An Exaltation of Larks

by Suanne Laqueur

  Alex put two fingers on the card but didn’t pick it up. “You must be Dominican.”

  “Wow.” Jav took a mint. “What’s an astute guy like you doing in a place like this?”

  “Dominicans speak the fastest.”

  “Don’t let a Puerto Rican hear you say that,” Jav said, smiling as he bumped the diner door open with his back.

  He took only a couple steps on the sidewalk before looking back. Craning his neck, he saw Alex pick up the card, gaze at it a moment, then put it away in his wallet.

  Jav rode the subway home with triumph in his veins. The satisfaction of an agreement made. Jav would do this and Alex would give him that.

  Or wait. Wasn’t it the other way around?

  It turned out not to matter because Jav hadn’t seen Alex since then. He was gone. Two months now. Disappeared like last night’s dream, taking all the dopey fun and leaving the bereft confusion. Reducing Jav to pathetic walk-bys that invariably ended in disappointment and a bummed-out subway ride home.

  An abandoned toy lamenting, Don’t you love me anymore?

  1987

  New York City

  “Life has rules,” Val Lark said through her teeth. “You don’t break up with your girlfriend four days before she is making her design debut with American Ballet Theater. That is a rule.”

  Unfortunately, the egregious breaker of this rule was now over the Atlantic Ocean, on his way to Europe with his new girlfriend. Leaving Val to show up at the Metropolitan Opera House with no date.

  “Come on, honey,” Alex said. “Think. You know tons of guys. Someone can be a Plan B.”

  “You’re my Plan B,” she said, clutching the phone in a white-knuckled fist, as if to wring Alex’s presence from it. He was two thousand miles in the other direction, doing an internship in Colorado.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’d be there if I could.”

  “No,” she said, drawing a deep breath. “No, I’m sorry. I’m just…”

  “Tired,” Alex said. “You’ve been working your ass off for six months. You’re exhausted, you’re nervous, this is your big night. Jason could’ve waited four fucking days. It sucks.”

  “Sucks,” she said, dropping onto her couch.

  “We’ll work it out,” he said. “We’ll get through this. Try to think…”

  She couldn’t. She spun the mental rolodex of her people but it was one dizzying blur of names. The thought of calling men up to get a date was too exhausting. And humiliating, goddammit.

  “Where’s Roger?” Alex said. “Is he home?”

  “Last I heard, he was in New Mexico.”

  “Well, that does us no good.”

  Val smiled. Among a thousand other things, she loved Alex for his easy use of we. His willing, unconscious way of taking an oar at the galley of your problem, even if it was just to listen. Even if both of you knew he couldn’t do jack shit to help, he made it about us and made you feel less alone.

  “I could take my grandmother,” she said slowly. After all, Val’s career had been born in Muriel Deane Lark’s dress shop in Guelisten. It would be a fitting tribute. But Muriel was getting on in years. Having her come to the gala would mean arranging transportation and a wheelchair and a dozen other details. Val would be too busy fretting over her grandmother’s comfort to enjoy the performance. With not a little guilt, she scrapped the idea.

  “I suppose it wouldn’t be terrible going alone,” she said, sighing.

  No answer.

  “Hello?”

  A giggle on the other end of the line, then something scraping against the phone.

  “Alex.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” His voice was tight with suppressed laughter and a hint of…

  “Jesus Christ, you’re naked, aren’t you,” Val said. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

  “Katie,” he said. “Val, Katie. Katie, Val.”

  “Hello,” a girl’s voice called. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Val rolled her eyes. “Put your dick back in her mouth,” she said.

  “Shh.”

  “I’m going to find a date. Wish me luck.”

  “You don’t need luck.”

  “Love you.”

  The fucker hung up without replying. Val didn’t grudge him his girlfriends, but getting laid while she was in the lurch added insult to injury.

  Fucker.

  “Think,” she said under her breath, pacing. “Think. Think. Think.”

  She could go alone but she didn’t want to. She didn’t need a romantic date, she just needed a hand to hold in the dark. A supportive and attentive presence to make sure she didn’t barf. Someone to walk beside her and…

  She stopped short. A smile began to curve up her mouth. She bit down on it, but it broke through as a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea unspooled in her belly.

  She went into her closet, stood on tiptoe and pulled down her black clutch purse. Her fingers fished in the inside zip pocket and drew out a business card. Pure white, heavy stock. Black lettering. A name and a number.

  Javier Soto.

  He was one of the nephews escorting society dames at the Chelsea Film & Fashion event.

  And he was gorgeous.

  When he first shook her hand, Javier didn’t give her an up-down. Didn’t put his other hand on top of the shake or hold onto her fingers. Yet Val felt swallowed up in his gaze. His manner was easy and relaxed, but no doubt he could pounce at any given second.

  He and Alex were trading cracks, laughing about the random encounter. Alex inched slightly closer to Val, rattling the loose change in his trouser pocket. He was nervous, but an excited kind of nervous, beading on him like condensation on a cold glass.

  Val’s eyes moved between him and Javier. They were the same height and build, both dark-haired, good-looking Latinos. But any woman would look at Alex and deduce she could spend the night with him and get breakfast the next morning. Whereas with that guy, she’d be nothing but a smoking pile of ash with her jewelry resting on top.

  Javier excused himself and both Alex and Val exhaled. They giggled and whispered. Two teeny-boppers who’d gotten their idol’s autograph.

  “Well, this turned out to be a great thing,” Alex said. “Remind me to thank Jason for slacking off.”

  Val screwed a fingertip into one of his dimples, then ran it down his lapel and picked off a bit of lint. She glanced across the room at Javier, watching his mouth as he talked. What would it be like to kiss him?

  A hand waved in front of her eyes. “Hello?”

  Val blinked. “Sorry, I’m in the middle of a train wreck.”

  Alex laughed. “I’m hitting the head. If you run off with him, leave me a note.”

  Alone, Val sipped her drink and shifted into her at-a-party-solo stance—eyes fixed slightly above the horizon, chin tilted as if she were studying something across the room intently.

  A hand touched her back.

  “Don’t move,” Javier said. “The hook of your dress is undone.”

  “Already? You just got here.”

  He laughed softly. “I couldn’t help it.” A half-inch tug of her zipper tab. Then a deft twist of his fingers. “Secure now.”

  “You did that one-handed, Javier.”

  “Most people call me Jav.”

  “Call me impressed,” she said. “I work as a dresser on Broadway. Hooks and eyes one-handed is a gift.”

  He made a modest little bow with his head. “With a background in pickpocketing, it comes naturally.”

  The man had to know what a lethal weapon he was, yet his demeanor was utterly casual. He wore a tux like it was a bathrobe. Hell, he probably could stand there in a bathrobe and own it.

  I wonder what he costs?

  “What show do you work on?” he asked.

  “La Cage.”

  “You must have amazing stories.”

  She pinched her fingers and drew them across her lips. “Breaking my silence is expensive.”

  “As i
t should be.”

  She could smell his skin. She didn’t know if it was soap or cologne or simply him, but it was warm like leather and clean like winter air, with a top note sweet like fruit but smoky—like the fruit were suspended in brandy.

  “Do you have a card?” she heard herself ask.

  He gave her one. No smirk, no wink, no joke or knowing glance. He could’ve been flicking a lighter or passing her a napkin. She put it in her purse without looking at it, then tucked the purse under her arm as she spied Alex coming back.

  She looked at the card now.

  Javier Soto.

  She could hire him to walk her. A professional date.

  Why not?

  He’ll walk you? Is that all?

  She tapped the card against her teeth. Yes. A pure escort. Nothing more.

  You’re sure?

  She was sure. What the hell. Chance of a lifetime, and it would be a gas. A great story to tell backstage. She chewed her bottom lip two more seconds, then dialed the number. It rang four times before going to voicemail.

  “Hi, my name’s Valentine.” She almost added her last name but bit it off, sensing it wasn’t necessary. “We met last year at the Chelsea Fashion and Film benefit. Would you give me a call please?”

  He called an hour later. “This is Javier Soto.”

  “I don’t know if you remember me, I was—”

  “Hooks and eyes,” he said.

  “You remember,” she said, laughing.

  “It was kind of unforgettable. How are you?”

  Her gut said the best way to do this was purely business, with no apologies or giggling. “I’m in need of an escort.”

  A pause. “Are you asking me or hiring me?”

  “Hiring.”

  “When do you need me?”

  It was ridiculously simple. Almost clinical in its setup. “Just so we’re clear,” she said after giving him the date and time. “I’m hiring you for a fabulous, attentive date to the ballet and a hand to clutch. Possibly a drink afterward. And a cab ride home.”

  “I’m your guy.”

  “Excellent. It’s black tie.” She was tempted to put on a British accent and told herself to behave.

  “Not a problem.”

  “Can I ask your fee?”

  “One hundred an hour.”

  She knew massage therapists who charged more. Perhaps he was giving a discount based on their previous encounter. Or maybe it was lower because no sex was involved. She could easily afford this.

  “When do I pay you?” she asked.

  “At the start of the evening. I’ll pick you up. At your apartment if you like. Or in the lobby if you prefer. Or at the Met. You tell me.”

  “My apartment is fine.” She gave him the address. “I’ll let the doorman know. Do you prefer cash?”

  “Yes.”

  A mental post-it to go to the bank. “Excellent.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  A sunshiny feeling of reckless happiness splashed her chest. The thrill of the outrageous. Almost taboo. “So am I.”

  It was fantastic.

  No offense to Alex, who was a terrific last-minute date, but Jav was a fucking professional.

  “I’m so glad I did this,” Val said as they walked into the lobby of the Met.

  “So am I,” he said. And sounded like he meant it.

  Jav made it easy to believe in the charade. Everything he did was natural, spontaneous and imbued with pleasure. He was delighted to be on her arm. During the pre-show cocktail hour, his manners were perfect and his conversation seamless. He asked a hundred wonderful questions about the costume design process, another hundred questions about her. He made effortless small talk with anyone Val introduced him to, all the while keeping an eye on her wine glass and occasionally touching the small of her back. He looped Val’s arm through his as they filed into the theater. When the lights dimmed and Val let out a measured, anxious breath, he took her hand and held it tight. No romance in his touch. Only support.

  The first half of the first act wasn’t anything to be nervous about. Cinderella was in rags and the stepmother and stepsisters were meant to look ridiculous. The entrance of the Fairy Godmother was the first test. Disguised as a beggar woman at her entrance, she suddenly threw off her grey cloak and the audience gave a collective gasp. Applause burst open like a champagne bottle as the Godmother stood motionless in her floor-length, white fur coat. She wore a bobbed wig of red hair with thick bangs. Her head floated like a single rosebud over her collar. With barely a motion, she shrugged the cloak to the floor, revealing a bias-cut, silver satin dress. Now she looked like a glinting sword that had drawn a single drop of blood and the applause rose up a level.

  “Holy shit,” Jav whispered. He held her hand in both his now, gently rolling it between his palms.

  “Mean it?” Val said.

  “Mean it.”

  The second act ballroom scene, with Cinderella in a white, beaded flapper gown and gold toe shoes, nearly brought the house down.

  “Her headdress,” Jav said softly. “She’s Mia Farrow. This whole thing is The Great Gatsby.”

  “Yes,” Val said, squeezing his hand. Dancing against the guests’ shimmying palette of blacks, reds and golds, the ballerina was a phoenix, exactly as Val had envisioned.

  “It’s brilliant,” Jav said.

  “Really?” she whispered.

  He looked at her, slowly nodding his head. “You nailed it.”

  Six months of adrenaline cascaded out of her body, replaced by a triumphant exhaustion. Her eyes welled up and she had to reach in her clutch for Kleenex. A glass of champagne at intermission made her eyes droop in the third act. She tilted her head until it rested on Jav’s warm, solid shoulder. He laced his fingers with hers and kissed her hair.

  “You should eat something,” he said afterward, helping her on with her coat.

  They went to a late-night cafe and ate French onion soup, bread and cheese. Jav lounged like a comfortable cat on the other side of the booth, the ends of his bow tie open and his collar unbuttoned. Val’s eyes ate him up between bites: strong jaw, high cheekbones, deep brown eyes under straight brows. Dark brown hair that was starting to look the slightest bit tousled.

  He was sexy as fuck, yet she found that sex already negotiated out of the evening was liberating. She had no need to impress him—he came pre-impressed. She could eat onions and cheese and drink coffee without worrying if her breath would knock him out later. She didn’t ask him anything about himself, and he was fine with it.

  It was all about her.

  I could get used to this.

  He accompanied her in the cab to her apartment. “You don’t have to,” she said.

  “The service is door-to-door.”

  She nestled against his chest, sleepy, her hand at home in his. He told the cabbie to wait and walked her to the door of her building, where he enfolded her in an enormous hug.

  “I can’t remember when I had a better time,” he said.

  “Bet you say that to all your clients.”

  He sighed. “None of them believe me.”

  Laughing, she pulled back in his embrace. “This was a treat.”

  “Well, if you ever find yourself stood up again, you know where to find me.”

  “I do.”

  He leaned and kissed her mouth, warm and quick and neutral. Then he let go of her and opened the door. “Goodnight, funny Valentine.”

  “Goodnight, Jav.”

  “Oh,” Val said. “Hello.”

  From his place in line at the deli, Jav turned around. His eyes widened. Something in his expression was on the wrong side of surprised. He looked almost horrified.

  Shit, Val thought. Am I not supposed to acknowledge him?

  Then Jav’s face opened up in such a grin of pleasure, Val’s own smile had no choice but to match it.

  “How are you?” he said.

  “Good. What are you up to?”

  “Just getting a
cold drink.”

  “Same. It’s hellacious out today.” They doctored their iced coffees and walked out into the blistering, muggy afternoon, both of them drawing on sunglasses.

  “God, I hate New York in summer on trash day,” Jav said.

  “I know. The way the garbage bakes on the street.”

  “You know, I don’t see Alex at Morelli’s anymore. Did he get another job?”

  “He’s doing an internship in Colorado,” Val said. “And doing some chick named Katie as well.”

  “Oh?” Jav glanced over the tops of his sunglasses. “A little bitterness there?”

  “None. He and I are practically siblings.”

  What’s a little oral sex between siblings, she thought, smiling around her straw. Jav smiled back. Their feet fell into step, the conversation following like a friendly companion, as if they were picking up where they left off an hour ago, instead of three weeks ago. All at once they both stopped, looking around and back at each other.

  “Wait, where were you going?” Val asked.

  “Nowhere, I’m following you. Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere.”

  They laughed. He hadn’t touched her at all, yet this whole time it felt like his arm was around her. His presence was an embrace.

  “It’s so good to see you,” he said.

  “Listen,” she said. “I just finished a gig with a small ballet company. They premiere tonight at City Center and they gave me two free tickets. No gala, no cocktails, no black tie. Just casual, low-key culture. Do you want to come with me?”

  “Are you asking or hiring?”

  She felt her eyebrows dig down. “Asking,” she said, a little put out.

  He thought about it, his mouth closing around the straw of his drink in a way that made her think of sex.

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll pick you up?”

  “No, no,” she said, still thinking about his mouth. “Meet me there.”

  The ballet was called Well, Silently Overflowing, set to music by Philip Glass. The choreographer wanted costumes with a streetwear look. Val rampaged a dozen thrift stores to get the effect she wanted.

  “How do the guys’ shirts not come untucked?” Jav asked at intermission.

  “Because it’s all one piece. Pants and shirt attached, they step into it like a unitard and it zips up the back.”