Danielle made no attempt to not let DarrenOrGavin see her rolling her eyes but she otherwise did not respond. From the moment she had been introduced to this clod earlier and he had kissed—kissed!—her hand she had him pegged for a cocky ass who believed his Hugh Grant looks, solidly-built frame and pricey clothes would make any breeding age woman drop to her knees and beg to suck him off. So Danielle, a stunning brunette of thirty-three who on this day was even more stunning in an expertly cut Versace suit and stiletto heels, hated him instantly. Now she had to deal with him hitting on her during a coffee break?
DarrenOrGavin waited a moment, obviously expecting this future conquest to begin gushing in awe and appreciation that he was talking to her; but when he got no such response he just plowed on ahead anyway.
“You know,” he said in what Danielle supposed was his “make her wet” voice, “I remember the first time I saw you. I was here for a meeting with Nigel Jeter and you passed us in the hall. This was six months or so ago.” He paused expectantly but again received no response. Nonetheless, he decided to keep trying. Reluctantly, Danielle had to hand it to him…most men would’ve given up by now.
“You were wearing a cream-colored suit with a very nice coral blouse and a pair of amazing shoes with beaded heels. And you wore your hair up that day. You also had on a very sensual shade of lip gloss…”
Yet again he paused and yet again he was disappointed; for instead of immediately lifting off her top and unhooking her bra she remained stoically staring out the window, arms crossed. Finally, after a moment or two, DarrenOrGavin said, “Look, let me stop beating about the bush, okay? I’ve asked about you because I think you are, without doubt, the most delicious woman I have ever seen in this entire hemisphere.”
Danielle turned to face him. He went on smoothly.
“Now, I’m sure someone as delectable as you already has a bloke, am I right? Of course you do. But let me ask you this: how well can he take care of you?”
Danielle cocked an eyebrow.
“I’m sure he’s a nice bloke and all,” DarrenOrGavin went on, “but I can tell you’re a woman who enjoys the finer things in life, right?”
Finally Danielle smiled.
“You can tell that can you?” she asked.
“Absolutely,” DarrenOrGavin insisted, clearly glad he was finally getting somewhere. “Tell me something, love, what does your bloke do for a living?”
“He’s a writer,” Danielle answered.
The response to this from DarrenOrGavin was an undisguised snort of derision.
“A writer?” he all but laughed. “Well, look, Danielle, I may not read much but aren’t writers usually hard up? I mean, I know a bloke, a journalist for the Times—he’s interviewed me once or twice. The guy lives in a one-room flat and drives a thirty-year old Volvo for Christ’s sake. But you, with your smashing clothes and fabulous style; you’re caviar and champagne, right? Mercedes and diamonds, yes?”
“Very perceptive,” Danielle cooed.
“It doesn’t take a genius,” DarrenOrGavin said, affecting a modest tone.
Danielle increased the wattage of her smile before saying, “So…what’s all this leading up to? Or are you just trying to soften me so I’ll sign off on your mutual funds package?” Even though it would have seemed impossible she upped the smile wattage even more.
DarrenOrGavin laughed.
“Fuck the funds package, Danielle. Even I know it’s crap. Completely wrong for this type of bank.”
“Ah.”
“What I’m leading up to is dinner. You. Me. Tonight.” He leaned in closer. “Not some crap restaurant, either. I’m talking style. At the risk of sounding boastful, Danielle, I do rather well for myself at Davis-Gilligan. I’m one of their top sales guys; I bring in a lot of cash to that place and I’m compensated well for it. Last year alone I earned nearly a quarter of a million pounds. Recession? What recession?”
Raising her eyebrows, Danielle purred, “A quarter of a million? That is an amazing figure.”
“Which means I’m in a position to treat you very well, love.”
“Really?”
“That’s right. So how about it, then?” he prodded. “I can pick you up here at seven? Your writer bloke doesn’t have to know a thing.”
Danielle, still smiling as though this dinner invite was the one thing she’d been looking forward to all her life, said: “God, it’s tempting, it really is. But you know something, uh…”
“Stuart.”
Stuart?
“Stuart, right. Do you know something, Stuart?”
“No, what?” he asked, expecting her to tell him she was far too horny to sit through dinner, why don’t they just go straight on to the rampant sex.
“I’m just realizing,” she said sweetly, “that my hard up writer bloke made 11.1 million dollars last month when Miramax bought the film rights to his latest novel. So, Stuart, even though you may be able to take me to a fabulous restaurant he is able to buy me the fabulous restaurant.”
Suddenly she dropped the smile and her eyes became steel.
“Time to get back to work,” she ordered.
Chapter 2
The bi-weekly lunch.
Shortly after moving to London from New York City, Max and Katie had made a custom of meeting for lunch at a different restaurant every two weeks. It had been Danielle’s idea, actually. She wanted her husband and her wife to do things together—lunches or dinners, trips to museums, et cetera— as a way of developing their friendship more with the hopes that this would ensure herself a happy home life. And since Katie was a lesbian Danielle could encourage such closeness without fear of one day coming home to find a note informing her that Katie and Max had run off together to make babies in Paris.
Today’s lunch was at Millie’s, on Henrietta Street. Max had had to drive there from the mansion in Kensington but all Katie had to do was exit out the east doors of the Rivers Foundation Building, cross two streets and enter the restaurant.
“All this place has are pies,” Max complained when Katie joined him at the table he had secured. He was scanning the menu with a frown. “Look at this, steak and kidney pie, chicken and broccoli pie, lamb and apricot pie?” He looked across the table at her. “Exactly how many pints of lager does a British chef have to consume to come up with lamb and apricot pie?”
“I’m fine, too, by the way,” Katie said.
Max blinked.
“What?”
“I said I’m fine, too.”
“What’s that gotta do with pies?”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with pies, Max.” Katie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I was just pointing out that when I sat down I greeted you and asked how you were. Your response was ‘Fine’ and then you started in on the pies.”
Katie said all this with a pleasant smile that really made her beauty sparkle. She intended on asking Max a huge favor during this meal and it would help to stay on his good side, although, by the looks of it Max’s good side had punched out early today and was already on the tube home.
Max said, “Well, I know you’re fine, Katie. You weren’t limping when you came in—unlike me, but I won’t go into that now; you don’t seem to be bleeding; and from the lack of arrows sticking out of your back I can see you survived the hostile Indian attacks during the treacherous two block walk from your office to this restaurant.”
Yep, Katie considered, his good side was definitely done for the day. Better wait until after starters to even mention the word homeless.
“In fact,” Max continued, searching the menu again, “I wish to hell people would just stop asking ‘How are you?’ altogether.”
Still smiling, Katie said, “You’d like the world to stop using pleasantries?”
“No, no, no. ‘How are you?’ is not a pleasantry. ‘Hello’ is a pleasantry. ‘Good evening’ is a pleasantry. ‘How are you?’, on the other hand, is a question we’ve all been brainwashed to ask like dimwits in an Orwellian
story.” He wagged his finger at her for emphasis as he continued: “And ninety-nine point nine percent of the time when people ask it they don’t really give a damn how you are, and if you actually attempt to answer the question honestly, to tell your buddy about the headache you woke up with this morning, for instance, or, even better, about the sore ankle you have because some twit left her shoes in the kitchen doorway, you just watch how quickly their eyes roll with boredom.”
Katie did some quick thinking. Where had she left her shoes last night? She had come home, hung up her coat in the closet near the garage, asked Maureen something about something, kissed Danielle hello in the kitchen, they spoke about weekend plans briefly (Danielle was in another off mood), then she looked through the mail in drawing room and—wait! That was it! A new catalog had arrived for her in the mail and Katie had kicked off her shoes and made herself comfortable on the settee to look through the catalog. So the “kitchen” shoes, Max’s newest objects of hatred, were Danielle’s problem, not hers.
***
The twosome finally ordered after Katie pointed out an easy to miss corner of the menu listing dishes that weren’t pies. Max ordered the honey-glazed roast chicken and Katie went for the lentil, bean and vegetable pie. Upon finishing their shared starter of spicy fish cakes Katie cleared her throat.
“Um, Max…”
“Listen, Katie, can I ask you something?” Max cut in, somewhat distractedly.
“Sure…go ahead.” A relief, actually. Now she’d have a few more minutes to compose her pitch.
Leaning forward a little Max said, “What’s wrong with Danielle lately? Do you have any idea? I mean, the past coupla weeks she’s been acting…”
“Out of sorts?” Katie suggested. “A little crabby?”
“That’s putting it nicely. She jumps down my throat at the slightest provocation and when she’s not doing that she’s just plain surly.”
Max calling somebody surly was like Paris Hilton referring to someone as skinny, and Katie wanted to make a wisecrack about the pot calling the kettle black but didn’t dare to. She really needed to stay under his annoyance radar.
“I’ve noticed,” Katie said, after a sip of lemonade. “She’s been less than charming to me also.”
“Any ideas?”
Katie thought a moment.
“Well, I can’t say with any definitiveness because she hasn’t confided anything to me, but I suspect it has to do with her parents.”
Max suddenly brightened. “Is that all?” he asked. “Well, hell, her parents are nut jobs; they’d drive anybody to surliness. Maybe she oughta stop calling them altogether.”
“No, Max, that’s not it,” Katie insisted. She lowered her voice to a confidential murmur. “Look, don’t take anything I say as gospel but I think her parents may be splitting up.”
Max stared at her.
“Are you sure?” he finally queried.
“Not completely, I’ll admit to that, but I overheard her on the phone the other day with her mother—and her mother’s been calling a lot, have you noticed? I didn’t catch everything but I definitely heard the term ‘divorce’ and at one point Danielle mentioned lawyers.”
Max mulled a moment.
“Sounds serious,” he said, “but I wonder if it truly is.”
“What do you mean?”
The conversation paused there while their entrees were served; after the waitress left Max explained.
“Well, you know how Arlene is, Katie,” Max said, referring to Danielle’s mother. “She has a tendency to overreact, right? I just wonder if all this talk about lawyers and divorce has come about because Harold, I dunno, forgot to water the lawn one Saturday morning.”
“I hope so…but I doubt it. I think this might be real. I just wish Danielle would tell us something.”
“Don’t worry,” Max assured his companion. “On my way over here I devised a plan. I’ll get her to talk.”
They ate in silence for a while. Max was trying to decide which shopping emporium would offer just the right setting and ambiance to loosen Danielle’s lips: Harrod’s or Harvey Nic’s. Meanwhile, Katie was still screwing up the courage to ask Max her favor. The fact that he was now in a considerate mood due to Danielle’s possible family crisis meant that she had a shot at winning him over, so after washing down a bite of food with a swig of lemonade she dived in.
***
“Max, I’d like to ask you something.”
“Fine, shoot.”
“It’s about my work.”
“What about it?”
“There’s a way you can be a big help to me.”
“Don’t tell me the Rivers Foundation actually needs a donation?”
“Yes, but not in the way you think.”
Max told her she was free to explain.
“Okay,” Katie began, “here’s what I need. Part of the problem my division, Rivers Haven, is having in its fight against homelessness is the enormous apathy present in the general public, but the thing is we need the public, the average person, to want to help us.”
Max signaled the waitress to refill his gin and tonic; he didn’t have an office job to return to after this meal so he felt free to indulge in cocktails.
“But wait a minute,” he said, “what’s so important about the public’s help? I thought those two sisters who run that place—“
“Cassiana and Addison,” Katie provided for him. “Actually, as of last month I should say Dame Cassiana and Dame Addison now.”
“Whatever. I thought they were richer than God or even Bill Gates. Why do they care how much help the public can give?”
Shaking her head Katie said, “This isn’t a money issue, Max. We can’t simply throw currency at the problem of homelessness and expect it to go away. The Sisters are worth billions yet if they spent every dime it wouldn’t solve anything. What we need is for the public to care. Now, that’s a tall order, taller than you might think, but if we succeed then the possibilities are endless. There’d be more volunteers at the shelters, more donations of food and clothing, perhaps even people who’d be willing to step forward and serve as mentors to the homeless, maybe even open their doors to them, offer them jobs, serve as educators. You see, that’s the kind of help we really want.”
“Sounds to me like you need a PR campaign then,” Max suggested, receiving his new drink from the server. “Sort of like what Jacob Riis did with his slum photographs in New York. You need a way of hammering home to the public just how crappy being homeless is.”
“Yes! That’s exactly what I thought also,” Katie said energetically. “We want to create enough sympathy in the general public that will in turn stimulate them to act.”
Then Max confessed that he still had no idea how he fit in. As admirable as he thought Katie’s job and the work of Rivers Haven was he nonetheless had never found the same philanthropic urge to help that she possessed. His contributions to the realm of charity were always limited to writing large checks while relying on others to do the actual dirty work.
So Katie began explaining. She told Max that among other things she had already contracted with an ad agency to produce a series of billboards, transit posters, TV spots and magazine adverts that would appeal to the sympathetic side of those who viewed them. Additionally, she has managed to get herself and one of her deputies booked on television and radio talk shows throughout the U.K. in order to discuss homelessness and suggest to people ways to help. There was also a mass mailing campaign in the works and a possible fund-raising concert. Max, Danielle and Katie happened to live next door to George Michael, the women becoming good friends with him, and Katie told Max that she had already interested the pop star in participating in the concert.
“I’m glad George is helping,” Max said. “He’s a good man; but what’s this gotta do with me?”
Katie took a deep breath.
“You obviously believe in the power of the written word, right?” she started. “Well, one of my other ideas is to have
a book published, an anthology, one containing short stories and poems about homelessness written by the most popular authors in the United Kingdom today; people like Diego Montrose, Salman Rushdie, J.K. Rowling, George Szirtes and a bunch of others. And, of course, you.”
She cursed herself silently. She should’ve mentioned Max first, especially before Diego Montrose. She soldiered on…
“The idea is to put together a collection of writing that can actually have an impact, increase awareness and hopefully increase caring. I see us selling the book, naturally, but I also see us providing the book for free to schools so that teachers will give it to their students and then maybe we’d see more activism among younger people. In any case, I was hoping I can count on you to contribute a story. I really think having your name associated with this project will ensure its success.”
Done with her spiel Katie waited for Max to say something, but he was silent, staring poker-faced across the table at her. Katie wished, not for the first time, that she knew Max as well as Danielle did and was able to read him better. She realized that, good cause or not, with Max Bland this could go either way. But would Max really say no to using his talent to help those less fortunate? Katie didn’t really believe so and even began chiding herself for how worried she had been about asking him this favor. Sure, he could be an ass at times but he wasn’t what anyone would exactly call heartless. In fact, she considered, this was going to be a piece of cake. Max would say yes and prove that Annabeth was right, once he was on board the others would follow.
“I’m not gonna say yes,” Max finally declared.
“What?!” Katie felt her heart sinking while simultaneously her anger was rising.
“But I’m not saying no, either,” he continued. “I’ll need a day, no, make that two, to think it over. Maybe a week. Or a couple. Look, I dunno…I’ll need as long as I’ll need.”
“Why?”
“Why? Do you think what I do is easy? You think you can walk up to any writer and say ‘Write me a story about homelessness and have it done by Tuesday.’ You see, it’s easy for you to give me a topic but then I’m the one who’s gotta come up with a story, a theme, believable characters, create a—”
Two for One-Relatively Speaking (The Two for One series) Page 2