The Hot Flash Club

by Nancy Thayer

  There was a pause. “No, I’m sorry, she’s not.” The other woman’s voice sounded different, wary. “Could I take a message?”

  “Um, no. No, I’ll call later.” What was going on? Shirley clicked off, then tried Alice’s home phone.

  “You have reached Alice Murray. Please leave a message.”

  “Hi, Alice, it’s Shirley. I just wanted to thank you for your help last night, and to talk it all over with you. It was so great! I couldn’t reach you at work, but I’ll try you at home tonight. Thanks again—a million!”

  She tried to sound cheerful, but as she hung up, she felt dissatisfied and irritable—thwarted. Jumping up, she checked her calendar—four appointments that day, the last one with Julie. Great! They could talk about Golden Moments. Perhaps cautious Julie would be ready to discuss how much she wanted to invest. Buoyed by this thought, Shirley loaded her Discman, tied on her sneakers, and headed out for a jog—or maybe, she thought as her knees twinged, a brisk walk.

  “Hello!” Shirley sang out as she entered Julie Martin’s dark house.

  “Hey,” Julie answered, tapping away on her computer keyboard.

  Shirley opened the shades, lighted some cinnamon candles, set up the table, and inserted a CD. “Okay, hon,” she said, patting the table.

  With docile reluctance, Julie left her computers and lay down for her massage. Shirley worked on Julie’s body for a full hour without saying anything that would distract Julie from her relaxation, although she allowed herself to visualize Golden Moments. Why not? Her dreams just might drift into the other woman’s mind.

  After she brought Julie a glass of cleansing water, Shirley returned to the kitchen to make some tea for both of them. She often spent half an hour or so, just chatting with Julie, and she never charged her for the additional time, even though Shirley knew the comfortable conversation was a kind of therapy for the reclusive young woman. It was always hard work, like trying to make a toad talk. Usually Shirley regaled Julie with tales of celebrity scandals, or recounted more inspirational tales she’d read in some of her massage newsletters.

  Instead she decided to talk about Golden Moments.

  Heart banging, she carried two mugs into the living room. Julie, having pulled on her sweatpants and old T-shirt, was looking, longingly, at the computer.

  “Sit down a minute, hon,” Shirley said. “Let’s have some tea.”

  “All right.” Julie slouched over to the end of the sofa and collapsed.

  “How was the massage?” Shirley asked, settling at the other end of the sofa.

  “It was good.” From Julie, this was explosive praise.

  Encouraged, Shirley said, “It was great to see you at the Golden Moments meeting last night. Did you enjoy it?”

  Julie nodded shyly.

  “Well, good! What did you enjoy?”

  “Jennifer D’Annucio? She drove me home? She gave me some of her brownies? They’re really delicious.”

  “Hey, that’s great!” More than great, Shirley thought; Julie had actually interacted with someone. That was freakin’ miraculous! “Have you given any thought to Golden Moments?”

  Julie shrugged. “It seems like a good idea.”

  “And also, a pretty exciting investment opportunity?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Just maybe?”

  “Over half of all new small businesses fail.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe that’s the national average,” Shirley protested, “but this will be my business.”

  Julie folded her arms defensively over her chest. “Maybe after it’s off the ground, I could invest.”

  “Hey, Julie,” Shirley coaxed. “Haven’t you told me you’re healthier because of my visits?”

  Julie nodded reluctantly.

  “Well, then! Other people feel that way, too. You know I could make a success of this. I’m not looking for a huge amount of money from you, just—”

  Julie shook her head. “I’m too scared.”

  “Scared? I don’t understand. You play the stock market. That takes lots of nerve.”

  “That’s totally impersonal. I can be ruthless. What if your retreat fails? I might hate you for failing to provide me any return on my investment. I’d lose you as a friend. What if it succeeds? I’d lose you as a masseuse.”

  Shirley hesitated before replying. How easy it would be to say: Well, you know, you little birdbrain, if you don’t invest, you could lose me as a friend and as a masseuse!

  But she didn’t want to win Julie’s investment that way.

  “I see where you’re coming from, Julie. I really do.

  And I won’t lie about it. I was counting on you as an investor. But I respect your concerns. Here’s what I ask: Please, whatever you decide, don’t act from fear. You were so brave, coming out last night. It took a lot of courage. I know it did. So stay strong. Make your decision wisely. Call some of the others, if you want, and talk it over. I’ll be your friend whatever you decide. Just don’t let fear rule your life.”

  “Okay,” Julie agreed, in a small voice.

  “Great. Well, I’d better go.” Shirley gathered her stuff, hoisted her table, and said good-bye, giving Julie a hug and a smile, and thinking how easily moods could be transmitted. She hoped she’d cheered Julie up. She herself felt depressed, exhausted, and—after Julie’s reluctance to invest in Golden Moments—she felt scared.

  Back at her house, she dropped everything just inside the door and ran to her answering machine. Surely Alice would have phoned. Or maybe some of the other potential investors—

  The message light was blinking! She punched the RETRIEVE MESSAGE button so hard, the machine almost flew off the table.

  “Hi, Shirley. It’s Faye Vandermeer. I’m just wondering whether you found out anything about—about the situation.” The other woman’s voice was gentle, but tense.

  “Oh, no.” Shirley sank onto her sofa and put her head in her hands.

  “End of messages,” droned the robotic voice.

  The last thing in the world she wanted to do was convey bad news to someone else. And this news would set off a chain reaction of misery.

  But what could she do about it? Her HFC assignment was to find out whether Lars Schneider was having an affair, not to change things. Would it be better if she waited another day to tell Faye, or worse? She felt terrible. Jeez Louise, perhaps what Betsy had said that morning was true! Maybe Shirley was bad luck. Poor Faye and her poor daughter! Poor sweet, lovestruck Jennifer, for that matter.

  Plus, it was after seven, and Alice hadn’t called. She couldn’t believe Alice hadn’t called to talk over their successful meeting! She couldn’t believe Julie wouldn’t invest. Shirley didn’t know anyone else who had the kind of money Julie did, not even Nora Salter, and Nora had already suggested how much she was willing to invest. Without Julie’s money, Shirley simply couldn’t undertake building her retreat.

  A muscle in Shirley’s back cramped, sending an entire Fourth of July fireworks of pain through her shoulders and neck. As she dug out her electric heating pad, she was dismally lonely. The night before, she’d dressed up and given her all, trying to inspire others with her own plans. And here she was less than twenty-four hours later, all alone and knowing the retreat had failed before it even started.

  Her neck pain flared up like a brush fire, but it was the pain in her heart she thought would kill her. It twisted in her chest like a creature splashed with acid. She really didn’t think she could bear it.

  Vodka would relax her back, and dull all sorts of pain. There was a bar only a few blocks away, a cozy place with low lights, good drinks, and a jukebox playing country songs, all about loss and sorrow. She could almost hear an old cowboy’s melancholy twang, and he seemed to be calling her name.

  29

  When her alarm went off, Alice remained in bed for a while, replaying the Golden Moments meeting in her mind. It had been great! Once Shirley got into the groove, she glowed like a torch, and when she couldn’t answer a
hard question about finances, Alice stepped in. No doubt about it, the two of them, exuberant, colorful Shirley and practical, executive Alice, had wowed the group. Astonishingly, old Nora Salter had promised to invest right there on the spot, and so had a few of the others. Only Julie Martin, who Shirley had thought would be the first and biggest investor, had stalled, saying she needed time to think about it.

  She glanced at the clock, then threw back the covers and began the day. As she showered, she reviewed the preliminary five-year business plan she’d put together for Golden Moments. Tossing back her orange juice, she decided, if she could steal a few moments during lunch, she’d do some more work to detail the plan.

  Back in her bedroom, she pulled on her largest skirt. Uh-oh. Too tight. She’d enjoyed too many of Jennifer D’Annucio’s brownies. Alice licked her lips. Some of the caramel chip cookies were left over. Alice could take a few to the office for brain food while she worked. She dropped the constricting skirt on her bed and pulled out a pair of loose, elastic-waisted, batik trousers. With a severe brown jacket, they would pass for business wear. She added a heavy set of wooden beads to make it an ensemble. After a moment, she decided on a pair of flatheeled court shoes, so much more comfortable than her power heels, but what the hell, she had no meetings scheduled.

  Outside, the sky floated above her like a great blue balloon, matching her mood as she drove deep into the heart of the Boston business district. Perhaps, when the weather was warmer, she’d ride the T and walk the rest of the way. It couldn’t take much longer than sitting in traffic.

  It was almost nine o’clock by the time she parked her Audi in the executive garage of the TransWorld building. Usually, she was at her desk by eight. She nodded to Roger at the security desk as she crossed to the executive elevator. She had it all to herself, so she used the shining brass button panel to evaluate her reflection: shorter, wider, because of the flat shoes and the loose trousers, but also less stern, more interesting. Here was a woman who might be late for work because she’d spent the night before out dancing.

  When had she last been out dancing? She couldn’t remember.

  With a ping, the doors slid open at the thirtieth floor, and Alice stepped out onto the gray carpet.

  Frances, who controlled the main reception area, was away from her desk. Unusual. Looking down the corridor, Alice spotted Frances shoulder to shoulder in a tight little gaggle of gabbing secretaries. Uh-huh, fresh gossip. When they saw Alice, their eyes widened, and they drew closer to one another. What? Could they be gossiping about her?

  Frances would tell her. The receptionist had been with TransContinent for twenty years, during which time Alice had helped her with no small amount of personal problems. Frances, divorced, had a son with bipolar disorder. Alice had done everything she could to help Frances get decent medical treatment and medical coverage for the boy. He was in a new clinic now, on new medication.

  Alice clipped along down the hall. George White’s office was empty. Strange. She was certain there were no meetings that morning.

  Alison Cummings’s office was just before Alice’s, guarded by Barton Baker’s desk. From the corner of her eye, Alice saw, through the open door, Alison seated at her own desk, eyes glued to her computer screen. On her left, Barton Baker bent toward the computer. George White was on her right, pointing at the screen. The three were too engrossed to notice Alice, but she saw emotion flash over all three faces—and not the same emotion. Suddenly Alison’s eyes widened and she covered her mouth with both hands, as if trying to push back a shout of laughter.

  What the hell?

  Thank God, Marilyn was at her desk, frantically typing.

  “Good morning, Marilyn,” Alice said. “What’s going on?”

  Marilyn shot up out of her chair like a rocket, grabbed Alice’s arm, yanked her into her office, and shut the door. “We’ve got a problem.”

  “Shoot.” Alice dumped her briefcase on her desk.

  “Your computer caught a virus. It sent e-mails to everyone in your address book.”

  Alice dropped like a stone into her desk chair and wiggled the mouse to wake her computer up. “Saying what?”

  “We’re just now finding out, as people come into work and check their e-mail. It seems to be something different for everyone. Some are random statistical charts that won’t mean much to anyone without the rest of the information. But some of the personnel info you’ve been working on with Alison has been sent around. I heard that Jack Foster got Harry Sullivan’s personnel file. Now Jack knows Harry makes more than he does, and he’s ballistic.”

  “Damn.”

  “Also, several people got a copy of your e-mails ordering support panty hose, hemorrhoid cream, and Big Girl’s bras.”

  Alice slapped her forehead. “Shit. Okay, what else?”

  “I don’t know the extent of it yet. Other people got other stuff. Whatever’s on your hard drive.”

  “What a nightmare. How did this happen?” Impatiently, Alice jerked the mouse over its pad.

  Marilyn leaned over her shoulder, scanning the screen. “You must have opened an e-mail that carried a virus. I’m sure you’ve been warned about opening unsolicited e-mail.”

  “Of course I have!” Alice snapped. “And I never open strange e-mail programs!”

  “Never?” Marilyn touched the end of a pencil to an icon on the screen. “What’s this on your desktop? Card.exe SA?”

  “What—Oh, Lord.” Alice covered her burning face. “Last night I got an e-mail from a ‘Secret Admirer.’ I opened it.”

  “And?”

  “It just threw some blinking hearts on the screen. What a moron I am!”

  Marilyn gave Alice’s shoulder a consoling pat. “Come on, Alice. We all want to open a file from a secret admirer. We’ll just get tech support up here to clean your hard drive.”

  The phone buzzed.

  Marilyn grabbed the phone. “Alice Murray’s office.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Of course, Mr. Watertown. Right away.” She hung up the phone. “Mr. Watertown would like to see you in his office ASAP.”

  Alice groaned. “This stupid Internet is sometimes more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “I’ll call tech support now.” Marilyn went out to her office.

  Alice headed into her private bathroom. She peed, then slipped an antacid into her mouth, swallowing it with the smallest possible amount of water so she wouldn’t be tortured with the urge to pee during the chewing out she knew she was about to get. Melvin, like Alice, had been with TransContinent for years. He was a good leader, tough and exacting. She was sure the integration into TransWorld was difficult for Melvin, and she hated it that she’d let down their side, as she thought of it, with this idiotic e-mail business.

  Striding down the corridor, Alice sucked in her gut and led with her chin. At the portal to the senior vice president’s office, among chrome and glass, sat Elvira Gray, of the gray personality, in her gray suit.

  “Hello, Elvira,” Alice said, with cool composure.

  “Hello, Mrs. Murray.” Elvira kept her eyes on her computer. Not a good sign. “He’s expecting you. Go on in.”

  Alice took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and entered.

  Melvin sat at his desk, hunched over a pile of reports. For just a moment as she entered, Alice spotted the top of his head, noticing for the first time how the male-pattern-baldness band of white hair around his pink scalp resembled a toilet seat.

  Restraining an irreverent giggle, she shut the door firmly. Melvin looked up.

  “Alice!” Standing up, his extended his hand over the desk.

  So he wasn’t going to chew her out. Alice was relieved. When Melvin was angry, he could blast the enamel right off your teeth. She shook his hand.

  “Sit down.” He gestured to a chair in front of the desk, and returned to his own executive leather chair. He leaned back, put his arms behind his head to stretch his shoulders, and said companionably, “This merger is a bitch, isn’t it.”
/>   “It’s a lot of work for Personnel,” Alice admitted.

  “Tell me about it.” Melvin sighed. “You planning to head off to a resort?”

  Alice frowned, puzzled. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s the only explanation I can come up with for why you’d e-mail me a picture of a naked woman lying on a table.”

  Alice stared at him, dumbstruck. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “A naked wo—Oh, shit, Melvin. That woman’s getting a massage. I’m helping a friend put together a brochure for a retreat, and that was one of the photos she e-mailed me as a possibility for the cover. Anyway, I didn’t send it to you. Somehow a virus got into my computer last night. It’s been e-mailing random hits from my computer to everyone on my e-mail list.”

  “I thought something like that had happened. Couldn’t think of any other reason you’d send Jack Foster the details of Harry Sullivan’s financial package.”

  Alice closed her eyes. “Tech support’s on its way to clean it up.”

  “Well, tech support can clean up the virus and stop any new e-mails, but we’ve got some damage control to do ourselves with what’s already gone out.”

  “I realize that, Melvin. I’ll personally speak with Jack about—”

  Melvin interrupted. “But let’s go back to this naked woman on the table business.”

  “The photo for the retreat brochure.”

  “Okay. Whatever.” Melvin tilted his head, peering over his glasses at her. “What’s that doing on your office computer?”

  “Oh, come on, Melvin. You know we all have personal stuff on our office computers. I’m probably the only one in the whole company who doesn’t have porn on mine.”

  Melvin held up his hand like a stop sign. “Okay. Okay. Still, Alice, it’s not like you, to be messing around with something else at the office.”

  Alice nodded. “You’re right. Absolutely. I—”

  “Then there’s this thing with your secretary, Marilyn—” He snapped his fingers, searching for the name.

  “Becker. What about her?”

  Melvin dropped forward, his chair squeaking as he moved into a more aggressive position, arms crossed on his desk, head bent low like a charging bull. “You hired her specifically to spy on Alison Cummings.”