Authors: Tara McTiernan
Looking at John leaning back against the wall outside of her apartment, his muscular body languid and loose from their afternoon together, Chelsea saw the voracious glint in his eye that reminded her that he, too, would never have enough. She shook her head again, "You promised you wouldn't stop me. I have to go. I don't want to, not anymore. But it was my idea in the first place. And I don't want to make her suspicious."
He pushed away from the wall and tilted his head. "All right. You're sure?"
"Stop tempting me!" Chelsea wailed, a pulse of need going through her pelvis, pleasurable and painful at the same time.
"All right, all right. You're right. I promised. I just hate the thought of the two of you in the same room, breathing the same air."
They walked out to her car, the previously clear sky now filling with heavy dark thunderheads. The scent of ozone was building in the air, a metallic smell that spoke of lightening. Chelsea almost turned back and then remembered she had a new umbrella in her car, one she'd picked up on a shopping spree in CVS the other day. John held her car door open and then shut it for her, but did not kiss her or touch her in case they were observed. Luckily, it was a low-end apartment complex in the part of town where, if you drove a few blocks, there was a convenience store that sold nickel bags of marijuana along with the usual cartons of milk, cigarettes, and lottery tickets. None of John's friends or clients, or Bianca's for that matter, would ever happen upon them. Still, they played it safe when they were in the parking lot.
Chelsea backed out of her spot and pulled away, watching John walk to his car in her rearview mirror and deeply breathing in the fresh, lemony, and practically new scent that permeated her car from having it detailed. Things like car detailing were once luxuries beyond her reach; now she could have them whenever she wanted. John was going to buy her a new car once they were official, but, for now, they were keeping a low profile. She could buy anything she wanted as long as it was either hidden at home or could be passed off as something she owned prior to being fired. She would also have to think up some stories about her job-hunting adventures for the girls - adventures she wouldn't have to bother with after all. She shook her head for the millionth time in amazement at her luck.
What wasn't lucky was the fact of this night out. She really didn't want to go anymore. Although the other girls were nice, they were also dangerous to her, Sharon being too close to her career or lack thereof and Lucie knowing far too much about John. Worse, being around Bianca was going to be like boogying in a landmine-filled field, every gesture and word a possible clue that Bianca could pick up, scent like a predator. Chelsea realized that, in spite of her resistance, she had started to believe John's fears about Bianca.
Oddly, the only person she was looking forward to seeing was Kate. The girl she at first found hideous and then was insanely jealous of was the one she bonded with over makeup the last time they all went out. Kate was the one who she had the fondest memories of: her genuinely excited smile, her enthusiasm and flattering gratitude for Chelsea's help. And it had been fun, Chelsea's favorite activity, playing with makeup in the bathroom and dispensing her wisdom to an eager audience. Even Sharon, she of no makeup or discernible sense of style, had seemed interested.
Still, it wasn't enough to make this night out appealing. Not only was the majority of the company a problem, she had no stake in the bar scene anymore. The whole point was to meet Mr. Right, and she just left him in her parking lot. Chelsea drove as slowly as she could, but she arrived sooner than she wanted to anyway and pulled into a spot a block from the bar. As she shut the car off, the first large droplet of rain splattered on her windshield.
"Dammit!" Chelsea said to the next drop that smacked against the glass. "Couldn't you wait until I got inside?"
In response, the sky opened up, unleashing a deluge that pummeled Chelsea's car, drumming loudly on the roof above her head. Should she wait it out? No, she'd seen the clouds on the ride over - they went on for miles. This wasn't a passing cloudburst; this was much bigger storm. And she had to be first, maybe second, to arrive, there long before Bianca. She wanted to be calmly perched on a chair in the upstairs bar when Bianca showed up, taking a sip of her drink and politely asking after Sebastian, not even mentioning John. Bianca was usually fifteen minutes to a half-hour late, and for the first time in years, Chelsea was prompt. It was six-thirty exactly.
Chelsea grabbed her new umbrella, popped open her door, and ran for it while keeping the open umbrella close over her head. Running down the sidewalk as fast as she could in her high heels, warm May rain hit the ground and rebounded against her latest acquisition, a gray-blue silk dress from Arden B., and stained it dark along the hemline with spreading circles that would probably ruin the fabric. Her new suede Manolo Blahnik's, soaked through, were definitely shot.
She burst through the door to The Vault, panting from running and trying to fold up her dripping umbrella while realizing that she was being stared at, the hot feeling of traveling eyes on her. She looked up. There was a cluster of haughty looking women and a man standing near the door and staring at her, apparently waiting for the hostess. Chelsea straightened and put her nose up in the air while continuing to struggle to shut the umbrella. She should have bought a more expensive one, not this CVS special.
As if retaliating, the umbrella popped back open, scattering raindrops on the cluster of nearby snobs. One of them let out a little shriek, throwing her hands up.
Chelsea felt her pride swell up. That was it. "It's just a little rain. You're not going to melt. Or are you? Witches melt. Maybe bitches do, too."
The woman who had shrieked earlier gasped loudly and the others started tittering. The lone man rolled his eyes, sliding his jaw sideways in a sneer. This was not the impression Chelsea had imagined making at The Vault. Her outfit was ruined, who knew what her makeup and hair looked like from running in the rain, and now this. Composure gone, she battled openly with the umbrella, got it closed, and stalked past the still-tittering group and into the restaurant looking for the ladies room.
Safely inside the bathroom, Chelsea observed the damage in the mirror. Her perfectly curled hair was wild and frizzy now. Her makeup was fine except for her mascara, which had run down under her eyes. The mascara was easy to fix with a little swab of Vaseline and some tissue, but her hair was beyond repair. She did her best to tidy it, twisting it with both hands to blend in the frizzy bits and make it wavy again, and then headed back toward the front of the restaurant where an elegant golden spiral staircase wound up to the upstairs bar.
Mounting the stairs, she tried to enjoy herself. This was, after all, one of the most super-chic places in the area, and The Birdcage, as they called the upstairs golden bar that had been made to look like an ornate Victorian birdcage, was
the
place to see and be seen. Who knew who would be there this evening? Famous movie stars, sports legends, models, musicians, and every kind of mover and shaker had been sighted in this restaurant and the upstairs bar. She hoped that Kate would be first to arrive this evening, possibly already waiting for her. Chelsea would love pointing out the celebrities in the room and listening to Kate's gratifying oohs and ah's. If not, she still loved seeing Lucie or Sharon. She would just have to be more careful with them.
At the top of the stairs she paused and looked around. The bar was full of men in expensive suits and beautiful women, though there were still empty tables here and there. Chelsea continued scanning the room, trying to see if any of the girls were already there before she picked an empty table and got her much-needed daiquiri. Then she saw that someone seated in the corner was waving in her direction.
It was Bianca. Alone.
Chelsea swallowed hard and waved back, a fake smile trembling on her lips, before forcing herself into motion. Bianca, who was never early, was there, waiting for her. Like a cat waiting for a mouse. She even looked feline, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek knot, her outfit all-black, which was remarkable in itself as Bianca always wore red, her favorite color. Bianca's heavy-lidded eyes regarding her from across the room were also like a cat's, reflecting that certain cunning. But no, it was all John's fault that Chelsea was thinking like this. The things he said couldn't be true. But wouldn't it be easier if they were? Wouldn't it absolve Chelsea from the wrong she was doing?
She finally managed to traverse the floor of the bar and arrive at the table. "Hi," Chelsea said, sliding into one of the chairs and attempting to look composed. Just friends having drinks. No big deal.
"What? No hug?" Bianca said.
"Oh, uh...of course. C'mere!" Chelsea said, leaning over awkwardly and half-hugging Bianca. The strong electric energy that was always around her friend - one that usually felt buzzy and exciting - felt like a force field today, zapping her. Chelsea pulled away more quickly than she meant to, desperate to get away from the stinging shocks.
To cover for her reticence, Chelsea said, "So, you're here early! Wow! I feel important!"
Bianca leaned in and said, "You are. I need to talk to you."
Chelsea felt a crackling go through her, as if Bianca's electricity had grabbed hold of her entire nervous system. "What...what about?"
"It's John. Something's going on."
Chardonnay
"Oh, how fabulous!" Flo said, looking around the commercial kitchen Lucie and Erin had secured part-time and throwing out her arms with enthusiasm. "Just fabulous! This is where you'll become famous. I can feel it!"
Lucie turned to look at her father who was less easily impressed. "Dad? What do you think?"
Donald Scott shrugged, still glancing around. "It seems like a lot of money for so little. You're only getting this space part-time, right?"
"But prime time for catering! Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. Plus we get refrigerator space full-time. Over here," Lucie said, realizing that he'd given voice to the same doubt she'd expressed to Erin, one Erin had steamrolled with her usual bullheadedness. And Lucie had given in. As usual.
Trying to shake the return of her unease about the excessive expense, she moved forward with her tour, leading them into the room filled with huge stainless steel refrigerators. Some had chains with combination locks on them like bicycles in a public bike rack.
Her father walked over and took one of the dangling locks in his hand. "What's this?"
"Oh," Lucie said. "Some people that rent here are paranoid. They lock up their food. Like someone's going to steal it." She almost wanted to do her silly impression of a food robber she had done for Ryan when she had shown him the space over a week ago and he'd asked the same question. That was back when they were still speaking. Before she said what she said. What couldn't be unsaid.
It had all gone downhill after a seemingly routine Sunday brunch at the Greenwich Hyatt with her father, Flo, and Erin. Donald Scott loved brunches at the Hyatt. The soaring space of the hotel's atrium filled with full-size trees, flowers, waterfall sounds, and birdsong was embellished on Sundays by a live jazz pianist tickling the ivories and champagne flowed freely for those who paid the astronomical per-person charge for the hotel's lavish buffet. At every brunch they enjoyed there together, Lucie's father leaned back in his chair, smiled in the direction of the pianist, took a contented sip of his champagne, and declared in a hearty voice, "Now,
this
is living."
As was routine at their get-togethers, Flo quizzed Erin on her career, but this time Erin was evasive rather than forthcoming. Lucie and she had agreed to hide the truth from their parents until Erin had made a few "wins", as both Flo and Donald liked to call them, on one of the fronts where Lucie and Erin were trying to make some headway with the business: either something on television or a cookbook. Gaining clientele, Erin's original goal for Petite Soiree, had turned out not to be a problem. Ever since Lucie secured her first few jobs, the referrals from them had started coming in like clockwork. Evidently, word of mouth really was the key.
"I'm....still figuring it out," Erin said, reaching for her mimosa before realizing she'd already drained it. She glanced at Lucie furtively before plastering a nonchalant look on her face and turning back to her mother. "I will. Don't worry."