Fortune Is a Woman

by Francine Saint Marie

  (Rewind.)

  “Venus, it’s–I–I wanted to–just to wish you a Merry Christmas and uh–a safe trip. I’m…you don’t need to call me back.”

  (Rewind.)

  “Venus, it’s–”

  _____

  Lydia had a daydreaming glaze on for this afternoon’s briefing with Joint President Treadwell. She was still half in Madrid. The other half was off in the future, in Montreal, her next scheduled rendezvous. In between all this time-traveling, she was wondering if there wasn’t some other occupation she might find worthwhile pursuing, something she could take genuine pride in and that would make more constructive use of her time. Like dog walker or fruit picker. Circus clown.

  There was a spider’s web in the corner of Paula’s otherwise pristine office. It stretched from the ceiling to the wall. Lydia watched with unearthly interest as the spider wrapped its noisy lunch, presumably a fly. She had heard somewhere that the spider’s venom paralyzed its victims, but this fly wasn’t paralyzed. Paula droned on and on. The spectacle was both grisly and compelling.

  “And that would bring you up to date, Ms. Beaumont.”

  “Zzzzzz…zzzzzz…zzzzzzzzzzz…zzz…”

  “Ms. Beaumont?”

  “Zzzzzzzzz…zzzzzzzzzzzzz…”

  “Lydia!

  “Yes! Good idea. Great idea.”

  “What–you have jet lag? Then go home.”

  The fly was uttering its last gasps. “I might,” Lydia replied.

  Paula fell silent, too, assessing JP Beaumont’s condition, those big dark circles under her eyes, that faraway look she always found so disturbing.

  “What, Paula?”

  “You look shockingly bad, I must say. Go home and sleep it off.”

  Jet lag was only one contributing factor. Lydia had barely slept in Madrid, a city she would be able to claim she had visited, but never seen. She was, in her sleepless delirium, thinking to inquire about Venus, whether she was in her office today, but the thought dissipated like clouds at Paula’s suggestion. To sleep perchance. Didn’t that seem like a good idea?

  “Great idea,” she said, sounding more lucid than she actually was. How do you become a dog walker? Do you go to school to pick fruit? Now clown schools Lydia had heard about. So how many years does it take to become a clown? Or was it a master clown? She should’ve stayed home today. Clearly Paula would have understood if she had.

  “Zzzzzzzz,” she heard as she left her chair. She still heard it riding the elevator down to the lobby. “Home,” she told her driver, and they buzzed back to the penthouse where she finally collapsed on the couch.

  Morning found Lydia in confrontation with the maid over the subject of food.

  “Popcorn and cake,” the woman scolded, “are not on the food pyramid.”

  She was bean counting, Lydia asserted. Bean counting untouched dinners.

  “I make a beautiful dinner and it dries out on the plate. What is this? Just add water and you eat? You have to eat, Dr. Kristenson says.”

  It is difficult when you’re used to eating with someone to get inspired to dine alone.

  The dinner had not appealed to her, Lydia asserted. You’re not the boss of me and popcorn and cake is food. Anyway, she didn’t look much worse for the wear of it, she argued.

  “You get much worse looking and–”

  “And what?”

  “Nothing. Bacon and eggs?”

  Bacon and eggs. Lydia’s stomached gurgled.

  Bacon and eggs, toast with marmalade, French fries, grapefruit juice, and lots and lots of coffee. She was late for work but arrived replenished.

  “VP Angelo is in the building,” Paula announced sarcastically.

  “And?”

  “Two hours on the job and she’s beside herself already.”

  “About?”

  “Her new assistant. He says splendid this, splendid that. She finds the expression unbearable.”

  Unbearable colloquialisms. No grounds for dismissal there. “Splendid, huh?”

  “Splendid.”

  “Oh, that would be unbearable.”

  “Yeah, but she’s not kidding me,” Paula said. “Something else is in her craw.”

  Another unbearable colloquial. Lydia tried to evade the subject with a disinterested nod.

  “Something to do with you, I’m sure,” Paula said. “I wasn’t born yesterday, girls.”

  “Paula, let’s not. Don’t I have a mission here today? What am I without a mission? C’mon, let’s have at it.”

  “You’re Head Handshaking Honcho today.”

  “Whose palms need rubbing?”

  “Oh, Representative So-and-So and some behind-the-scenes colleagues of his. I forget.”

  “Republican or Democrat?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  None that she could think of.

  “They’re just thrilled to be able to meet with you, Ms. Beaumont. Up close and personal like and–don’t let me down, please.”

  She didn’t. But schmoozing was hard work. Lydia went home blistered and bleary.

  Beef stroganoff, scalloped potatoes and broccoli awaited her on the top shelf in the fridge, all ready for the microwave and labeled with a note that said, “eat me–doctor’s orders.” She ate the dinner cold and had a bowl of sugary cereal for dessert.

  Stomach full and lids heavy, the couch (oh, the couch, the couch) was calling to her once more. She took the cordless phone and a feather pillow with her and popped in an old movie: Van Johnson liberating Paris and, not incidentally, Elizabeth Taylor. Lydia didn’t find him particularly attractive and she bet that Liz hadn’t either.

  “Hello?”

  “Darling.”

  “Robert–very funny.”

  “Just a reminder about Friday.”

  “Friday? Oh, that’s right, Friday. Seven you said?”

  “Dinner’s at seven. You can come earlier, though. Show us your slides of Madrid.”

  “Slides of…you’re very sly, Mr. Keagan. I’ll see you Friday.”

  Dinner party at the Keagan’s Friday night. She wrote an illegible note to herself and hung it on the fridge. Back on the couch and in Paris, things weren’t going too well between Van and Liz. Lydia yawned a few times, turned up the volume, stretched, and turned it down again.

  “Hello?”

  “Darling.”

  “Lana.”

  “You catch up on your z’s yet?”

  “Almost–you?”

  “No rest for the weary. We’re out of here tomorrow and then it’s Lisbon or bust–is someone there?”

  “Elizabeth Taylor.”

  “Wow. I have to admit that intimidates me. Send her my regards, will you?”

  “I’m not even going to mention your name.”

  “Oh, Lord! I’ve created a monster.”

  _____

  Harry was at Frank’s Place early today, helping the cook to get things rolling for a private party at noon. That gave him the opportunity to see Lydia Beaumont jog past the windows and then, moments later, Venus Angelo in her sweatsuit on the opposite side of the street. Both ladies were taking their morning run downtown, running, coincidentally it would seem, in the direction of the waterfront. He poured a cup of coffee and stationed himself at the table in the window seat, the morning’s newspaper a foil for his spying.

  “Love Doc” this and that again, and one never-ending hubbub. He had read garbage like this before. What a pity, he mused, flipping through the paper for the horoscopes as he kept an eye out for Lydia and Venus. What a terrible pity.

  Lydia and Venus. They ran, he knew, but never together. Were they running together this morning? He studied the stars for everyone, including those notably absent.

  Down on the empty waterfront, the ladies eventually reached the end of the line before they finally recognized each other. They waved shyly before making their usual circles and loping back uptown again. Neither knew what to say this morning and both were glad to be in motion and preoccupi
ed. It was a somber winter day and the clock was ticking and there was nothing left for them to say, nothing to do about the widening gulf but to go to work. They ran on toward their respective penthouses, barely glancing up from their opposing sidewalks to look across the street and hardly noticing anything else but the women in their peripheries.

  Typically it’s a twenty-minute jog back for Lydia, Harry calculated. Twenty minutes if there’s nothing keeping her.

  Hmmm. Today’s a ten if you’re born in the year of the tiger. Eight for the rabbit. Five for the monkey.

  Running’s bad for the knees. Bad for the ankles. Good for the heart.

  Harry was amazed how many tigers and rabbits he knew. But clever monkeys? He didn’t know so many monkeys.

  Good for the heart. Running is.

  Venus Angelo was probably a rabbit. How old did he read she was? Young. Yeah, probably a rabbit. A lucky rabbit.

  Seventeen minutes, ten seconds and Harry caught sight of Venus in the homestretch. There was young, beautiful, lucky Venus. How effortlessly she runs. How that woman glides.

  It’s nine for the horse and nine for the dragon, six for the ox and boar. Horses and dragons. Oxen and boars.

  Hmm.

  And the stopwatch says nineteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds.

  According to this you don’t want to be a snake or a rat today. Only two for a snake and three for a rat.

  Twenty minutes.

  Now that leaves dog, sheep, and rooster unaccounted for. Let’s see. Dog…? Sheep…? Rooster…?

  Twenty minutes and thirteen seconds and here’s our Lydia, limping slightly and looking extremely frustrated with herself. Competitive, glamorous Lydia Beaumont, demanding so much of herself. Harry shook his head and rattled the paper. Tch, tch, tch. How hard she works.

  Well now! The dog, sheep, and rooster might as well go for it today. All sevens.

  Harry was impressed with Lydia’s time this morning, even if she wasn’t. He buried his head in the newspaper as she passed by the restaurant.

  _____

  “You’re limping,” Paula said. “Now what?”

  “Jogging. I think maybe arthritis.”

  “Arthritis! Where’s VP Angelo? I’ve been looking for her all day.”

  “I don’t know. I sa–she didn’t come in today?”

  “Can’t find her anywhere. Missed the one o’clock meeting, too.”

  That was out of character. Where was she?

  VP Angelo was home crafting her letter of resignation. No, not one of those corporate mea culpas or a moving-on-to-bigger-and-better-things resignations. No, no. A genuine take-this-job-and-shove-it resignation. Take your hypocrisy, take your bendable ethics, your world domination, your spies, your fucking bottom-line mentalities, your greed-driven philosophies, your hierarchical bullshit, your kings and queens and princes.

  And shove it.

  Addressed to both joint presidents, the letter formally began, “I regret to advise you of my decision to resign.” But she lost momentum after that and the cursor blinked tauntingly beside the “n” while she mulled over telling the women the truth or maybe in the end simply sanitizing it.

  Regret wasn’t true. She did not regret her decision. Soloman-Schmitt was a snake pit and she wanted out.

  She deleted “regret.”

  _____

  Wednesday and Thursday…still no Venus and the word on the street from Paula’s spies was that the woman had become a shut-in. Incommunicado. It did not bode well that she wouldn’t answer her phone calls or e-mails.

  “She could be in contract negotiations as we speak,” Paula fretted. “Imagine Angelo working for the competition!”

  Lydia couldn’t but.

  Both joint presidents were concerned about her dereliction and both were at a loss as to what to do about it. Technically she could be relieved of her duties if it came to the attention of the board. If she didn’t show by Friday there could be ample grounds.

  “Go see her,” Paula pleaded. “Talk some sense int–”

  “You mean persuade her, Paula? Maybe persuasion’s the prob–”

  “Well then, it went too far! Didn’t it? Way too far!”

  Lydia shrugged in despair. It was a heartbreaking matter. “This is unproductive,” she muttered. “I’ve got papers to push.”

  “Push her, Lydia. She’s up there alone. Go and tell–”

  “How do you know that?”

  “That–what?”

  “She’s alone…how do you know that?”

  “I know–I–it’s–nevermind how I know. I know, that’s all.”

  “Oh, Christ, Paula Treadwell. Christ!”

  They didn’t have much to discuss after that.

  Friday came and went the same way, shrouded in silence and uncertainty, Treadwell bordering on hysteria, the joint presidents walking on eggshells and glass in their efforts to cover for an AWOL prince who had never missed a day of work in her life.

  The matter of the disappearing Venus was becoming noticeable nonetheless. She had missed two more important meetings and the wasps’ nest was abuzz over it. VP Angelo was gone, began the water cooler rumors in earnest. And how exciting, without a single word as to why!

  Even Kate was confounded. “Honestly, I’d tell you if I knew.”

  Paula sneered contemptuously. “No you wouldn’t, but kudos for a convincing performance, kid. Go back to work.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And Fitz-Simone…”

  “Yes, Ms. Treadwell.”

  “Take over for her. Don’t let anything pile up.”

  “Yes, ma’am. She’s covered.”

  But VP Angelo didn’t keep them in suspense for very much longer and by Friday’s closing bell, hope, which had already been so fragile, was now completely shattered.

  “I resign,” her e-mail read. Subject: “Splendor.”

  Lydia packed up her briefcase and went home to crumble. Circus clown was looking better and better.

  She did not trouble Helaine with these recent developments. Their conversation was light and breezy, about love and food and the Keagans’ pending dinner party. There was no point in discussing work or Venus or Paula. Helaine had enough on her mind as it was and Lydia didn’t think she would find the situation quite as depressing as she did. They hung up quickly and Lydia tried to unwind in the Jacuzzi before going out for the evening.

  Every part of her seethed at Paula’s role in the tragedy and her mind was swimming with those things one finds oneself wishing had been said at the time. Lost opportunities and insults aside, there would be a day, Lydia swore to herself, when she would let it rip and Paula would get the cheerful earful she deserved. But in the here and the now Venus was gone. How she could continue at Soloman-Schmitt without her, without knowing she was there, not necessarily beside her, but, Jesus, at least in the same building…she would have to keep that disappointment unnamed and secret, bury it somewhere deep inside her where there was no voice to express it, in a place no one else could ever find.

  She dressed in black and arrived at the Keagans’ late, too late to show off her slides of Madrid, but just in time to be seated with the other guests and to raise a glass in toast.

  “To friendship,” Kay said.

  Friendship was the group response, though the stares Lydia received from Anna Grisholm all evening were anything but friendly. Anything but.

  “I’ve decided it’s the yearning look in your eyes that makes you so attractive, Ms. Beaumont,” she said, as Lydia was issuing thank-yous and goodnights and preparing to leave. “That and their beautiful color.”

  Despite the usual come-on there was an air of resignation in Anna’s tone. Lydia welcomed the change. “Thank you, Anna. That’s very kind of you.”

  “Like sapphires,” Anna said, taking the liberty of walking her to the elevator. “Has anyone ever told you that besides me? That your eyes are like sapphires?”

  “I–uh–well–”

  “Yes, I bet they have
. That reminds me,” Anna said, preventing the door from closing. “I have something that belongs to you.”

  “Me?”

  “You,” Anna replied, searching around in her pocket. “It would seem, Ms. Beaumont, that I am forever coming upon your valuables.”

  “My valuables?” Lydia said, holding out her hand. “But–?”

  Anna placed the sapphire earrings in Lydia’s palm and saw her face go white. “They are yours, aren’t they?”

  “I–” her hand was trembling. She clutched the earrings in a fist and shoved them into her pocket. “They…they were…they’re…goodnight, Ms. Grisholm.”

  “Goodnight,” Anna said, letting the door slide shut. “Mrs. Kristenson.”

  Chapter 51

  Opposed

  In the ensuing weeks following Venus Angelo’s resignation, working with Paula had become a nightmare and although Venus hadn’t enumerated in her e-mail the exact reasons for her departure or, for that matter, her future plans, Lydia knew that Paula blamed her personally for the catastrophe. Her and that den of iniquity, the Kristenson Foundation.

  “It’s not a done deal,” VP Treadwell said this morning, repeating a declaration she had been making ever since Venus first went on the lam. “The board has indicated they’re willing to wink and look the other way if she’ll reconsider. Besides, an e-mail isn’t an official resignation. Is she working for your wife or what? I have a right to know if she is.”

  The subject of Venus Angelo was by now a tedious one for Lydia. Tedious and painful. It was very likely that Venus would be working for Helaine. She was aware that the two had had many phone conversations concerning it, but that no decision had been reached yet. The young woman was in “psychic turmoil and transition,” and “up to her elbows with the process of discarding her excess baggage,” Helaine confided last week. “But everything’s fine.”

  Everything’s fine except that everything is not fine. “The board should be searching for a new Vice-Op, Paula. Venus has resigned. The end.”

  “Oh, crap. CRAP. I knew when I picked her she was too young. That was always on my mind, you know. Her youth.”