“You’re flushed, Beaumont. Ignore them for the moment.”
“Ah, Paula. Did you know it’s my birthday in a couple of days?”
(Birthdays. When you’re over forty, who the hell cares anymore?) “No, I didn’t. Happy birthday, dear.”
Lydia shot another look at the ladies at the punchbowl. Paula stepped in front of her and shut the door to the study.
_____
“Did you know it’s Lydia’s birthday in a couple of days?” Helaine asked, slipping her arm free and ladling punch into empty glasses for a handful of thirsty guests who had collected around the table. “Oh, you’re perfectly welcome. I am? Well, I thank you. Whoops–there you go.”
“No, I…wasn’t aware…no.” Venus had seen the study door close from the corner of her eye, had known that the interim president had been watching them before that. She rubbed her bare arms to get rid of the goosebumps. A tête-à-tête with Paula Treadwell. Yuck.
Question: Lydia’s birthday. She thought she had had an understanding with the doctor, an unspoken agreement not to discuss Lydia Beaumont. Thought wrong, apparently, because she had already mentioned her twice tonight. “Big plans?” she finally responded.
“Mmmm…big, maybe. But quiet. She wants it quiet.” Once again she took Venus by the arm. “Here, let’s move away from this table.”
_____
“I’ll fire her if I have to. Don’t doubt me on that.”
Lydia exhaled impatiently. “And what would that accomplish, Paula Treadwell?” She was trying desperately not to get angry. “Just what could that possibly accomplish?” She already knew the answer. What had her father said about only asking questions she knew the answer to? She needed to talk to Edward Beaumont. Soon. Or to let him talk so she could listen. “Tell me, Paula. I’d like to know.” Tell her why she’s excited tonight at the sight of those two women together. Or didn’t she know the answer to that, too?
“Ruin her, that’s what.”
Lydia sat on the corner of the desk and folded her arms. “Not if I’m president, you won’t. That’s what you want, right? One way or another, I’m president?”
“One way or the other, the end.”
“Okay. I’m president. Venus stays. Happy?”
They were equals at last, with nothing to mark the occasion, nothing more to say.
In her mind Lydia was talking with her father. In her mind she was listening very carefully to him, no longer angry, as she had been since she was fourteen. In her mind it dawned on her that she had been angry with Daddy since she was fourteen, a deep-seated anger toward him ever since she had discovered his…his…what? Paula pressed for a date certain. Toward her father. Untoward. His womanizing. Tuesday? Is this womanizing, this sensation she had? Paula always got her way, one way or the other. She was a perfect player. Maybe it was genetics. It was useless to struggle. “Fine, Paula. Fine. I’ll announce Tuesday. And then–because I know you so well–you’ll step down without so much as a heads-up, and I’ll be stuck with the whole damn job.”
Paula wore an inscrutable smile.
Lydia wanted to leave the little room now. “You know I’m not suited for it.” She was suffocating. “I think, in fact, that everyone knows I’m not suited for it.”
“You’re quite mistaken, Beaumont. You’re dead wrong.”
She was not up for the pep-talk. She was thirsty. She needed some punch and to find Del. Del, Paula, Helaine, Venus. Why were there so many women in her life? She needed some male companionship. She wanted to talk to her daddy. She wanted to make love to her wife by the punchbowl. With Venus. No, she hadn’t thought that. Where was Del, tonight?
“Oh, Paula. You’re wrong and you know it.”
Paula peered over her glasses and nodded. But it was worth the gamble even if Beaumont could be taken for too timid, for being too nice. She would have to carry her sword at all times to counter those impressions. That would be a burden for her and something she most likely wouldn’t want to do. If she didn’t, though, then what? Paula stopped nodding.
Then she will have to fake it. They would both have to fake it for her.
“Then you will pretend to possess those qualities that would make you appear suited for it. And there’s nothing to doing that, Beaumont. Carry a big stick and shout loudly. Say shit when you have a mouth full of it. You always choose to get pent up, instead. Bad choice, I tell you. Besides, everyone’s behind you on this. All but one member of the board.”
Vice versus virtue. Power versus glory. Blah, blah, blah. “Which member?”
“Oh, it’s that wretched Goodman. Difficult name to live up to.”
Goodman. Good to know. “Lovely. And what’s the problem there?”
Paula threw up her hands. “You’re too flamboyant, he complains. ‘Latent flamboyance’ I think is how he puts it.”
Goodman. Lydia bit her lip pensively. That was not good.
“Beaumont, he’s just an old shit. He thinks you’re more like a rock star than a corporate officer. Just watch your back, that’s all.”
Yeah. Okay. Well, she had just given her word, hadn’t she? She was job-sharing with Paula Treadwell, if Treadwell could get the board and the shareholders to approve it. She studied Paula’s face. She could pass it by them all right. So here we are, Lydia said to herself, already preparing an exit strategy. The two of us president of Soloman-Schmitt, the kings of the shitheap. Truly she was out of her mind to go along with it. “You watch my back,” she said, and then she promptly left the room.
“Liddy!”
“Hey, Del.”
“Drinkie-pooh?”
“Yes, or ten. Have you seen Helaine?”
“She may have eloped with Venus, I’m sorry to say. That means you and I are finally free to marry. I think I’ll wear black. Or should I maybe go with red? Liddy, my love, what would you say to red boots and a black gown?”
“Just the red boots. And a veil. Don’t forget the veil.”
“A black veil?”
There they were over there. Helaine waved. Same smile. Lydia intended to take her home now. “Black. Oh, and be certain the invitations say property of Soloman-Schmitt somewhere.”
“Uh-oh.” Delilah threw the rest of her martini to the back of her throat. “You Soloman-Schmitt’s bitch for life now? President Beaumont?”
“Mmhmm. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. You didn’t forget my birthday?”
Delilah looked as if she had swallowed a fork.
“You did. You forgot my birthday, Delilah Lewiston.”
“Did not.”
“I want a divorce.”
“Never.”
_____
“Darling?”
“Time to go home.”
“Nice chat with Paula?”
Lydia huffed. Venus smiled tautly.
“Home it is. But first, I’d like you to meet the newest and certainly the youngest and most beautiful member of the Board of Directors of the Kristenson Foundation, Venus Angelo. Ms. Angelo, this is my wife.”
Venus went along with the formality. “A pleasure to meet you,” she said, gripping her empty punch glass with both hands.
Board of Directors. Nice work. She’d be perfect for it. “The pleasure,” Lydia replied, “is all mine, I can assure you.” Wasn’t that something gallant Edward might say? The pleasure is all mine?
Helaine smiled. “Very good then. Shall we go?”
Chapter 18
Arms and Ability
Once and for all, rule number one, public speaking: THE MIKE IS ALWAYS ON.
She despised them and they knew it, a hate-hate relationship that had sprung from the Chambers/Kristenson/Beaumont affair, way back in the early days when they didn’t know her name yet, when they simply called her Jane Doe.
Lydia stood on the podium Tuesday morning, the press gathering around like vultures, the corporate logo on an enormous banner behind her snapping in the breeze like a whip. It was supposed to be a joint news conference this morning, but
Paula was nothing but a scoundrel and enough time had gone by for Lydia to deduce that she wasn’t showing up. Paula Treadwell who was never late for anything was late today, which could only mean that she had never planned on being there at all.
Lydia had held up the crowd waiting for her and they were restless now, chomping at their bits, ready to stampede, whatever it is that a pack of animals do. Lydia gritted her teeth at them in a kind of skeletal grin, the best she could offer under the circumstances. Flashes. Cameras. It was all coming back to her. Why she despised them so much. Why she did not want this job.
“Ms. Beaumont! Hey! Ms. Beaumont!”
There were intermittent hoots and howls and these were becoming more frequent with every passing minute. She would have to deal with the reporters alone. Paula had hung her out there all alone. It was not her specialty being a spokesperson, the front woman. Paula was much better at it.
“Hey, give us a nice big smile, won’t you?”
No.
She wiped the phony grin off her face and tapped at the microphone. There was a breathy sound from the speakers at her sides, a boom boom and then a piercing squeal. She stepped away from the apparatus while the technician made adjustments for her. By the time he had it fixed the press had settled down a bit.
Joint President Beaumont leaned into the mike and said, “Good morning,” as cheerfully as possible. “Good morning,” she repeated, finally giving them that nice, big smile.
The crowd swooned. They were going to have fun with Lydia Beaumont again. She had given them quite a chase before and in the ensuing years had been just a tad bit too elusive for their liking. She was in for it now.
She could feel their excitement. She pulled out the prepared statement Paula had crafted yesterday, the one that she had failed to commit to memory, and began in a monotone to read from it.
A collective sigh.
She ignored it and proceeded.
Okay, okay, they grumbled. They already knew this stuff or why else would they be here? What they really wanted was to gawk at and interrogate the new flamboyant joint president of Soloman-Schmitt, not listen to her read.
“Ms. Beaumont! Ms. Beaumont!”
A sea of raised arms.
Did it, Ms. Beaumont wondered, actually say anywhere that she had to respond to questions? She searched Paula’s notes. Nope, it didn’t say anything at all about question and answer time.
“Ms. Beaumont! Ms. Beaumont!”
She put her notes away and stared longingly over their heads at the boulevard.
“Over here, Ms. Beaumont! Over here! That’s it, that’s it! Yes!”
“Ms. Beaumont! How’s married life treating you? How’s your beautiful wife?”
She nodded with a smile and gave a thumbs-up sign, glancing over her shoulder at her handler. He raised his eyebrow and shook his head. He too had heard Goodman’s arguments against her appointment. This scene and the endless potential for it was one of them.
“C’mon. Ms. Beaumont. Give us a break. Make some kind of statement.”
She shook her head no.
“Was it worth it?”
She shook her head yes. Two thumbs-up this time. She knew there was something she should be doing to regain control of the situation, but she hadn’t a clue what that might be.
“Ms. Beaumont. Ms. Beaumont!”
Cameras. Flashes. Catcalls. This was not cool. She cast a furtive glance to her handler again. He shrugged.
Goodman was right, Lydia thought. The press didn’t give a shit that she was the joint president of Soloman-Schmitt and they never would. She brushed her hair from her eyes and felt in her pocket for her sunglasses. She had forgotten the sunglasses. She could hear the banner flapping behind her, the click of cameras, the murmur of the press as they speculated amongst themselves; about her, about Helaine, about everything but the business at hand. Del would probably think this was funny. Perhaps it was. She would, however, have a word or two with Paula about it afterward. This couldn’t happen to her again.
“Ms. Beaumont! Cat got your tongue?”
She who hesitates is lost.
“Not still mad at us, are you?”
The traffic on the boulevard ebbed and flowed, ebbed and flowed again, like a pulse.
Uh…no. Not mad. Mad isn’t the appropriate word. She tapped the mike again, this time hard enough that the reporters closest to her were forced to cover their ears. Everyone else quieted down. “If you’d like to write your questions on little pieces of paper,” she began, “and pass them to the front–”
Jeering was what she would get for goading them.
“Ms. Beaumont! Ms. Beau–”
Another whack at the mike. Lydia held up her hand to continue, “and we’ll answer as many of them as time will allow.”
More jeering.
She was, she saw, only making matters worse. She looked to her assistant beseechingly, ready to walk off.
He was on his cell phone. He gave her another shrug.
“C’mon! How’s your love life, Ms. Beaumont?”
A roar of approval.
“Ms. Beaumont!”
All was lost. She turned again to convey this opinion to her useless handler. This time he was motioning with his hands for her to abandon the podium. It seemed like an excellent idea.
“Ms. Beaumont!” a reporter yelled above the crowd, “President Beaumont!”
With that, unfortunately, the reporter had her attention.
“We want to know–how’s your sex life?”
She gave the reporter a deadly stare.
He repeated the question.
She glared into his camera.
“Fabulous,” he said. “Thank you, love.”
“Come on, Ms. Beaumont, come on,” Mr. Useless pleaded.
Her sex life. What a stupid bastard. “My sex life,” she said, turning toward him and no longer mindful of the mike. “My sex life,” she repeated. “What a stupid bast–can you believe this crap?” she asked.
“Ooh, ooh, ooh,” the man stammered, hurriedly shoving his cell phone into his pants pocket and holding his finger up to his lips.
She paid him no heed. “What a bunch of horny assholes.”
“Ooh, ooh, ooh,” he said again, virtually plucking her from the podium. “Go,” he urged, pushing her from behind. “Go!”
She glanced over her shoulder and froze. Absolute mayhem had erupted. An uproar.
“Please, Ms. Beaumont, don’t speak,” he begged. The press was in hot pursuit. “Just go, go, GO!”
_____
“What the hell was that?” Paula demanded.
“Where the hell were you?”
“Beaumont, that is worse than I could ever have imagined. That is beyond charisma. That is–”
“I’m not trying to be charismatic, Paula. I’m just–”
“Try not to be charismatic! Try not to be. Why are you doing this to me? How could you?”
Lydia fell into the nearby chair. “I…I forgot the mike was on.”
“Forgot! The mike is always on. Always, Beaumont. How could you not know that? Even if you don’t see a mike, there is a mike, and it is always, always, always on!”
_____
“Darling, do you want to talk abou–?”
“NO.”
Okay. She could understand that. Helaine stroked Lydia’s hair. “But thanks for the thumbs-up,” she whispered.
“Mmmm…you’re welcome.”
Lydia wasn’t very good company tonight. Sullen and swimming in self-loathing. And if that wasn’t bad enough, tomorrow was her birthday.
“Darling, is there anything I can do?”
“I forgot the mike was on.”
Helaine smiled. Such a funny gaffe. “Well,” she said, with a gentle sigh that she hoped would not betray amusement, “the mike is always on.”
_____
“Hey, sport.”
“Del, let me just interrupt your mirth long enough to say that I don’t want to discuss it.”
“Discuss what?”
“Don’t make me laugh. Paula is livid.”
“And you can see that that’s funny, I hope?”
“I forgot the damn mike was still on, believe it or not.”
“Well, Liddy, the mike is always on.”
_____
“This is not a focus group! It’s not a goddamned coffee klatch! And we are not running a beauty pageant here! That woman is nothing but a–a hedonist!”
Lydia Beaumont a hedonist? Sounded rather specious to the board. Stocks were trading high today, so who cares anyway?
“Mr. Goodman–”
“I have the floor and I’m not yielding it!”
The emergency board meeting was called by Mr. Goodman, himself. No emergency was registering, though. Stocks were trading high today thanks to Soloman-Schmitt’s newly appointed “corporate heart-throb”, as most of the dailies had put it this morning.
Noontime. Stocks high and only half the board showed up. Goodman was furious, indifferent to the two point surge or Joint President Beaumont’s soaring approval rating. “She flies in the face of everything Soloman-Schmitt represents. Our tradition, our very ethos has been violated here.”
No, Treadwell had been right all along. Beaumont did not fly in the face of corporate tradition; Beaumont was the new face of the corporation. Hedonist or not, she was to be Soloman-Schmitt’s makeover, a facelift, if you will, to bring the doddering old company into the twenty-first century with a much more youthful glow. No new logo could accomplish that, Paula had successfully argued. No new moniker, no merger or acquisition, just one modern face. That of the alluring and rather enigmatic Lydia Beaumont.
They would let Treadwell know she was a genius. Day one and Beaumont was already working like a charm.
Goodman was sputtering with rage. Members shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. The man was wrong. A dinosaur. A fossil. A relic.
“Silas–”
Fortune Is a Woman Page 11