Fortune Is a Woman

by Francine Saint Marie

  Lydia teetered and fell in her chair.

  _____

  “Valentino’s got you down to your knickers,” Delilah said, nudging her silent companion and pointing at the boy at the end of the bar. “Go and figure, Liddy. I thought he was queer.”

  Not too queer, Lydia realized. She met his gaze again and turned away. “Don’t point, Del. It’s not polite.” From the corner of her eye she could see him rise and begin to pick his way through the crowd. “Shit, Del, we have to go.” He was heading for their table.

  “Nah, sit. A boy that pretty can’t do you any harm.”

  He was awful pretty, like the Saudi royals she was forced at times to rub elbows with, the boys who acted like men even at twelve. She guessed him to be no more than twenty-five.

  “Good evening,” he said, “I believe this dance is mine.”

  “Whoa, Liddy. He’s old enough to have a belief system.”

  Lydia cocked her head and closed one eye. It was a tango. She didn’t know how to tango. In fact, she didn’t dance. “No, honey. It’s not.”

  He placed a glass of sparkling water bedside her. “Tonic then?”

  His suit was, however, stunningly gorgeous and she had an urge to stroke it, which she managed to conquer.

  “Aw, dance with him, Liddy. I’m telling you the boy’s harmless.”

  He smiled agreeably.

  She disagreed. “I can’t dance…all left feet.”

  “I disbelieve it,” he replied, clutching her hand and guiding her away from the table.

  She glanced apprehensively at Delilah.

  “Go for it,” she urged. “I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  “I’m telling you the truth. I can’t dan–”

  “It’s easy. I’ll show you.”

  They were in the middle of the room now.

  “Like this,” he said. “Your hand goes…here…no, I lead…that one here…there you go.”

  He led. She followed.

  “Good,” he whispered, his hand on the small of her back. “Now when I do this…you spin and come back…spin…yes…now come back…come…like that…perfect…perfect.”

  “I’m very drunk,” Lydia said. The suit was impeccably tailored, his shoulders broad. “Very,” she repeated. She gripped his hand for balance. It was warm and strong, his palms soft.

  “I know. Left now…good…and…that’s right.”

  “And I’m married.”

  “I know…dip for me…excellent…now go that way…oh, you’re beautiful.” He held her by the waist now and led her by the hip. “Come here,” he whispered in her ear.

  She came closer, close enough to see his long lashes. “How do you know?” she asked.

  “Know what?”

  “That I’m married.”

  “How do I know that you’re…? The ring,” he finally answered, tapping her finger.

  Right. She felt him press against her and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m leaving now,” she told him.

  “No you’re not.”

  No she wasn’t.

  Delilah waved from across the room. Her dancing partner was significantly older than Lydia’s. “How old are you?”

  “Old enough…spin again…perfect…and you?”

  She ignored the question. “What do you do, son, aside from dance?”

  “Son–hah. I run guns. You?”

  He had a girlish voice and he spoke in a loud whisper.

  “I rob the poor and give to the rich,” she said, slurring her speech. “And sometimes I think I drink too much.”

  “Mmmm. So we’re kindred spirits then...thieves. What am I thinking of?”

  The song was different. He held her the same. She ignored this question, too. “The room, I’ll have you know, is spinning.”

  “Uh-oh. Can I see you home?”

  She hooked her finger in his braided leather belt, put her arm around his waist. “I know you, don’t I?”

  “Maybe,” he said, kissing her neck and dancing her into the nearest dark corner. “What am I thinking of?”

  “I haven’t a–how do I know you?”

  “Let me count the ways,” he teased. “Put your hand here…right…that’s…right.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “I’m going to kiss this spot here,” he said.

  She let him.

  “And here.”

  “Don’t–how would I know you?”

  “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

  “No,” she answered frankly.

  “Me either,” he said with a laugh. “I’m going to kiss your mouth and I want you to pretend you don’t want me to.”

  “I–I have to go.”

  “Ah…perfect…just perfect.” He kissed her mouth. “I’m taking you home.”

  “No you’re not,” she answered. “What is your name?”

  “How many times, do you think I’ve made love to you?”

  She clucked her tongue. “Hundreds. Am I right?”

  “No…just once.”

  “Once?” She leaned her head against the wall, confused. “How was I?”

  He grasped her firmly by the hips. “Beautiful.”

  “Oh, I see. And married, as well?”

  “Happily.”

  “Mmhmm.” She caressed his smooth cheek. Smooth as a girl’s, her prince so and so. “I am, you know–happily married?”

  He knew.

  “I’ve just had too mu–”

  “I know. I can make you happy, too, though.”

  “How,” she asked, “can you do that if I’m al–”

  He pressed against her.

  She parted her lips.

  “Like that.”

  “Liddy?”

  “Del, I’m…uh…he’s…what is your name?”

  “It’s Arabic–can I get you ladies a cab?”

  “Arabic what?”

  “Do you want–is Valentino coming with us?”

  Lydia braced herself against his shoulder. “I’m very…not myself. This isn’t–”

  “I know,” he said.

  She was dizzy. Delilah was expecting her answer. “Your name, please?”

  He whispered his name in her ear.

  It was Arabic all right. She kissed the slippery slope of his Arabian lips, the tips of his long, exotic fingers. “Now I’m going home.”

  “Am I coming with you?”

  “Liddy…?”

  “Get me home, Del.”

  “Are you taking junior with you?”

  “I–I can’t.”

  Chapter 40

  Feminine

  It was easy to find a good cup of coffee in Rome, but not necessarily at three in the morning. She had thought to buzz Carlos next door because she knew her resourceful secretary could arrange anything, but it didn’t seem fair to wake him so early, just because she hadn’t slept and had abandoned all hope of it.

  Since waking, she had tried for three hours to reach Lydia and the phone had rung impotently each time. It was six in the morning now, well past their usual hour for a telephone tryst and she was eager to know where her wife was, since she clearly wasn’t where she was supposed to be. She left the cell-phone on the bed and paced her rooms, fit to be tied, her imagination fired now by more than female intuition or bad dreams, her hands cold, trembling from a toxic brew of dread and exhaustion and the horrible idea which had, until this moment been so foreign to her, that Lydia Beaumont was perhaps no more trustworthy than the next guy.

  The knock on the door at quarter past was a welcome sound because Helaine was starving and in her angst she had failed to notice it.

  “Come in,” she called in a strangled voice.

  The tray of steaming food entered first, a solace to behold for the destitute, which is how Dr. Kristenson appeared to Carlos this morning, wrapped in a flimsy wool blanket, her hair loose and, as yet, uncombed.

  “Oh, Carlos. What would I do without you?”

  “I really don’t know,” he said, setting t
he tray down. “Nightmares again?”

  There had been a scuffle Saturday, on the way to the podium. Six clean-cut, button-collared protesters had been physically hauled away by the Italian police. Americans, Dr. Kristenson had learned after her lecture. One of her aides had been struck blocking a projectile that had been intended for her. That got him three stitches under his eye and possibly a permanent scar. She wanted to fly the young man home but he wouldn’t hear of it. Now she had a bodyguard posted outside her door, courtesy of her private secretary who had argued unsuccessfully that she ought to hire more.

  “Nightmares, Carlos–I can’t find my wife. She doesn’t answer her cell phone.”

  He nodded. This was not an unusual problem, Carlos Montague had learned. It sometimes happened to his clients that their lives got so haywire they couldn’t find their mates. “Here, eat something,” he said. He left the room and returned with her bathrobe and brush. “This I believe you will find more comfortable than the hair shirt you’ve got there.”

  She traded the blanket for the robe and plucked out her snarls with the brush. Oatmeal, sliced melon, toast, and thank god, coffee. “I want to go home,” she slurped.

  “Yes, I’m sure you do. That is why you have hired Uncle Carlos. He doesn’t permit his clients to fail in their endeavors and you will be no exception. We’ll try her at the penthouse after breakfast. Everything will be fine.”

  _____

  “Del? What–where’s Lydia?”

  “Helaine…um…just a minute, okay?”

  Helaine perched on the edge of the bed. “Has something happened?”

  “Well, not really…Liddy, come on…it’s Helaine…yes, for real.”

  They were drunk. Helaine put her head in her hand then signaled for Carlos to leave.

  “Lana?”

  “Lydia, what has happened?”

  “Noth–what do you mean?”

  “I’ve been trying to get you for hours. Why are you drinking on a Su–”

  “Because I can’t do this. I just can’t.”

  “Can’t talk to me on the phone?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Can’t have me and not have me, you’re saying?”

  “Come home, Lana. I need you. I paid good money to ha–”

  “What a very intriguing concept, Ms. Beaumont. Put Del on for me.”

  “You don’t want to talk to…what’s with that?”

  “Darling, please. Just let me speak to Delilah.”

  “No.”

  Edgy. Another facet to this difficult persona. “Lydia, are you working tomorrow?”

  “Sure am. Everyone’s gone but me and the miscreants.”

  “Then you need to go to bed and I need to talk to Del.”

  “Dr. Kristenson?”

  “JP Beaumont.”

  “You lied to me.”

  “I–about what?”

  “You said it was going well. I’ve read otherwise.”

  “A white lie so you wouldn’t worry yourself like this.”

  “I worry, therefore I am. Talk nice to me.”

  “I love you–you’re flirting with disaster, I’m sure you know.”

  “You’re my disaster…you and that…that hair. I order you to come home and make me feel like a woman again.”

  Helaine had forty-eight plus hours till her next gig, a much-needed mini vacation. Carlos had planned to entertain her with a speed tour of Rome, starting this morning with the Ruins. She pressed the telephone to her forehead. He had psyched her for this outing, into being nothing but a tourist for the day, blending with the other sightseers at the Pantheon and the Coliseum. It would take two whole days, he had calculated, to do it right, to view as much of the devastation as possible, including the Etruscan’s. Oh, but in six or seven hours she could be home again, dumping JP Beaumont’s liquor down the drain, throwing open the windows to air out the place, making dinner, hanging Christmas ornaments, sleeping with her wife, obeying orders.

  She fell backward onto the unmade bed. “Okay.”

  Chapter 41

  Better To Be Loved

  “I can’t get a hold of her.”

  “You tried her cell?”

  “No answer.”

  “And she’s not at home, you’re sure?”

  “No one saw her leave, but she’s definitely not there.”

  That’s not discreet, Paula thought, that’s outright deceit. And then it suddenly occurred to her where VP Angelo could be found. “I think I know where she is, John. Go back to sleep.”

  “Leave her be,” Dickie grumbled from beneath his pillow. “Come to bed.”

  “This’ll only take a second…Ms. Grisholm? Good morning. I need to chat with Venus. You can tell her it’s Paula Treadwell.”

  “Turn out the light,” Dickie whined. “Have mercy.”

  “Hush.”

  “Paula? What the–”

  “Spare me the shock and awe, Angelo. I’m calling to tell you you’re covering for Ms. Beaumont today. Eight o’clock sharp, please.”

  “I’m…someone followed me?”

  “No, so it must have been a truly brilliant disguise. Your biographer, I’m sure, will be delighted.”

  “And you…you just deduced that I was–”

  “I deduced it, the end.”

  (Pause.) “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Dr. Kristenson called me earlier. She’s sneaking into town this morning. Beaumont’s slowly unraveling, by the sounds of it.”

  “Oh?”

  “I want you to cover for her until Wednesday.”

  “Paula, I’ll bet you know I have other plans.”

  “Break ’em.”

  _____

  Her fellow passengers are staring not because they recognize her but because she is striking in that sable and those sunglasses, in the brown silk scarf tied under her chin hiding her hallmark hair. They stare, as well, because her young travel companion with his swollen eye looks as if he’s just been rolled and they’re wondering ponderously if she did it and why.

  Their speculations are all that Dr. Kristenson finds amusing about her present escapade. Behind her wraparound shades, she is trying to catch some winks because she hasn’t slept in almost twenty-four hours. She is also processing the stewardess’s announcement that connecting flights may be indefinitely delayed due to a winter storm system which is presently creeping up the Eastern Seaboard of the United States. The stale air of the pressurized cabin has given her a real doozie of a headache and she has just concluded that there is nothing in her purse with which to treat it but a sharp number two pencil. She is hungry, but the sight and smell of the meal that has just arrived is making her nauseous.

  Carlos had endeavored to dissuade her from going. The weather over the Atlantic was awfully unpredictable this time of year, had been his best argument, but even that hadn’t been strong enough to change her mind. Now it seemed likely that she would be caught in a nor’-eastern, perhaps not get to see her wife at all.

  _____

  “Send a chopper for godsakes, John. Screw the shuttle if it’s grounded. Has Angelo gone home?”

  “Not yet. You found her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Never mind.”

  _____

  Six in the morning. It had begun to snow she noticed as she exited the cab. She showed the doorwoman her ID and a Ben Franklin and rode the elevator straight up to the penthouse, relieved once inside to find it the same as she had left it.

  Her answering machine was blinking. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven messages. It was her mother, Paula, Claudine, Paula, Sebastion, Paula, Paula.

  Who, what, where, why, and when, she asked herself in the shower. She washed Anna from her hair and skin, toweled off under the heat lamp and then gargled in the sink. The phones in her office must be bugged, Venus realized, biting down hard on her toothbrush. That would be a relatively easy thing for nosy JP Treadwell to accomplish. Shit, she said with a mouth fu
ll of paste, everyone’s phone was probably bugged.

  She threw the toothbrush into the sink basin, spit and rinsed.

  Nosy JP Treadwell. How much could she know? Venus worried, going into the kitchen. The clock on the wall said skip the pancakes and eggs, babe, no time, get dressed. The sinking sensation in her gut told her that the woman knew everything, everything that was said or done at Soloman-Schmitt, maybe even before it was said or done. She scrounged a breakfast bar from her gym bag and gnawed on it while she organized the items on her dresser and slapped on some makeup.

  Paula was following her princes. She was tapping their lines.

  That’s something always to keep in mind, Venus told herself, admiring a glittering pair of sapphire earrings before putting them back into their case again.

  Come on, she scolded, stepping over last night’s clothes on the way to the closet. We got to rescue Lydia Beaumont today. She chose a tight-fitting number in navy with a low back and long sleeves, platform boots. Get a move on, girl, she laughed uneasily, adjusting her bra under the dress and straightening the seams of her stockings. ’Cause the lady’s coming undone and she went and called her doctor.

  Outside she was struck by the eerie silence, the empty streets. She trudged toward Soloman-Schmitt in unbroken snow and paused before entering the revolving doors. The building across the way from her was almost invisible in the storm. It looked like a big, gray ghost. She trembled in the cold. Is this what they call a blizzard?

  _____

  The man intercepting them on the snowy tarmac was Paula’s personal pilot. All flights have been grounded, he explained to the weary Dr. Kristenson, including her shuttle. He had clearance to chopper her to a landing pad fifteen blocks from her home or to the next airport where her driver sat waiting, probably snowbound. Whichever she preferred.

  Fifteen blocks from her home was Soloman-Schmitt, her companion pointed out. If she couldn’t get a cab from there he’d be happy to escort her. It was no inconvenience to him because his parents lived in the vicinity of that neighborhood and he was pretty sure they wouldn’t be out in weather like this.