as she felt his hands on her, massaging her shuddering shoulders, felt his fingers run through her curls, felt him gently raise her chin, felt his eyes, those gorgeous gray eyes, peering with concern at her. Concern and, could it be...? Yes, it was. Tenderness, affection. No, more than affection. She felt his lips press against her own. Love.
“Don't cry, Gretchie babe,” he whispered. “We've all done it.”
Even as gratitude filled her heart, and her sobs dissolved, as he held her softly but firmly in his arms, here Gretchen wondered about the secret life of actors. They've all done it? What went on at those acting classes? Beating the shit out of people? Failing NYPD Psych Exams?
“We've all done things we regret,” Vince continued. “Once I was on the subway, and there was—”
Gretchen pressed two fingers against his lips once again.
“I appreciate it, Vince. But, please, no details. So what do you think?”
“I think I love you. Yes, still.”
ROZ GRABBED DARKO'S hand. “Okay, you hot Eurotrash foreigner. Now's about time for us to make our debuts. From the looks of this crowd, it might take only a few lines for them to understand what's going on. That woman Peggy must've invited every poet in the world. And it looks like every single one of them decided to come. I guess there aren't many scandals in the poetry world. Well, that's going to change tonight!” She waved to Flora, LeRoy and Vareen, “So see you guys at the beginning of the reading. You don't want to miss all the fun.”
“Good bye,” Darko said. His accent had improved. It must've been the alcohol.
When the door closed, Flora looked to LeRoy and Vareen.
“Are the photos all set up?” she asked.
“Of course,” Vareen said, sounding offended.
“Thank God your photography is better than your makeup. You guys should work for the CIA, the FBI, whatever. The pictures are perfect. Hilarious!”
“And the video snippet's even better,” LeRoy said. “We've saved that for last. Like a climax.”
“How about that foreign guy's soup?”
“Yes, the tub's set up.”
Flora shuddered. “How can they eat that in his country? I'd never step foot into a Svardian restaurant.”
“Just where is this Svardia?” LeRoy asked.
But nobody knew.
Peggy had wandered off somewhere in the crowds, and within minutes, Mike had indeed one arm around Mags and the other around Shirl—his first two groupies—and was whispering into their ears the wonders of having sex with a poet. A world-famous poet. He had no need, he thought, to introduce himself, ingratiate himself, to the critics and journalists around him. After they heard his work, they'd be pushing through the throngs desperate to shake his hand. Let them do the work. It was beneath him.
“So what are these poems of yours like?” Shirl asked, squirming away from a few of his fingers. Mike did a fake double take.
“You? Interested in poetry?”
“Why not?” Mags asked sharply.
“Just because we have tits we can't read?”
This forced him to say, “If you must know...the...the...the juxtaposition of the old and new. Different things side by side. Very postmodern. Very in. And there'll be a slide show behind me, you know, nature, things like that, a leaf, a, er, an entrail, a mountain of garbage, a neon sign, a church steeple, a cow, to sort of show what my poetry's supposed to make you feel. You get it?”
“Yes,” Shirl said, “but—”
Mike bit off a shriek of alarm as Gretchen's red curls materialized from the darkness, her smiling face sailing past a shoulder pad and thrusting itself into his own.
“Congratulations, Mike,” she said.
Yes, he had invited her, but only to rub her nose in it, in his success. He was surprised she had shown up. She must really be a masochist. He knew goldfish and turkeys were dumb, but people were dumber.
There was a strange shine in her green eyes.
“This,” Gretchen said softly, and Mike saw she was staring directly at him as she spoke, unable to look at his bimbos; jealous, probably, “is your special night. You're never going to forget it, and you deserve it. I really mean that.” She said it with a touch of his arm. He almost brayed with laughter into her stupid, dumb-witted face. Really! Humans were so stupid! He dismissed her with a wave of the hand and trailed Mags and Shirl through the crowd. Away from Gretchen.
“Who was that?” Shirl asked. Mike didn't hear, because now he was annoyed. W
hy was his ex-girlfriend so forgiving? He wanted to see her upset. Well, he figured, taking a gulp of his cognac and leading Mags and Shirl towards the bar for another round, soon it wouldn't matter. Gretchen Barnett would get that stupid grin wiped off her face. Next week. At Mrs. Roth's 'funeral.' He had more important people to meet. More important? He had important people to meet. She was no one, nothing.
An antique podium of polished oak was the centerpiece of the stage. A spotlight shone on it. Peggy tapped her finger on the microphone, then blew into it. Behind her, a vast expanse of red velvet curtain added to the luxury.
“Attention, attention, please.” Now Peggy had the microphone gripped in her hand.
Gretchen, Roz and Darko had taken a table close to the stage. The table held full glasses of champagne, a few lobster quesadillas and a shiitake mushroom with a bite taken out of it, and under it, Gretchen squeezed both their hands with excitement and anxiety. She would translate the poems for Darko if he needed it. At the table next to them she saw Henrietta and Richard Brown, she sipping what looked like a Cosmopolitan, he a martini with three olives. They were beaming with pride mingled with amazement at the stage. 'Who would ever have believed it? Our layabout son...actually doing something!' their look seemed to say. Behind their backs, sitting around other tables, standing, staring forward, shushes ringing out, ice cubes clinking, the literati of New York's poetry scene looked expectantly at the stage.
“It's rare,” Peggy said, “that I am as delighted as I am tonight to introduce you to the singular Mike Brown. Talent such as his has never before appeared on this auspicious stage. I'm sure you will agree after he has entertained us all with his work. You know, as a literary agent, I have a duty to my authors, my poets, and one thing I really shouldn't do is share work with others outside the industry before they've been taken on. With Mike Brown, however, I must admit that I was a bit naughty. As many of you know, as I've told you earlier tonight, I recently got married to an anesthesiologist. And the moment I read Mike's manuscript, I simply had to show it to dear David. He thought of it the same as I did. And I'm sure you'll all agree with my assessment. And my anesthesiologist husband David's.”
Emergency Exit (The Irish Lottery Series Book 6) Page 27