“And where no one we know has ever been before,” Danielle cut in, voice still excited.
“Right,” Katie said. “So this is what I came up with…” she paused for effect and leaned forward. “Antarctica,” she said dramatically.
“Isn’t that brilliant?” Danielle enthused.
Max was staring at them blankly. The stare lasted for several long moments. Eventually he said, “I don’t understand.”
“Antarctica, Max! We’re vacationing in Antarctica,” Katie said.
Shaking his head and wearing a perplexed expression Max said, “What are you talking about?”
“Just what I said,” Katie replied. “We are taking an eco-tourism vacation to Antarctica!”
But if Katie expected her metamour to start jumping up and down saying, “Goody, goody!” she was way off.
Instead, Max leaned forward, arms on his knees and stared hard at his wife and Katie.
“You guys are joking, right?” he demanded. “Who vacations in Antarctica?”
“Okay, Max,” Katie pleaded, holding up her hands, “before you get deep into one of your I-hate-the-world-and-I-can’t-wait-to-die tirades let me explain everything in detail. Please?”
Max opened his mouth as though to speak, shut it again, opened it once more, shut it yet again and then sank back in the chair with the air of a man who, at the dentist’s, knows he’s about to hear how painful and expensive an operation he’s about to have. Katie proceeded to explain.
In Antarctica, on Ross Island to be precise, there is a research station run by the Samoan government. As maintaining and operating a research station on Antarctica is outrageously expensive the Samoans came up with a novel idea for generating the income necessary to fund the facility: they developed an eco-tourism vacation package specifically designed for those interested in traveling to exotic locales that are virtually untouched and unchanged by man. The cost of the vacation gives one ten days at the research station during which one gets to observe penguins and other wildlife, explore ice caverns, go on dog-sledding excursions, learn all about survival tactics in extreme conditions and even take an active part in the station’s research which is mainly focused on geology, climatology and a close-up study of Mt. Erebus, the continent’s highest peak and most active volcano. The lion’s share of the money paid by vacationers is invested right back into the station to help ensure that the Samoan government can continue to maintain a presence in Antarctica and conduct their valuable research.
“So you see,” Katie said, “this vacation is actually supporting a good cause. You have to keep in mind, the research that’s going on in Antarctica is vital primarily because Earth’s two polar regions are one of the best indicators of man’s impact on this planet.”
Katie knew stuff like that. She may earn her keep by trying to end homelessness but the woman was a breathing encyclopedia of all the ills of the world from discrimination against gays and lesbians to global warming to world hunger. Often, when she wasn’t bogged down in work at the Rivers Foundation Building she was doing things like protesting nuclear proliferation or planning fundraisers meant to help such oppressed minorities as the spotted owl. That this trip to Antarctica would in some small way assist in mankind’s understanding of why ice is cold was certainly in keeping with her idea of a good time, Max thought.
“Sooo,” she prodded Max, “great idea, right?”
Max didn’t immediately respond. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut as if trying to concentrate around a pounding headache. The women didn’t press him even though a good thirty or forty seconds elapsed. Finally, without opening his eyes or releasing the bridge of his nose, he said simply:
“The Samoans?”
“I know, I know,” Katie said. “I thought the same thing, too, I mean, it is weird, isn’t it?”
“Does anybody know where Samoa actually is?” Max asked. “Because I sure as hell don’t. And have either of you ever actually met a Samoan? I’m forty-five years old, have traveled around the world and I’ve never met a Samoan. Who are these people? And what business do they have setting up research stations on Antarctica?”
“Max, I know…but I checked it out thoroughly. I’ve read tons of reviews about it. The New York Times said it was life-changing, an amazing experience.”
This was a strategic move on Katie’s part. Of all the newspapers in the world she knew that Max only really trusted the New York Times.
“Besides, Max, you always told me you wanted to visit every continent before you died,” Danielle reminded him.
“I meant real continents, Danielle! Real continents! Actual land masses, not some overgrown ice cube stuck on the godforsaken ass of the planet! I’m from the Bronx, ladies! Who from the Bronx has ever gone to Antarctica?”
“Think of yourself as a pioneer, then,” Katie suggested. “You can even bring along some spray paint and introduce graffiti to one of the last great virgin wildernesses left.”
“Funny, that’s funny.” Max looked at Danielle. “She’s trying to get us all killed but at least she’s making jokes, right?”
“Killed?” Katie huffed.
“Yes, killed, you moron! I watch the Discovery Channel; people die in Antarctica.”
“People die in England!”
“Oh, but not like they die in Antarctica,” Max insisted. “People in England, they die from getting hit by trucks or by getting stabbed during a mugging—you know, natural causes. But in Antarctica you step outside to get the mail and suddenly it’s ten-thousand years later and you’re being thawed out for display in a museum.” He let out one of his huge and well-known sighs. “How in Christ’s name did I ever get talked into the no veto rule?”
Danielle hopped up suddenly and was sitting on his lap in an instant. “Relax, sweetie…this’ll be great.”
Katie said: “Even if you could veto, Max, you couldn’t possibly tell me you would. This is an amazing opportunity to go somewhere…” she fluttered her hands while searching for the perfect word. “Spiritual,” she finally said. “Spiritual because it’s so primal.”
“So primal because it’s so cold,” Max muttered.
“Think of it as material for a future book,” Katie offered.
“Who writes books about Antarctica? Name me one piece of literature that has anything to do with Antarctica.”
“South, by Shackleton,” Katie answered.
“That’s not literature, Katie,” Max said. “That’s one moron’s account about how he almost got himself and his crew killed because he didn’t have the sense enough to stay home.”
“I don’t believe this,” Katie said with exasperation.
Max tapped Danielle’s leg. “Lemme up, sweetie,” he said, rising when Danielle relinquished her seat on his lap. “If you ladies will excuse me I need to call my lawyer and set to work revising my will. If I die in the South Pole I gotta make sure Katie gets even less than the nothing I was originally leaving her.”
When he was gone Danielle said, “That actually went quite well.”
And Katie said, “Better than I imagined.”
Chapter 6
Oh yeah, Max mused the next morning, Danielle was planning on being a bitch today.
Danielle’s sexual whims had made her want to spend the night with Max, something, he noticed, she had been doing less frequently as of late. He wasn’t alarmed by this fact, though. He suspected he had her father, Harold, to blame for it. Danielle might not admit it but Max believed that Harold’s betrayal had created in the bisexual Danielle a temporary dislike for men which made her more interested in seeking physical and emotional comfort from Katie rather than from him.
Now, his wife was standing before the huge mirror attached to her dressing table, putting the finishing touches to her appearance. She had selected to wear an Armani suit of jet black cut in such a fashion that it not only accentuated her figure but exuded dominance and power, black stiletto pumps with impossibly pointed toes and a choker of onyx s
tones and matching onyx bracelets on both wrists. She also had her raven hair pulled back into a severe bun and had opted to wear her steel-framed glasses rather than her contacts. She looked liked Darth Vader’s lawyer.
Earlier, immediately upon her alarm clock going off, she had roused Max by grabbing hold of his genitals and stroking him until he was hard. They had then had sex, but every time Danielle neared the point of orgasm she would dig her nails into his back and order, “Stop! Don’t move! Don’t fucking move!” Then, after a few moments of immobility during which she’d pull herself back from the brink she’d signal to him that they could once more resume but as soon as she felt that point of no return approaching again she’d gasp her command to “Stop! Don’t fucking move!” calm herself down and do it all over. This happened six or seven times and Danielle did not allow herself to orgasm once. Finally, when she had had enough she left the bed and then showered.
Having sex like that, Max knew, was Danielle’s way of preparing for what she termed a Cruella De Vil day. By denying herself the release of orgasm many times and allowing the sexual frustration to remain pent up inside her Danielle could channel that energy and destroy anything, or anyone, in her path.
“So who are you planning on reaming out today?” Max queried.
“Basically the entire third floor,” Danielle answered, increasing the severity of her bun. “There have been a lot of cock-ups down there lately and I’m sacking four of the biggest idiots this morning.”
“Do you need me to come along?” Max asked. “To provide some muscle?” He punched his left palm with his right fist, and then shook the palm because it stung.
Laughing, his wife came to the bed, leaned over and gave him a kiss.
“Tell you what, killer,” she whispered, “if things get that bad—and they really would have to get baaad—I’ll be sure to call you.” She went into a fit of giggles as he began tickling her as punishment for the wisecrack and then squirmed away. “Besides,” she went on, “don’t you have to start packing?”
Max waved off the question dismissively. For him, packing was always absurdly simple. He only wore black—from head to toe, all black—so all he had to do in preparation for any journey was fill a suitcase with the appropriate amount of black garments and a few good novels. Five minutes, tops.
Tomorrow he was leaving for Liverpool. He would be gone a fortnight starring in a reality television show whose concept was discovering unknown writers.
“Listen, do me a favor,” Danielle said, putting her keys and mobile in her purse, the final steps before leaving, “keep your ears open for a call from Mom, alright?”
“Right, I’ll be sure to do that.”
“No, seriously, Max. I haven’t been able to reach her all this week and I’m worried.”
Max said he was sure Arlene was just fine.
“Well, the least she could do is let me know that. God, I could kill my father. Anyway, I’ve left scores of messages so if she rings back…”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ll remind her what an ungrateful mother she is. After all, you went to the trouble of causing her seventeen and a half hours of excruciating labor, what right has she to ignore your calls?”
“Very funny, jerk.” Again she leaned over and kissed him, grabbing his penis at the same time. “Take your vitamins, Shakespeare,” she purred in his ear. “If I have to go without this for several days I’m going to get my fill tonight.”
And then she left.
***
At a little past three that afternoon Max was in his office trying to write but having some difficulty.
He was stuck at a particularly tricky portion of the narrative in the homelessness story he had promised for Katie. He needed to describe how his protagonist, a middle-aged, recently downsized tax agent named Herbert, improvised a stove and cooking utensils after discovering an unopened package of ramen noodles someone had thrown away unopened. The problem was Max had no idea how real homeless people did this, and he himself, whose only survival skills amounted to What To Do When Stuck In An Elevator and How To Avoid All Eye Contact When Traveling By Subway Through Brooklyn, did not have the wherewithal to just make it up. So he needed help to get over this hump and now that he thought about it, skimming through the pages he’d already written, there were several areas in his story that could benefit from firsthand knowledge.
An idea came to him. He picked up the phone and speed-dialed Katie’s office.
“Sorry to bother you at work,” he began as soon as Jesminda put him through, “but I need your help.”
She told him to ask her anything, and she did so sweetly. She had resolved to do her best to stay on Max’s good side until their vacation; it would make her home life that much easier.
“I need to rent a homeless person,” he said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Okay, I put that wrong. What I meant was I need a homeless person to sort of consult with me on a few points in this stupid story I’m writing for you and in return I’ll pay for their time.”
“Oh, um, okay, but obviously you’re not expecting me to go out to Hounslow and bring one home for you, right?”
“Well, that might be easier than using craigslist, wouldn’t it? Primarily because according to my sources homeless people don’t have computers.”
“What I meant, smartass, is how about this? There are several people working for me here who used to be homeless; I can give it some thought and figure out who would be best to help you. How’s that?”
Max agreed and with that matter settled he decided to put Katie’s story aside for now and continue work on his new novel. He was just opening that file on his computer when the intercom beeped.
“Mr. Bland?” It was Maureen.
“Don’t worry about saving the paintings or any of the other valuables, Maureen!” Max cried. “For God’s sake just save yourself!”
“Sir?”
“Dammit, Maureen, don’t waste time! The fire is not gonna wait around until you’re finished asking stupid questions!”
There was a moment’s pause, and then Maureen asked, “Fire, sir?”
“Well, yes, the fire, Maureen. I assume our house must be on fire. I assume that is the emergency which necessitated you interrupting my work. Now, when the fire services get here just tell them to leave me be and let me burn.”
“Sir,” Maureen said, “I really am sorry to have to bother you but something has come up. I’m afraid I don’t know how to deal with it.”
“Whatever could it be, Maureen?”
“Mr. Giles has informed me that a visitor has arrived at the front gate, sir.”
Max heaved a huge sigh, jotted down a note on a Post-It to check into the requirements for becoming a Trappist monk, and asked, “Well, did Giles say who it is?”
“A Ms. Corcoran, sir.”
“I don’t know a Ms. Corcoran.”
“Yes, sir, I know she’s not on the approved visitors list but…”
“But?”
“But she claims to be Ms. Edwards’ mother, sir.”
Max started. For a few moments he was stunned into inactivity but then he picked up a small remote and switched on a bank of monitors recessed into the opposite wall. These monitors, six in all, showed full-color images fed from the security cameras keeping watch over the property. The center screen in the top row was showing a slender woman with highlighted hair and wearing a stylish blue coat and knee-length boots standing before the wrought iron gate that barred entrance to the estate and having an animated discussion with Giles, the security guard. A black London cab was idling nearby. Using the remote Max adjusted the camera’s angle and zoomed in on the woman’s face. Yep. Add twenty kind years to Danielle’s own features, raise the cheekbones a bit, alter the curve of the eyebrows a trifle and color the eyes blue instead of brown and you have the woman trying to gain admittance to Trinity Manor.
“What the hell is she doing here?” Max asked himself.
“I can’t say, sir,�
�� Maureen answered over the speaker thinking that the question, picked up by the phone’s microphone, was meant for her. “All she told Mr. Giles was that her name was Arlene Corcoran and that she was Ms. Edwards’ mother, and that she was here for a visit.”
“Well that’s Danielle’s mother, alright,” Max said. He remained staring at the screen, biting his lip. “Godammit!”
“Sir?”
“What?”
“Only, what is it that I should do, sir?”
“Do?”
“Should I have Mr. Giles let her in, sir?”
“Oh! Right. Uh…yeah, I suppose we have to, don’t we? Or do we? What do you think, Maureen?”
“It does seem proper, sir.”
“Right, I figured as much. Okay, Maureen, listen…”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here’s what I want you to do: have Giles buzz her through and let her in. When she gets to the house fix her a drink, make her a snack, and give her whatever she wants. I’m gonna get Danielle on the phone and tell her to hightail it home.”
“And will you be greeting Ms. Corcoran in the main salon?”
“I won’t be greeting her in the main anything. In fact, if she asks about me under no circumstances are you to tell her I’m in. Tell her I’m with the Queen discussing matters of great national importance, or just make something up, got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I guess you’d better prepare one of the spare bedrooms.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But not in my wing, Maureen. Use a room over in the southern quadrant, got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now go, please.” And he severed the connection.
Max continued to eye the monitor. After a moment he saw Giles step into his guard booth and answer a telephone. A moment later he came back out as the gate began swinging open. Giles pointed out the way to Arlene who then got back into the cab which immediately began driving through the gate. Max turned back to his desk and snatched up the phone.
Two for One-Relatively Speaking (The Two for One series) Page 5