Fortune Is a Woman

by Francine Saint Marie

“Lana?”

  “Two o’clock, darling. Soon enough, or do we have an emergency?”

  “Weeell...”

  _____

  He would like to get those suits. He missed having them.

  Actually he really, really needed to see Venus, but apparently she did not feel the same sense of urgency about him.

  Nevertheless they were his suits and he was entitled to have his suits back and his suits were a legitimate excuse to contact her and he desperately wanted contact with her ’cause it was proving to be a cold, cold world out there, all the women in it made of ice or steel, especially compared to Venus Angelo, and he was sick of all that faux fluff and industry shit, and he was sure if she saw him again, how contrite he was, or certainly how contrite he could be if she would only let him show that to her, and maybe if one more time she saw his big, beautiful and well-meaning grin, all those pearly whites that no one he had ever known or had ever met could resist, then she would return to her senses and get with him again.

  That was the plan. A pretty good plan, he thought, except she didn’t seem to be falling for it. She didn’t return his phone call or his e-mail, she didn’t answer his letter, she didn’t answer the buzzer at the apartment.

  Now what could be with that? Did she need to be so harsh? Did the Sebastion Jones really truly deserve this bullshit?

  Nope.

  _____

  “Okay?”

  “Mmmmmm, excellent.”

  “Good, and now that I have you on my couch…”

  “I have you! Lift, Lana.”

  “I–goodness–think you might be right.”

  “Am. Yes?”

  “Oh…yes…yes.”

  “On your couch, you were saying?”

  “My couch?”

  “You said, now that I have you on my–”

  “No, no, stop then.”

  “Lana? Stop?”

  “Or finish, I mean. Finish first.”

  _____

  If she was an ordinary woman, he would send her flowers. But if he sent her flowers she’d see right through it. Anyway he had never sent her flowers before. He was not a flower type of guy and she was not a flower type of gal. He couldn’t even remember seeing a houseplant in her apartment.

  She is not ordinary, that’s for sure. Ordinary women have needs and, that Sebastion knew of, Venus had none.

  Well, that’s it then! For the woman who has everything: Sebastion Jones.

  _____

  “Yes, because it’s overdue, darling. I need to know.”

  “If I’m upset? How could you think that?”

  “Because you haven’t mentioned that night to me even once.”

  “But I don’t discuss such thin–”

  “Lydia Beaumont.”

  “Right. I’m cool with it. I’m not upset, Dr. Kristenson.” She fussed with the buttons of her blouse. “But I couldn’t share you, you know?”

  “That was quite obvious.”

  “I mean with anyone, not just Venus.”

  “Our marriage is not open, Lydia, if that’s what worries you.”

  Some success with those buttons with assistance from Helaine. “Okay, good to know.” She hated the topic.

  “Come here,” Helaine whispered, “I’m going to pull a few more teeth.”

  “Lana,” Lydia said, examining two shoes she held in her hands. “I need to know something else.” One shoe was hers, the other Helaine’s. They would fit her perfectly, a pair, but they wouldn’t match. “Tell me,” she said, dropping them both to the floor. “Is it just me, or did you spoil everyone like that?”

  The afternoon sun shone brilliantly into Helaine’s office and her blond hair was undone and dangling in her face, providing her only cover. She propped her head up on one hand. Stretched out on her own couch, she knew she didn’t much resemble a doctor right now and she didn’t feel like one either. She could see how naked she was in Lydia’s eyes. “Darling, what a funny thing to ask me after all these years.” She felt her nipples go hard and crossed her arms behind her head in emphasis. “I think you better get undressed again.”

  “Dr. Kristenson.” The room was sunny and warm and Lydia had all the time in the world today. All the time in the world available at her fingertips and she could spend it on the couch if she so desired; the doctor had no afternoon appointments. She liked how she looked there, sun drenched and sly, her nipples erect. “You’re a lovely piece of–answer me first.”

  “Answer you? What do you want me to say? I never married any of them. That would have been spoiling, don’t you agree?”

  The couch was a riot of sunshine and blond hair. “Lana, keep your arms like that.”

  Chapter 23

  Coldly

  Real women eat quiche in Paris, but they’re ten times more likely to be nibbling sweets, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes.

  “Pardon. Avez-vous une cigarette, s’il vous plaît?”

  Third time today. Venus didn’t smoke but some of the prettiest women in Paris did. She made a note to purchase a pack of cigarettes at the next tabac.

  “Um, no, I don’t. Je m’excuse.” She had been unwittingly eyeing this particular brunette and her very, very shapely legs for quite some time now. “Je ne parle pas Français.”

  “Non? Parlez-vous Anglais?”

  “Anglais? English? Oui, je parle Anglais. I speak English.”

  “Oh-kay,” the woman teased. “Américaine, oui? Yes? Êtes-vous Américaine?”

  “Yes,” Venus answered. “Je suis Américaine.”

  “Puis-je…may I?” the woman asked, taking the empty chair. “Je m’appelle Claudine. Êtes-vous? Your name is?”

  “I’m Venus.”

  “Bonsoir, Madame. Menu?” (waiter)

  “Bonsoir. Je voudrais un verre de vin rouge, s’il vous plaît–ah, un moment. I can purchase you too, Venus?”

  Uhh.

  “Oui, un carafe de vin rouge,” Claudine reordered, taking a cigarette from her purse and lighting it with the nearby candle. “See? I speak some Américain, Venus. You are very beautiful. See?”

  Blue eyes. She had blue eyes. “Merci, Claudine. So are you.”

  “Bon,” Claudine replied, blowing smoke through her nostrils like a movie star. “So? Do you like a dance?”

  “Do I dance, you mean?”

  “Oui–dance! You will dance with me, Venus? Ce soir?”

  The waiter came with a carafe of wine and two glasses. Claudine filled them.

  “I could dance.”

  Claudine laughed. “What–we just dance, if you like! If you do like more, we dance and make love. Hmm? Aimez-vous?”

  Venus’ French was inadequate at best. She took a quick breath and picked up her wine.

  “Ah, Venus is timide. How attractive. Santé!” Claudine said, raising her glass.

  “Santé,” Venus echoed.

  “We are oh-kay or I am wrong?”

  “It is–you are not wrong. I will go dancing with you, but…how do I say this…I can make you no other promises, okay?”

  “Oh-kay,” Claudine replied with a raucous laugh. “You Américains. Really, none of you can give a thing. C’est vrai! So why promise?” She sniffed her wine and swirled it in the glass. “Très bien. We try, number one, just to dance. If then we like too much, you take me to bed. From that I promise, if you are any good, I will show you Paris. Oh-kay, Venus?”

  If we like too much. Venus was enchanted. “Okay.”

  _____

  “Goodman, you are obsessed with this. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation here.”

  “I am not obsessed. It is conduct unbecoming for an officer of this corporation, let alone the joint president, Ms. Treadwell, and there is no reasonable explanation for it!”

  “It was her birthday. How did you get this information anyway, illegal surveillance?”

  “Never mind, I’m presenting it to the board in two weeks and whatever else I–”

  “You will do nothing of the sort, Si
las! You will cease and desist in this! Do you understand me?”

  Silas Goodman sneered contemptuously. “I do not answer to President Treadwell. She answers to me. And to the other board members, as well. Remember them?”

  Paula eyed his jugular. “I’m going to say have a nice day, Mr. Goodman,” she replied, showing him to the door, “because I’ve got a corporation to run.”

  “Run it then, Ms. Treadwell. That is, after all, your only duty. To run it and run it well.”

  “Look, I think I understand my job description pretty well, as does our Ms. Beaumont. I’m wondering, however, if you’re confused about yours.”

  They stood face to face, neither willing to say uncle.

  “I’m doing my job as we speak,” he hissed.

  “No, on that you are quite mistaken. What you’re actually doing is committing a criminal offense. You are violating Ms. Beaumont’s privacy and that is definitely not your job.”

  “Oh? And what will she do about it, Treadwell? Put on a glamorous pout?”

  “Mr. Goodman, you are grossly underestimating the woman.”

  “Am I?”

  He was a man who knew his own repugnance and used it to his advantage; Paula backed away from him.

  “I said good day, Silas. Thank you so much for stopping in to see me.”

  “I will take you to task on this,” he threatened as he flew out of her office. “All of you.”

  Lydia had seen him come in and had waited it out in her office next to Paula’s, though with the soundproof walls she couldn’t catch a word of their conversation. Still, she did not have to be clairvoyant to guess at the subject matter of Goodman’s surprise visit. “That was about me?” she asked queasily. He had left in a storm. What else could it be about?

  Paula was pacing her office, irritated, one hand on her hip, the other covering her mouth as if to prevent herself from speaking. Goodman was a goddamn-right-wing-fanatic cocksucker.

  Lydia stepped inside, shut the door. “Paula?”

  Beaumont was a goddamn-left-wing-fanatic-hedonistic asshole. How the hell did that happen? “Beaumont, what in the hell were you doing at Lavender Lane? Have you no goddamn sense?”

  “Paula–I–I met Helaine there. For my birthday. I don’t have to answer to this.”

  “No, citizen Beaumont. You don’t have to answer to it. But as joint president…now that could be different because then you might even have to answer to: AND WHO THE HELL ELSE DID YOU MEET THERE! And what the hell’s going on with that? And don’t you dare lie to me, Beaumont! Don’t you even dare!”

  Shit. She should have used the side door, like Helaine had advised. “What are you going to do?”

  “What am I going to do? Excellent question. What am I going to do?” Paula chewed at her nail and frowned. “Well, I can’t fire you now, can I?”

  “No.”

  “And I won’t let you resign, so forget it.”

  Forgotten. “And?”

  “And I won’t force Angelo to resign. She’s making us look so–internationally speaking and all–I can’t lose her now.”

  Good.

  Paula glared at her ruined nail. It was really Kristenson she wanted to get her hands on. She knew that blond was bad luck from the very beginning and here she was again, leading another of her top girls astray. She choked on the next nail. How unseemly, visualizing strangling her own therapist.

  _____

  “John, get the Assistant to Overseas.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Overseas! Get her on the phone for me. She’s not at her hotel.”

  “Ms. Treadwell, what hotel? Where?

  “Paris, goddamnit! Paris, France!”

  “Okay, okay. Did you try e-mailing?”

  “Days ago. She hasn’t answered. Get her on the phone, John. Now.”

  “I’ll try her cell.”

  Lydia had tried to reach her, too, but there was no answer at the apartment, just Helaine’s voice on the message unit. She had debated leaving a message, but dawdled too long at it. The machine hung up on her both times.

  “Beaumont, relax. Be presidential.”

  The conference call Paula was trying to coordinate was nothing Lydia looked forward to and she wasn’t even sure of what Paula hoped to accomplish by it. She wondered if it was typical for Venus to be so hard to find. She had never had to look for her before.

  “If you know where this woman is, you owe me to say so.”

  Lydia hesitated. She knew where Venus was supposed to be. “Is she attending her meetings?”

  “Yes, it seems so or I would have heard otherwise. But the hotel–”

  “Well then, technically she’s where she’s supposed to be. Right?”

  “Ms. Treadwell?”

  “Go ahead, John. You have her?”

  “No, I–she doesn’t answer. It’s not the same time there, you know? Maybe she’s–”

  “I don’t care what time it is! Give me her cell number. I’ll call her myself.”

  He gave her the number.

  “See you tomorrow morning, John. Hang up, please.”

  Lydia felt sorry for John. “Why don’t you call him by his last name, Paula?”

  Paula pounded out Venus’ phone number and it rang in distorted tones over the speaker. “Because I don’t remember his last name. Stay focused here.”

  Five rings. Six rings. Seven rings. Eight–“Allô, already! Qui est là? Who, who?”

  A pretty French voice on Venus Angelo’s private phone.

  Lydia went pale. Paula was too pissed to notice. Someone on the other end had the wherewithal to disconnect.

  _____

  “Claudine, that was not cool.”

  “Cool? What is this word?”

  Venus clutched her cell phone. That was probably Paula. “Très mal,” she muttered, “not cool.” Or worse than Paula, it was Lydia.

  “Put it down,” Claudine demanded. “Or you go. Tu comprends? You go?”

  The phone rang again. It couldn’t be Lydia. Why would she call?

  “Non!” Claudine was completely exasperated by now. It had been tweeting like this for nearly an hour. “You tell them for me you cannot fuck and talk! You tell them this!”

  Foock, cannot foock. Rrriinng. Venus suppressed a laugh. Love is supposed to be a rhapsody, not a scherzo. Right? Rrriinng. Was this Paula or was it Lydia? She weighed the questions and the implications while protecting the phone from the wrath of Claudine.

  “Fermez la bouche, Claudine…s’il vous plaît…I said please, Claudine…Yes?…Claudine, please…merci…thank you…Yes, Angelo here.”

  “Treadwell here. I’m going to hazard a guess that that’s not your secretary.”

  Treadwell, thank god. “No, I–”

  “Don’t bother. Where are you?”

  Venus sighed and covered the mouthpiece. “Where am I, Claudine?”

  “Where are you? Aiy!” She left the bed in disgust. “Marais.”

  “Marais, Paula.”

  “Is that still Paris or should I get a world map?”

  “No, it’s…it’s still Paris. Are you, um, is this priv–”

  “NO. And you are an absolute fool, Angelo, if I understand things right. Now get your ass back here.”

  FOOCK. She put her head in her hand. “When, Paula? Now? I’ve got fourth-round negotiations tomorrow.” She lowered her voice. “Is the joint presi–”

  “Finish them up. How many days–say two? Finish them up in two days. We’ve got a situation here that requires your complete and rapt attention.”

  What kind of a situation could that be? “Can I talk to her?”

  “Does it concern the corporation?”

  “It’s…well…no.”

  “Then I don’t think so, but I’ll check. Ms. Beaumont, do you have anything to say to the Assistant Vice President?”

  Venus waited in anguish.

  “No, it doesn’t appear that Ms. Beaumont has anything whatsoever to contribute to our conversation. W
e’ll be expecting you in two days, then. E-mail your flight schedule so we can have a car waiting for you.”

  Venus listened to the hum of the dial tone and watched Claudine from the corner of her eye lighting the gas stove, nude in front of her open windows. This was not a bashful woman. She threw on a shirt and joined her in her small kitchen.

  “Claudine–”

  “Non. You will be saying to me now, oh, Claudine, I must go, my work, I am so very important. And you know what I say? Allez-vous en–go! You don’t know how to live, Madame Angelo. Je m’en lave les mains. Au revoir.”

  Venus laughed despite her predicament. “And you weren’t going to say foock me?”

  “Oui, I was. I was going to say fuck you, but why should I say it when you know it is the thing already I am thinking? Have some chocolat.”

  Venus took the cup from her.

  “I will find an Américain on vacation,” Claudine stated. “Some woman who doesn’t love work too much.”

  “Okay, Claudine. You do that.” The creature was selfish and conceited, made for just one thing. She liked her fiery eyes and the insolence of her, her immodesty. She was the exact opposite of Lydia. Except for the hair and her height. That mouth. Those blue eyes and–

  “Or how about I find that woman you whisper to? She is also on vacation, your woman?”

  “Who?”

  “You know, when you fuck me. ‘Lydia, Lydia.’ Does Lydia vacation, Venus? I go find her then, hmmm?”

  “Lyd–what do you mean?”

  “Who, who. What, what. Look at you embarrassed. Don’t be, Venus. I don’t mind. I get what belongs to–hah, you look away. You are shy Américaine!”

  The chocolate was too sweet, as sweet as wedding cake. Sickly sweet and hot on the back of her throat. She set it on the counter and left the kitchen.

  “Venus…?”

  “Claudine.”

  “Oh, Venus…it’s nothing,” Claudine assured, tugging at Venus’ shirtsleeve. “Really, Venus. It’s nothing at all.”

  It’s nothing at all to Claudine, Venus could see, but then she would most likely be the exception. Exceptional Claudine. What would Venus have done if Lydia had called her Helaine? That would be no small thing to exceptional Venus Angelo, being called anything but Venus or love or baby or even Angelo. “Okay,” she was glad to agree. “It’s nothing, Claudine. I understand.”