by Logan Belle
Nothing would be more awkward than having to talk to any of them after that spectacle, so I am relieved to make my way downstairs alone. The first floor looks incredibly benign and innocent compared to the debauchery I just witnessed.
Two people wait in front of me to get their belongings from the coat check. As I wait, I try to convince myself that I’m fine to drive home. But I know that’s not true. I’m going to have to find a cab, and enlist Patti tomorrow for another afternoon car run.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” Someone taps me on the shoulder. It’s the security guy. Did I leave something upstairs? I feel around in my bag for my phone.
“Yes?” I say.
“You need to settle upstairs before you leave.”
I look at him, confused. “What do you mean?”
“You need to pay.”
“For the drinks?” That bottle of champagne was probably a hundred dollars. But split a few ways, not that bad.
“For the room,” he says. His hand is on my arm, and he is leading me not so gently back into the club. Panic sets in. What is he talking about?
“I’m sorry, I’m confused. A couple invited me into the room with them. I’m sure they took care of it.”
The man shakes his head. “They paid for half. And they were very clear on the fact that you were paying for your half.”
“My half of what? I didn’t even do anything. I just sat there.”
“That’s all anyone does in the champagne room — sit there. Did you sit there and drink champagne?”
He has got to be kidding. “Where are they? I need to speak to him.”
I knew that guy John was sleazy. I just had no idea he was a con artist.
“This don’t got anything to do with them. So just pay your tab, and you’ll be on your way.”
I can’t believe this. We’re back at the base of the stairs. The man looks at me, but it’s difficult to read his expression with the dark glasses. But I can tell he is not pleased.
“Okay. Fine. How much is my half?” I dig my wallet out of my bag. I have about five twenties left.
“Two grand.”
Chapter 20
There is no reasoning with Big Lou, the man the security guard takes me to see after I tell him I do not have access to two grand in cash.
I am sitting in a back office, and Big Lou is smoking a cigar. He is wearing a red button-down shirt, black pants, and a diamond pinky ring. He calls me ‘Sweetheart,’ but I get the sense the ‘sweet’ talk will be ending quickly if I don’t cough up the money.
I’m scared. There is no talking my way out of this. I’m going to have to do something drastic — something I don’t want to do.
“Can I call someone? It’s the only way I’m going to get you the money tonight.”
He puts his palm up. Be my guest.
My hand shakes so hard I can barely punch the numbers.
Please pick up. Please pick up.
It’s eleven at night. He will have to know something’s going on. He can’t ignore this call. Can he?
“Hello?” Justin says. He sounds tired. Like I woke him up.
“Justin. Justin, thank god. Listen, I fucked up. Huge. I need your help and I swear I will pay you back.”
“Slow down. Claire, are you all right?”
“Yes. But I need some cash.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
Pinky ring is watching me.
“How much?”
“Two grand.”
“Claire! Where are you?”
“Private Eyes,” I say.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
*** ***
Sitting in silence in Big Lou’s office, it feels like an hour has passed since I talked to Justin on the phone. I doubt it’s been that long, but I can’t check because they confiscated my phone. I guess they don’t want me posting a Facebook update, Being held hostage in a South Street strip club.
There’s a knock on the office door.
“Yeah,” Big Lou calls out.
The security guy pokes his head in, followed by Justin.
I’ve never been so happy to see someone in my entire life. I want to jump up and hug him, but I don’t move.
“You okay?” he says to me. I nod.
He puts a wad of cash on the desk in front of Big Lou, who proceeds to count it. The sight of every hundred dollar bill passing through his hands is like a dagger. I cannot believe I’ve done something so stupid.
“All settled here,” Big Lou finally says.
Justin holds the door open for me.
“He has my phone,” I whisper to him. There’s no way I’m asking for it. Yeah, I’m a wimp.
Justin turns around. “Her phone?”
Big Lou slides it across the desk.
Justin takes my hand, and I follow him through the club, looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with anyone. I’m practically holding my breath until we get outside.
“My car is this way,” he says, steering me to a side street.
“You don’t have to drive me home. I’m fine,” I say. And it’s true, I’m completely sober. And I’m so humiliated, the last thing I want is a twenty-five minute car ride with him.
“You’re not fine,” he says, opening the passenger side door.
I figure since I dragged him down here and asked him to cough up two thousand dollars on a moment’s notice, the least I can do is get in the car.
Mercifully, he doesn’t say anything until we pull onto the expressway.
“Claire, what were you thinking?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll pay you back. It will just take me a few days to move some stuff around.”
“I don’t want your money,” he says.
“Justin, don’t be ridiculous. Of course I’m paying you back.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not a big deal to me, Claire. You have a kid in college. And besides, I feel responsible for this.”
“I’m the one who went into that room.”
He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t even have known about this place if it weren’t for me. Claire, why did you get so angry? You acted like I was manipulating you into this stuff, and for a second, you had me thinking maybe I was. But then you run right out and start doing this crazy stuff on your own?”
“I don’t know,” I say. But it’s not exactly true. I thought I was mad at him for the reasons he said — that he was manipulating me for his own amusement. But deep down, I didn’t believe that. I wanted to do these things, and he knew that. We were in it together in that sense. But what upsets me is the feeling that he doesn’t care about me — that he doesn’t care that a strange guy ravaged me in a hotel room. The night he left Red Ruby’s with that brunette, I’d been so jealous. But clearly, he does not have those feelings about me.
On some level, I had hoped that all of this sexual adventuring would make him see me in a different way. That one night, it would be like that scene in Indecent Proposal, where Woody Harrelson sets up Demi Moore with Robert Redford, then immediately regrets it but it’s too late because they’re on his yacht, and Woody Harrelson spends the rest of the night wandering around in agony.
But no, Justin sets me up with his old buddy from Sex Addicts Anonymous and is thrilled with it.
It’s not something he did wrong. It’s me.
“I’m sorry, Justin. You didn’t deserve that.”
He squeezes my hand. I look at him, his handsome profile in the semi-darkness of the car, illuminated by the highway lights and the moon. I wonder if he will change his mind about relationships someday. If he meets some woman who will make him think that emotional involvement might be worth it after all.
I’m already jealous of her.
“Look, if you’re going to do this stuff, don’t go it alone. If you don’t want me to be your wingman, find someone else. There’s safety in numbers and all that,” he says.
“I’m done.” And I mean it.
“Claire, don’
t let one bad experience set you back. This is what you did after your divorce — one bad relationship, and you’re done with men for a decade and a half? You can’t live your life like that.”
Yes, I can.
Since the minute I set foot in Big Lou’s office, my only consolation had been telling myself I’m done with The List. And yes, Justin is right – it’s the same pattern of thinking I used to protect myself after Peter left me. I don’t know if I can change.
I don’t know if I want to.
Chapter 21
The monthly store-wide meeting, otherwise known as a ‘sales conference’ convenes on the second floor, where fold-up chairs are setup along the walkway outside of Designer Women’s. Starbucks coffee and Dunkin Donuts sit on the nearest counter.
Everyone is at the meeting — the sales team from every department, their managers, and occasionally even regional reps from some of the bigger brands stop by.
MaryAnn Marcuso, a rep from corporate, runs gatherings like a perfectly orchestrated awards ceremony. MaryAnn is a very tall blonde, a competitive equestrian, a New York native. She got her start in Macy’s flagship store in Manhattan in the early 1990s. That’s all I know about this women who I see once a month, every month, year round.
I routinely zone out until MaryAnn gets to the agenda and sales numbers for the cosmetics department, and then I usually perk up and even take a few notes. But after the night I had last night, I can’t muster attention even for that.
“I want to call up Aimee Louden from cosmetics, because she showed great leadership this month. She brought the idea for a fabulous new initiative for her department, and after discussions with corporate over the past week or so, I’m happy to announce we’re going to have her run with it. Aimee, I’m handing the floor over to you.”
Everyone does the obligatory clapping. I force myself into the moment, struggling to assume a facial expression of polite interest.
Aimee is wearing a gray suit jacket and matching skirt. Her shoes are black, with just enough heel to lend her outfit some elegance without looking sexy. Her blond-streaked hair is in a high ponytail, and her make-up is understated, except for her dark lipstick, which appears to be Chanel’s Rendez-vous.
She looks, in short, like central casting for Smart, Attractive Businesswoman.
“Thanks you so much, MaryAnn,” she beams, walking to the front of the room. “Thanks for the introduction, and also for cultivating an environment in which we are so welcome to express ideas.” More clapping. I think of the way she shot down my ideas about bringing in a natural product line in the meeting a few weeks ago. I can’t believe she could say that with a straight face.
“She’s got to be kidding,” I whisper to Patti. She rolls her eyes and nods.
“In cosmetics, we strive to have the same type of open communication with our customers. We’ve seen over time that customer retention rates are higher when we listen to them. And it was in this spirit of listening to our customers I realized there is something they want that we’re not providing. And that’s an alternative to the typical cosmetics we, and most other large department stores. are offering.”
Is this going where I think it is? The coffee turns to acid in my stomach.
“Today, our customers aren’t just concerned about beauty. They are concerned about health, especially as they age. I’m hearing questions about “five-free” nail polish. I’m hearing questions about vegan lipstick. I’m not just hearing, but I’m listening. And MaryAnn, I have to thank you for listening, too. Today, we are excited to announce that starting in the spring, we will be carrying our first line of organic cosmetics.”
Patti puts her hand on my arm. She’s signaling me to stay calm, not to over-react. Or react, period.
I stand up. “That’s a really great idea, Aimee. Where’d you come up with that?”
Patti tugs at my hands, whispering for me to sit down. I brush her away and rush out of the room.
Halfway down the hall, Patti catches up with me. “Where are you going?”
“Home. Tell that bitch I’m feeling suddenly ill. I think she’ll understand.”
“Don’t do this, Claire.”
“Do what? I’m entitled to a sick day. I’m just a counter worker. All the big decisions will still get made, the department will survive.”
Patti shakes her head. “What do you want, Claire?”
“Too much, apparently.” I push through the door to the stairwell, and don’t stop walking until I’m in the parking lot. When I reach my car, I lean on it, and sob.
*** ***
I wake up to the doorbell.
My body is stiff, curled into an awkward position on the couch, where I fell asleep not long after I got home at one in the afternoon.
I look at my phone. Eight o’clock. The screen is covered with texts — from Justin, from Patti, even a random check in from Max.
That’s the only one I’ll return.
Midnight jumps off the couch and walks to the door. I follow her, trudging along as if I’m walking the plank.
I look out the peephole, fully expecting to see Patti. Instead, I see Justin.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, opening the door. Not even caring that I probably look like a mess. I feel mascara caked in the corner of my eyes.
“I was worried about you. You didn’t answer my texts all day, and I stopped by the coffee room at the Y but Suzanne said you didn’t show tonight.” He’s carrying grocery bags from Whole Foods.
“I’m fine, Justin. Really. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I’m not here to babysit. But I will cook,” he says, holding up the bags.
He always makes it impossible for me to say no.
Chapter 22
I reluctantly let him inside.
“You can’t stay long. I’m exhausted.”
He walks inside, looking around.
“Cute place,” he says. It’s strange to see him in the middle of my living room. It’s like one of those visual games, Which of these items does not belong?
“Thanks,” I say. I realize I’m still wearing my uniform. All I want is to get undressed and go to bed.
“So what’s the matter, Claire? You’re not still upset about last night, are you?”
Last night? Oh. The strip club. It seems like that happened weeks ago.
“No. Although, it doesn’t help.”
“Why don’t you change, I’ll make us a quick zucchini fettuccini and then we can go out,” he says.
“I don’t want to go out.”
“I’m going to have to insist,” he says, with that devilish smile that is simply not working on me tonight.
“No. Sorry. My cat is having surgery tomorrow. I don’t want to leave her.”
He adjusts the grocery bags in his arms. “Seriously? That’s the best you can do?”
At that moment, Midnight jumps down from her perch on the side of the stairs, and sprawls out in front of my feet.
“Ah, is this the little patient?”
She eyes him suspiciously, only the very tip of her tail waving slowly.
“Yes. And I have to say she does not look happy to have a visitor.”
He starts to say something, then stops. “What?” I ask.
“Nothing. I was just going to make a pussy joke.”
“Okay, you should really go now.”
“Oh, lighten up. And if we’re staying in, at least tell me you have some alcohol.”
I don’t know what to do. I’m miserable, and I just want to be left alone to wallow in it. At the same time, I don’t want him to leave.
“Fine. I have a bottle of vodka in the freezer. Though I doubt it’s Ketel One.” It’s leftover from a book club night back in December. I don’t even remember who brought it, or why. Wine is usually our beverage of choice. Maybe it had been a rough week for someone back then, too.
“I really do like this place,” he says.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I say. It took me years to s
lowly furnish and decorate it the way I like. I bought a few anchor pieces at Pottery Barn, but most of the stuff I acquired over the past ten years on weekend antiquing trips with Patti and Geoff. Without Max’s sports equipment, stray textbooks, Apple gadgets, and everything else cluttering up the living room, I see the spare, simple elegance of the room through Justin’s eyes. I’m proud of it.
“Who’s that?” he asks, nodding towards a photo of Max on my mantel.
I smile. “That’s my son.”
He walks to the fireplace. I snapped the photograph last fall, on the Lower Merion High School field, minutes before one of his final soccer games. “Shit,” he says. “You really did get knocked up young.”
I nod. “Guilty as charged.”
He turns and looks at me. “I’m impressed, Claire. Doing all of this on your own. That’s some serious shit.”
“He’s a good kid,” I say modestly. What else is there to say? That it wasn’t so impressive all the times I cried myself to sleep, feeling sorry for myself for being alone. That I used to get jealous when Max had serious girlfriends, jealous that he had someone, and all I had was him, and the slow creeping panic of the knowledge someday I wouldn’t even have that.
Now, that day is here. As it should be. Max is off, living his life.
And I have to figure out my own.
“Show me the kitchen,” Justin says.
I lead him through the living room to my small kitchen. It’s been a while since someone other than Patti has been in here with me. That’s why I feel so jittery, I tell myself as he sets his ingredients onto my counter. I spot the zucchini, the bottle of coconut oil, a yellow onion, something red and leafy, and walnuts.
“Do you have sea salt?” he asks. I pull the salt from my cabinet, and then retrieve the vodka from my freezer.
“Grey Goose? Aw, Romi, you’re killing me.”
“If you don’t like it you’re free to go drink somewhere else.”
He reaches for my hand, pulling me back next to him. The physical contact takes me by surprise. “What’s bothering you?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yes. I was fine before you came along with your big ideas about me wanting more than I have. You know what happens when you want things? You get burned.”