"But the skipping is cute, it's bearlike!"
"The Renco Bear is not supposed to be cute, he's supposed to be macho. He's not a goddam Care Bear, Kevin. These are auto parts, okay? Guys buy auto parts, and they don't want to identify with a wimpy bear."
"So what are you saying?" Kevin asked, his nostrils flaring.
"I'm saying butch him up, and get rid of that goddam skip! Just give me what I asked for in the first place. Okay?"
Kevin's jaw trembled, and for a moment Laura was afraid he was going to cry. But he clamped down hard and said through clenched teeth, "I'm going to have to stay up all night to do it. I certainly didn't figure on this when I gave you the figure."
"I'm sorry, Kevin," she said, "but your not giving me what I want is costing me a bundle of studio time, so to ask me for overtime to correct your mistakes is more than a little presumptuous." She turned to the engineer. "What do you think, Billy?"
Billy stifled a laugh and shook his head. "Leave me out of it," he said. "I plead ignorance. All I do is push the buttons."
"All right, fine," Kevin said. "You want it changed, I'll change it. A macho walk, right?"
Laura nodded slowly. "Macho," she said, trying not to laugh herself as the little bald man drew himself up to his full five and a half feet and strode from the room. As soon as the soundproof door wheezed shut, both she and Billy exploded in giggles.
"That was great," Billy said, wiping his eyes. "He does that constantly, Laura. If you don't sit on him like you did, he'll make a marine sergeant mince."
"Do you think he'll be ready by tomorrow?" Laura asked, suddenly sobered by the thought of Kevin falling behind on purpose or, even worse, turning the Renco Bear into a drag queen out of spite.
"He'll be ready," Billy said. "He's a pain, but once you kick his ass the way you did, he produces. We'll be ready to edit tomorrow, don't worry."
She shook her head. "It's just that we're going to be two days over schedule."
"You build in a contingency, don't you?" In response to her affirmative nod, he went on. "That's the way. Turn it into the client's problem."
"Oh, he'll pay for it, it's just that it cuts down on our profit."
Billy smiled. "Well, I've got one way you could keep your travel expense at a reasonable level—let me buy you dinner tonight."
"Oh, Billy, no, really . . ."
"Why not? We've been working together for three days now, I think it's time to find out about each other as people, don't you? Just a friendly meal."
She looked at him for a long time and saw neither threat nor menace in him. On the contrary, he had made the three days at least bearable with his willingness to please and his constant good humor. Also, he was not unattractive. From his salt and pepper hair, Laura guessed that he was in his early forties. His features were sharp but handsome, and he was tall and well built. But most importantly he was nice, and after working with Kevin for most of the day, Laura decided that she could use some friendly company instead of returning to the Hyatt and ordering room service so that she would not feel self-conscious eating alone.
They drove to a small restaurant Billy knew of that featured New Orleans cuisine, and, at Billy's urging, they ate blackened redfish, which Laura had never tried before and which she really did not care for but finished anyway. "You liked it, huh?" Billy said, mopping up the last of his sauce with a piece of sourdough bread.
"It's very good," she lied. "Different. Pretty spicy."
"What makes life worth living. So, Laura, you married?"
The question made her uncomfortable. If he had the slightest suspicion that she was married, why, she wondered, had he asked her to dinner? "No. I'm not."
"Ever been?"
"I . . . yes. I was once."
"Me too. Didn't work out. You have any kids?"
"No. Thank goodness."
"Oh, they're not so bad. I've got two. Boys. I get to see them every other weekend, and two weeks in the summer. We generally go fishing up in New York state. They're twelve and thirteen now, so they really get into it."
They ordered dessert and had sherry afterwards. Billy kept the conversation going, telling Laura more about his children and why his marriage had failed, about his job, about how he hoped to open his own studio in a year or so. When the clerk came, Laura offered to pay her share, but Billy adamantly refused. "I asked you to dinner, remember? My treat."
It was cool and comfortable out on the street, and Laura, despite her distaste for the redfish, felt full and satisfied as she climbed into Billy's car. She expected him to drive her back to the hotel right away, since it was nearly eleven, and they had an early start in the morning. But he did not start the car. Instead he leaned toward her, put his arm around her shoulder, and drew her toward him with the unmistakable intention of kissing her.
Laura stiffened. Her hands came up to his chest and pushed him back, gently but firmly. His eyes, narrowed to what she felt he assumed were passionate slits, widened in surprise, real or feigned, and then he frowned.
"Aren't we both a little too old for this?" he said.
"For . . . for parking in cars, yes."
"I meant for the games. For the hard-to-get stuff." He smiled and shrugged. "Come on, Laura, I know how you feel. It's how I feel too. We're adults, there's nothing to stop us, no one to betray, no reason to feel guilty later."
She was astonished, and then angry at herself for being so. She should have known. She really should have known. "It's not that," she said coldly.
"Well, look, if it's your health you're worried about, I'm okay in that department. I mean, I even got checked for AIDS the last time I gave blood, and no go, it was negative, so you can put your mind at ease. And if you're still squeamish, I'm the kind of guy who doesn't mind condoms. In fact, I think they're a pretty good idea, to tell the truth. Anything to make people relax, you know?"
"Billy," Laura said, trying to keep her voice from shaking with the fury she felt, "I think you had just better take me back to the Hyatt while I can still pretend to be able to continue a professional relationship with you for the next day or so—"
"Hey, now look—"
"Because right now I'm really feeling pretty pissed off at you."
"Pissed off?" He sound honestly surprised. "Why?"
"Your . . . assumption that you could take me to bed, that's why." Her hand was trembling, and she made a fist out of it.
"Well, I'm sorry, but hell, this is the twentieth century, you know, and I think I can read people pretty well, and—"
He was babbling now, and she could tell she had him on the defensive. "You didn't read me very well," she said.
Billy shut up and looked at her, slowly and appraisingly. "No," he said finally. "No, I didn't." Then he turned away, started the car, pulled it out of the lot, and did a U-turn so that they were heading toward the Hyatt. "Maybe Kevin was right," he mumbled to himself.
"Right about what?" she said.
"Nothing." He shook his head as though he had not intended her to hear, but she was certain he had.
"Tell me."
"It's nothing."
"Well, if it's nothing, it won't matter, will it?" She felt foolish. It was the kind of repartee that eight year olds indulge in, but she wanted to know, to have her suspicions confirmed. And too, she felt that Billy really wanted to tell her something that might hurt her.
"Aw, hell, it's stupid. He was just pissed off himself." He paused for a moment before he went on, needing no further urging. "He said . . . he said he thought you were the type who hit The Venus after work, that's all."
"The Venus?" she repeated. "What the hell's The Venus?"
"Just a bar. Like a club, really." Then he said, with just the slightest note of contempt, "For women."
Laura felt suddenly chilled, and the thought came unbidden of Kitty, naked in her arms. When she spoke, her voice sounded weak, and she had to clear her throat and start again. "So what's wrong with a women's club?"
"These are women who like women." Bi
lly gave a little laugh. "I don't mean to imply anything, okay? Kevin was just bitchy, you know? Fucking nancies get that way sometimes."
They drove the rest of the way in silence, until Billy stopped his car at the main entrance of the Hyatt. "Thank you for the dinner," Laura said coldly, opening her door.
"Hey, I apologize, all right? Really, I'm sorry. I just read it wrong. I feel pretty stupid."
At the pity she heard in his voice, she whirled on him. "Why?" she said. "Because you think you put the moves on dyke?"
He looked at her, breathed deeply, and let the air flow out in a long sigh. "That's your lookout, Laura. None of my business."
"You're right," she said, climbing out of the car. "You're goddam right it's not!" She slammed the door and did not look back until she was safely in the lobby. Then she turned. Billy's car was no longer in the driveway. She was alone.
Laura went to the bar, sat at a table, and ordered a gin and tonic, drinking it quickly and angrily when it came. She had another, which she drank more slowly but no less intently. After the second, on top of the drinks and sherry she had with dinner, she found that her thoughts were neither as controlled nor lucid as before, that the memories of Kitty which she had tried to repress were now flickering across the screen of her senses so that she remembered not only the sight of Kitty but also the soft touch of her skin, the sweet scent of her perfume, even the taste of her lips. "Kitty," she murmured. "Aw, Kitty . . ."
Maybe that son of a bitch Billy was right. Maybe that little faggot Kevin was right too. She smiled grimly at that thought. Yes, maybe she and Kevin had more in common than she realized. Does it take one, she wondered blearily, to know one? And how much did Kevin know? Was he right? Was she the kind of woman to go to the Venus?
The Venus. Maybe that was what she needed, what she wanted. Here was her chance. Alone. Unknown. Alone and unknown, with no one to know.
If she had been sober, she never would have done it. But the drinks had confused her as much as Billy's intimations had upset her and the memories of Kitty had simultaneously aroused and disturbed her. She scribbled her room number and name on the tab, then got up and went to the row of pay phones, where she looked for The Venus in the phone book. It was there. Just the name, the street address, and the number. She put a quarter in the slot and dialed. A woman's voice answered and gave Laura the information she needed: no, there were no membership requirements; yes, people could come in alone (the woman chuckled at that one); of course, they were open now, and would be until two; thank you, and we hope to see you here.
Laura thought about going to her room to freshen up, but decided that if she did, her courage might fail, and she would not leave it again that night. Instead, she went into the ladies' room, adjusted her makeup, brushed her hair, gave herself a quick squirt of Binaca, and went outside to wait for a cab.
I kept my passion to myself, like a cake, and nibbled it in private.
—Alexander Smith, Dreamthorp
The Venus was on a quiet street with trees imprisoned in black wrought iron cages. It was the third house in a row of old brownstones brightly lit by street lights. The neighborhood was not what Laura had expected. It felt safer than she had thought it would. A hand-carved sign edged in gilt said The Venus. That was all. There were no neon signs, no red lights. Whatever else the place was, it was discreet.
The cab ride had taken twenty minutes, and on the way Laura had sobered up mentally, if not altogether physically. When the cab stopped, she nearly told the driver to take her back to the hotel, but steeled herself, overtipped him, and got out. She stood on the sidewalk for a long time, watching the red taillights disappear down the street. Then she walked up the stone steps, hoping to find truth. She hesitated for a moment, trying to decide if she should knock on the glass-paned door or simply open it and walk in. She chose the latter.
The first thing she saw was an attractive, middle-aged woman dressed resplendently in a tuxedo. She was standing behind an ornately carved counter on which a large book lay open. "Good evening," the woman said with a smile. "Your name?"
"Oh," Laura stammered, "I'm . . . not a member, but on the phone they said—"
"Of course," the woman said. "You may purchase a single evening membership for twenty-five dollars."
"Oh . . . all right, fine. . ." Laura took the money from her purse and paid the woman, who smiled and gestured toward a heavily carved oak door at the far end of the entry.
As Laura walked the dozen feet to the door, she looked about her in surprise. The room reminded her of her grandmother's house, but better appointed and kept up more beau beautifully. Elegant red hangings covered the walls, and a crystal chandelier shed a warm yellow light on the brown and green oriental rug that ran the length of the room.
At the door, Laura turned and looked back at the woman, who nodded supportively. "Go ahead," she said. "Have nice time." Laura took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
The interior of The Venus did not, to Laura's eye, appear decadent at all. In fact it looked Victorian, almost stodgy, like a woman's idea of a snobbish British men's club barroom. The furnishings were comprised of heavy leather pieces arranged in islands about the large room. A bar ran the length of the left side of the room, and only a few women sat there. Most were in the small groups that clustered at the tables. It reminded Laura of the lobby of the Algonquin Hotel, only darker.
All of the women were well-dressed, and none, Laura was relieved to see, were wearing motorcycle boots or chains. They seemed to be in their thirties or older, and sat drinking, talking quietly, while baroque music played softly. The low hum of their talk vanished as Laura entered, and the faces turned in her direction, curious and expectant, Laura thought. In that instant she felt distinctly apprehensive, as though she were A rare butterfly that had accidentally flown into a convention of entomologists.
Despite her discomfort, she walked to the bar, sat on one of the high-backed stools near the end, and ordered a gin and tonic from the bartender, a girl in her early twenties, who as a mild concession to sexual fantasy, was dressed in a Victorian maid's costume with a very short skirt that exposed a pair of lacy panties when she bent down to get the bottle of Bombay. The girl smiled at Laura coquettishly as she mixed and served her drink.
Laura swallowed the gin, trying to analyze her emotions, to decide whether the tension she felt was sexual excitement or simply fear and uncertainty at being in a place so alien, so forbidden. The drinks she had at dinner and the Hyatt did nothing to clarify her analysis, and she closed her eyes, her head down, trying to remember why she was in this place, what she was trying to learn, perhaps whom she was trying to meet.
She was just about to order another drink from the girl, who was standing nearby, smiling familiarly and a bit lasciviously at her, when she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see a woman taller than herself, her black hair flecked with strands of gray. She was wearing a black, high-necked dress and a jeweled cross pendant with a central diamond that looked too garish to be synthetic. "I'm Diane," the woman said through white, straight teeth. Her voice was low and husky, and Laura caught the smell of cigarettes and whisky on it. "My friends and I couldn't help but notice that you were alone. We were wondering if you'd like to join us."
Laura forced a smile. "Thank you. That's very nice of you. But I . . ." She had no excuse to offer. Why would a woman come here if not to meet other women? She had to go with them. Inside her mind, she had no other choice.
Diane seemed to know that. "Oh, come on. You don't want to drink alone, there's no fun in that. That's how you become an alcoholic." Her hand, long-fingered and cool, touched Laura's. "Come on. The chairs are very comfortable."
When Laura got to her feet, she realized how badly the drinks were affecting her, but still wanted another. "I . . . I ought to get another gin and tonic."
Diane nodded and looked at the girl behind the bar. "Margo, bring one over." Then she took Laura's upper arm, pressing more firmly than she would hav
e had to, letting her fingers rub the smoothness of Laura's soft, bare skin.
There were three other women sitting in the leather wing chairs around the small table. All of them appeared to be in their late thirties or early forties. Glasses sat on the table in front of them, along with ashtrays that Margo emptied when she brought Laura's drink.
"Your first time here?" asked the woman on Laura's left. She was a few pounds overweight, though not unattractively so and had a round, pink face that smiled cherubically.
"Yes it is." Laura clutched her drink like a lifeline. On her right, Diane rested her hand possessively on the arm of Laura's chair.
"What's your name, dear?" the woman across from Laura asked. She wore a red dress that displayed her prodigious cleavage to best advantage, but the deep-cut lines of her face told Laura that she was older than her companions.
"Laura."
"Laura," the older woman said. "That's a lovely name. I had a friend named Laura."
The remaining woman, who had not yet spoken, now leaned across the table and looked at Laura. She was beautiful, Laura thought, with large, violet eyes and beautifully tanned skin with not a trace of the leathery surface that so often accompanies it. Her blonde hair fell in waves, softly framing the perfection of her face. The violet eyes caught and held Laura as she was bringing her drink to her lips, and she paused, discomfited and fascinated by the intensity of the woman's gaze.
"Laura . . ." the woman whispered.
She had to swallow hard before she could answer. The room seemed gelid, luminous, dreamlike. "Yes . . . ?" she said, feeling foolish and shy in this woman's presence. There was something imperious about her, something that invited worship.
"I'm Janet," the woman said. She smiled warmly. "Don't be uncomfortable. We won't bite."
At that, they all chuckled, and Laura finally smiled. They started to talk then, and it seemed to Laura no more esoteric than a typical hen party at a country club bar. They discussed their jobs, clothes, television, a number of other subjects, and the only hint of their sexual preference could be found in the disparaging way they referred to their male co-workers or bosses.
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