The One Who Got Away

by Caroline Overington

  We arrived at the venue shortly after seven pm. Waiters stood by the door, holding silver trays of champagne. I was standing near the bar, waiting for David to return from the washroom, and admiring the decorations – the organisers had gone over the top with the nautical theme; there were giant plastic lobsters hanging from the ceiling – when a red-faced Pete came barrelling towards me.

  ‘Where’s your man?’ he said.

  My first impression was that Pete’s tuxedo was too small. My second was that he was drunk.

  ‘My man?’ I said.

  ‘David Wynne-Estes!’ he said.

  David – resplendent in black tie – joined us.

  ‘I’ve been trying to raise you for like a month.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Pete,’ said David, ‘I thought I emailed you this morning. What seems to be the problem?’

  ‘The problem is that I can’t get you to take my money,’ Pete boomed, slapping David so hard on the back that David’s whole body jolted forward and his champagne splashed, ‘and that’s making me feel bad.’

  I reached for a napkin to mop David’s hand. He took the napkin from me. ‘It’s fine, Loren.’ Turning to Pete, he said: ‘I’m sorry, my friend. I’ve laid it out straight for you; it’s nothing personal, but I’m not taking new investors at this time.’

  ‘What I don’t get is why not,’ said Pete. ‘My money not good enough?’

  ‘Please,’ said David. ‘Your money is fine. And I do appreciate you thinking of me. But again, we are simply not taking new business at this time.’

  Pete’s eyes narrowed further. I found myself clutching the little star part of the pendant David had given me. Pete was a big man, and he was furious.

  ‘Well, I can’t understand that,’ he said, shaking his big head, ‘because I happen to know from my wife that you took money from her hairdresser. But everyone knows that story, right?’

  Some of the people standing close – ladies in their finery, and men in their bow ties – looked embarrassed.

  ‘He took five thousand dollars from my wife’s hairdresser and she’s paid off her mortgage,’ Pete boomed, ‘but he won’t take money from me.’

  The woman standing closest to me – an older lady with a fox stole, including the paws, draped over her shoulders – gulped at her champagne. Were things about to get ugly?

  ‘Okay, Pete,’ said David, putting his hand onto the small of my back and gently moving me away from the bar. ‘I’ve had enough, and I’m pretty sure you’ve had enough.’

  We pressed on into the elegant crowd, but there was hardly a moment during the night when I couldn’t see Pete’s red face glowering at us.

  Driving home, I quizzed David: ‘Don’t you care how angry he is? I got the feeling he was bad-mouthing you to everyone, all night long. And what is this about his wife’s hairdresser? Did you really pay off her mortgage.’

  David laughed. ‘Of course I didn’t,’ he said. ‘She paid off her mortgage. And good for her. She works hard.’

  ‘And he doesn’t?’

  ‘Fat Pete? He probably works hard, too.’

  ‘But you’re not helping him. Although I can’t say I blame you after how he behaved tonight.’

  David glanced in my direction. The roads were dark and wet, and he’d had a bit to drink.

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ he said. ‘I’ll take his money soon enough. Let me see if I can explain this …’

  And so he did: Capital Shrine was a private investment company. David was the president and the CEO, and therefore it was up to him to decide whose money to take.

  ‘And I decided some time ago that I wouldn’t take just anyone’s money,’ he said, as he guided the car through the streets of Bienveneda’s High Side towards his home. ‘Capital Shrine is the kind of place that people have to be invited to join. The idea is that we are exclusive. That’s the image I want.’

  ‘But why send an invitation to the hairdresser?’ I said.

  ‘I kind of did that as a favour for a friend,’ said David, ‘but it turned out to be one of the best moves I’ve ever made. That girl didn’t have a lot of money, obviously. She has a small salon, but she has some good, regular clients who really like her – old-style High Side ladies who won’t have their hair done anywhere else – and one of them asked me to help her. So I took her little nest egg, invested it, and we had a windfall. And she paid off her mortgage. And that’s been good for me, because now she tells everyone, and everyone wants in.’

  ‘But they can’t get in,’ I said.

  We were paused in the dark, waiting for the garage door to roll up.

  ‘Right,’ said David, ‘and that’s deliberate. Because the more I keep the door closed, the more people want to bash it down. Take this guy – Pete – he’s hearing about how everyone else is making money. He’s greedy – nothing wrong with that – because he wants to make easy money, too. He’s trying to get in and can’t, so he’s frustrated. He’s telling everyone how frustrated he is, and that gets a person wondering if maybe they can get in. Guess what? Some can. But some can’t. And as far as anyone can tell, there’s no rhyme or reason, and that drives people crazy. But that’s okay. Because in a few months’ time, I’ll have one of my girls call Pete and say: “David has an opening at Capital Shrine. We’re taking limited investments” or whatever, and he’ll be so excited, he’ll tip everything in. I’ll make sure he does well. And then he’ll go around, grinning and telling everyone: “I’m in, and it’s great.” And that will make even more people want to get in.’

  ‘That’s genius,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said David, gliding his car expertly between the Porsche and the Prius, ‘I know.’

  * * *

  There comes a moment in every relationship when you realise that things are getting serious. It’s called Meeting The Parents. David’s parents are Belle and Garrett Wynne-Estes. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t taken a whole lot of girls to see them over the years.

  I’d been dating David for about eighteen months when he said: ‘Mom has invited you to dinner, and I suppose we better go.’

  It was a big step because I knew David didn’t have a close relationship with his parents. Their names had come up in conversation, and he’d pointed out his parents’ house on those weekends when I was in town, but David made it plain that although he’d moved back to Bienveneda when his mom got sick – cancer, I think – they weren’t the kind of family that got together for Sunday lunch.

  That said, I spent half the day getting ready.

  ‘Will it be formal? Is it more casual? What do you think I should wear?’ I said.

  ‘Whatever will be easiest for me to remove when we get home,’ said David.

  ‘You are no help at all.’

  I’m not, as a rule, a wearer of linen dresses, but given what I knew of the High Side, a linen dress seemed appropriate. I went with a blue dress. I’m blonde, and blue suits me, as does red, but red seemed wrong.

  Belle and Garrett’s home is on the River Road. It has a high stone fence and double gates with the letters W and E, for Wynne-Estes, woven into the ironwork. We pulled up in David’s Porsche. The gates opened slowly. David’s jaw clenched the instant his wheels hit the long gravel drive.

  ‘Are you alright?’ I said.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, taking my hand.

  Belle was first to greet us, swinging both doors open at once like they do in the South. ‘Welcome,’ she said. ‘You must be Laura.’

  ‘It’s Loren,’ said David.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said, embarrassed. ‘It’s not important. Thank you for inviting me.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve been so looking forward to meeting you,’ said Belle. She is one of those women whose tiny bones poke through their thin cardigans. ‘We hardly ever see David these days and now we know why.’

  David stepped into the hall, saying: ‘Where’s Dad?’

  ‘Out back,’ said Belle, clutching at her pearls.

  ‘You have a lovely ho
me,’ I said, trying not to stare at the portraits on the wall.

  ‘You like the house, do you?’ Garrett came striding towards us. He wore a navy blazer and he was swinging a tennis racquet (or is that my memory playing tricks on me?).

  ‘I do,’ I said. ‘I’m Loren.’

  ‘I’m Garrett. This is an important house. A. Quincy Jones. Do you know him?’

  My mind started racing. A. Quincy Jones. Director? Film star?

  ‘Architect,’ said Garrett, ‘built the Palm Springs Tennis Club.’

  ‘Oh really?’ I said, looking around. ‘Well, it’s lovely.’

  ‘Come and sit down, Laura,’ said Belle, motioning me towards the sitting room.

  ‘It’s Loren,’ said David.

  ‘Loren, sorry, Loren. Come and sit down.’

  The sitting room had a high ceiling with exposed beams, a white brick fireplace and low, elegant furniture.

  ‘You sit here,’ said Belle, patting a sofa cushion, ‘and David, where will you sit?’

  ‘I’m okay here,’ said David. He was standing with one elbow on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Perhaps a drink?’ offered Belle.

  ‘I’ll organise wine,’ said Garrett, excusing himself.

  The coffee table was immense. It had a glass top, and books and trinkets underneath. Belle fished around to find some coasters. They were in a box with royal corgis on the lid.

  Garrett returned. He had a bottle of wine – uncorked – in one hand, and the stems of four glasses laced through the fingers of his other hand. He placed three glasses on the coasters, before proceeding to fill his own glass, on the sideboard, to the brim.

  ‘Right, then,’ he said, turning back. ‘Who else is having wine?’

  ‘Wine would be lovely,’ I said, pushing my glass forward.

  Garrett stumbled over, and splashed some white into my glass.

  ‘Anyone else?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll have some,’ said David.

  Garrett peered into the bottle, shrugged and poured what remained into the third glass.

  ‘Alright,’ he said, ‘perhaps a toast?’

  Poor old Belle’s glass was still completely dry.

  ‘Welcome, Loren.’

  ‘Mom doesn’t have any wine,’ said David.

  ‘Oh, I’m fine,’ said Belle, red blotches climbing up her neck. ‘I was just going back to the kitchen, to check on the dinner.’

  Garrett stuck his nose into his glass, sipped, and sipped again. ‘Nice, nice,’ he said, holding it up to the light.

  ‘Now, Loren,’ he said, moving to take the seat that Belle had vacated, beside me on the sofa. ‘I wonder if you might let me show you something.’ He put his glass down on the coffee table and began feeling underneath to extract one of the books stored there.

  ‘Oh, Dad, not now,’ sighed David.

  It was one of those awkward moments when you’re trying to be warm and polite without really knowing what you’re in for.

  ‘David says you’re from Bienveneda,’ Garrett said.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And your surname’s … Franklin?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Our name, as you probably know, is Wynne-Estes,’ said Garrett, rubbing the side of his moustache. ‘Some people find it hard to pronounce. It’s not that hard. Wynne-Estes. Sound it out … Win … Es … Tes …’

  I smiled. ‘Win-Es-Tes.’

  ‘Good, good,’ said Garrett, turning his attention back to the book he’d extracted from under the coffee table.

  ‘Do we really have to do this, Dad?’ said David, but his father ignored him.

  ‘Budge up a little, Loren,’ Garrett said, ‘I want to show you something.’

  I budged up.

  Garrett had the book open. ‘Now, see this here?’ he said, tapping my forearm to ensure he had my full attention. ‘This here is my family tree. Every branch of our family back to 1650 is in this book. Would you like to see?’

  What could I say? ‘I’d love to.’

  David said: ‘I think I’ll go and see if Mom needs a hand in the kitchen.’

  I thought: Hey, don’t leave me. But he’d gone.

  ‘Now see this, Loren,’ said Garrett, finger extended towards a photograph of a man with a white handlebar moustache not unlike Garrett’s own. ‘This character here is my second cousin. Edward Garrett Wynne-Estes. Now, he …’

  And so it went on, for six long weeks. Alright, not for six weeks, but you get the picture. David’s father is a drunk and a bore whose family tired of him years ago.

  ‘How could you leave me there?’ I admonished David afterwards.

  ‘You’re what my sister and I call fresh meat,’ he said. ‘Somebody new, too polite to ignore him.’

  To his credit, David did rescue me. At some point, Belle came to say the meal was ready to be served, and while Garrett seemed content to ignore her, David then came into the sitting room, saying: ‘That’s enough now. Mom wants to serve.’

  ‘We can finish later,’ said Garrett, reluctantly closing the book.

  Like most of the big homes on the High Side, Belle and Garrett’s place has a formal dining room. There is a table with eight chairs; David, Belle and I took three in the middle, and Garrett sat at the head.

  Belle had set the table with placemats, napkins in napkin rings, a salt dish, even a soup tureen. I got the feeling these things were the ‘good’ things, taken out only for guests. The glasses came in sets of three: red, white and champagne, but there was no champagne and hardly any wine, except in Garrett’s glass.

  ‘Tell me, son,’ he said, at one point, ‘how is the gambling business?’

  David was sawing away at the steak on his plate.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said, which surprised me. David is opposed to the idea that his business – buying, selling, trading, and investing – is essentially gambling on the stock market.

  ‘You know, Loren, I had a very successful concrete company,’ said Garrett. ‘Quite a few of the buildings you see over here sit on Garrett Concrete foundations.’

  ‘Is that right?’ I said politely.

  ‘We were expecting David to take over that business,’ said Garrett, with his eyes on his plate. ‘You know we sent him to business school in New York with that in mind, but no. David had his own ideas, some of which went pear-shaped.’

  David’s grip on his knife and fork tightened but he did not speak.

  ‘Now he’s started this new business,’ Garrett said, gulping more wine, ‘which is gambling on the stock market from fancy offices on Main Street. So let’s see how that goes, shall we?’

  I picked up my glass and sipped and smiled. David said nothing.

  Belle twisted her pearls, saying: ‘Is there anything left in that bottle there, Garrett? Maybe Loren would like some more.’

  ‘I’m fine, really,’ I said.

  ‘She’s fine,’ said Garrett, touching the napkin to his moustache.

  Coasting home in David’s Porsche that evening, I said: ‘So … I get the feeling that your dad doesn’t approve of Capital Shrine?’

  David had his hands firmly on the leather steering wheel. Never had a car been pointed so determinedly towards home.

  ‘He approves enough to ask me to make a little more of his pathetic nest egg,’ said David, ‘but I guess he’s going to have to wait, too.’

  * * *

  ‘You are making what again?’

  Molly was perched on one side of the bench in David’s kitchen. I was on the other side, studying a menu. Molly’s voice was muffled because she had a bag of ice against her lips to try to bring down the swelling from her most recent fillers (none of which, I should add, were flattering, but each to their own!).

  ‘Engagement Chicken,’ I said.

  ‘And where did you read about this?’

  ‘I told you: Glamor magazine.’

  ‘And whose idea was it?’

  We had been through this.

  ‘You know the radio shock jock, H
oward Stern. It came from his wife,’ I said, placing a plucked, pink chicken on the chopping board. ‘She was dating him for ages and he hadn’t proposed. Then her mom – or somebody – told her about this recipe. Engagement Chicken. It’s absolutely guaranteed to make a man propose. And I mean, it must have worked, because they got married.’

  ‘You think he married her for her chicken?’ said Molly.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I said, ‘but at this point, anything is worth a try.’

  The recipe calls for a whole chicken with a lemon up its butt.

  ‘And how do you make it?’

  ‘As far as I can see,’ I said, peering at the laptop, ‘all I have to do is screw the lemon in there.’ I plucked a lemon from the fruit bowl, scraped it over the cheese grater a few times to loosen up the rind, and began screwing it into the chicken’s cavity.

  ‘Very glamorous,’ said Molly, eyebrows raised. ‘And can I just say that I can’t believe you’re taking relationship advice from Howard Stern.’

  ‘I’m not taking advice from Howard Stern,’ I corrected her, wiping my hands on my apron. ‘I’m taking relationship advice from his wife.’

  ‘You’ve gone nuts.’

  ‘I’m not nuts,’ I said, placing the chicken on its tray into the oven. ‘I just really want to know where this relationship is going.’

  David and I had been dating for close to two years. I was back and forward between Santa Monica and Bienveneda every other weekend. I had my own beeper to his garage. He’d met Molly. He’d met my dad. I’d taken his side against his parents.

  Why hadn’t he proposed?

  Friends had ribbed us about it. Clients were always asking and I had no idea what to say. I couldn’t work it out. Did he think I was too young? Maybe. I wasn’t yet thirty, but David was coasting towards forty, and it wasn’t as if he was going to marry somebody his own age.

  I was in despair about it, which probably explains why I was doing something so stupid as making Engagement Chicken, and you know what, maybe it worked, because next thing I knew, everyone in town was reading the same headline: THE WEDDING OF THE CENTURY.