Virginia avoided the scene outside beyond the
doors, also with much practice, though the pain of it never ceased
to tug at her. She had seen them come and go, red heads, brunettes,
and Morgan's favorite, very pale blonds. All had been in their late
teens or twenties and extremely beautiful, tall and fragile, like
the one standing on the diving board out there now.
Virginia watched Clarissa for a moment as she
dove into the pool. Just another contestant in Morgan Wolfe's
beauty contest, she thought wryly. Some lasted a couple of months,
some longer. The blonds and red heads usually made it to the finals
and won the gifts of jewels and cars, a condo or two, and the
special bonuses of traveling to exotic locales with Morgan. A very
select few won the grand prize, the coveted diamond ring and heady
dreams of the impending wedding.
Virginia turned away and sorted the contract
copies on Morgan's mahogany desk, but it was difficult not to
watch. She knew he was out there scrutinizing Clarissa's every move
like he was studying a painting by a master. Virginia forced down
the jealousy that rattled the papers in her hand and replaced it
with the firm knowledge that this contest was almost over. Clarissa
wore the grand prize on her left hand. Soon there would be the
emergency extended business trip, the house closed for the
duration, the luxury apartment for the distressed fiancé somewhere
on a French coast. Then the arranged repossession of the car, the
robbery of the designer clothes and jewels, and the eviction from
the luxury apartment for non-payment of rent. Virginia would
arrange it all as she had done many times in the last ten years.
Morgan would be unavailable in Europe and Virginia would be given
an extended working vacation, meeting Morgan at the villa in
Portugal or the condo in the Cayman Islands. The heartbroken fiancé
would be left with nothing but shattered dreams and an acute hatred
of Morgan Wolfe. Then it would be business as usual until the
contest began again.
Virginia shook off the melancholy mantel that
wrapped around her like a black cocoon whenever she thought of
Morgan's collection of doe-eyed, porcelain-skinned beauties. They
had personalities like a dish of empty peanut shells and brains the
size of a mustard seed, if that. At least they had the wealth and
the dreams for a while. Morgan had given his personal, private,
executive secretary nothing. Virginia earned the eighty thousand a
year salary at the computer terminal and in Morgan's bed. She was
loyal and discrete, on call twenty four hours a day, three hundred
and sixty five days a year. She paid her own rent in a penthouse
house apartment on Wilshire Boulevard in West Los Angeles, and made
car payments on the dark blue Mercedes. She was given a modest
expense account when she needed to travel with Morgan or run
errands for him. Christmas bonuses had consisted of everything from
a turkey to a working holiday in Hawaii.
He had once given her a designer wardrobe that
she was not allowed to wear except for business, and a pair of
diamond earrings Morgan told her when and where she could wear
them. So it was not without a twinge of jealously that irked
Virginia when she spent hours in Beverly Hills jewelry stores
selecting trinkets worth thousands of dollars for the latest
arrogant, stuck-up little she-devil vying for the bogus grand
prize.
Virginia punched the keyboard on the laptop
with a little more force than necessary, and called up the program
that interfaced with the main computer that ran the house
electronics and security systems. She entered the code and waited.
Behind her, a bookcase of law books, that would rival any law
office library, slid silently to the vaulted ceiling, revealing a
bank of eight steel reinforced, fire proof file cabinets. Virginia
looked at her watch and quickly gathered up the copies of the
contracts and the flash drive. She had to be out of the house by
six and it was already ten minutes of. Morgan was strict on obeying
orders to the fullest.
With the contracts and drive safely stored
away behind the panel and the computer shut down, Virginia grabbed
her purse and unlocked the den's double oak door just as the
antique clock in the living room chimed six o'clock.
Clarissa was padding softly through the living
room, drying her hair with a towel, as Virginia closed the den door
behind her.
"Working late, Gin?" asked
Clarissa.
Virginia recoiled inwardly at the nickname, an
acid remark instantly dying on her lips. Clarissa was no different
than the many before her except that she had lasted a couple of
months longer than most. She was air-headed and arrogant, drop dead
gorgeous, and had fallen blindly into Morgan's trap hook line and
sinker. Virginia looked on them all as anyone would a magnificent
house cat. They were mere pets, pampered and groomed, all with
jeweled collars, who would be abandoned by the roadside at Morgan's
whim, to become the straggly strays they had been in the beginning.
With Clarissa there was one exception. The willowy blond had been
nothing but pleasant to Virginia, despite Virginia's obvious
disdain.
"Actually, I'm quitting early," Virginia
replied.
"That's odd," Clarissa smiled. "What's gotten
into the old workaholic? Usually you two burn the midnight oil."
Clarissa's tone was neither sarcastic nor accusing, yet Virginia
felt slightly uncomfortable.
"Not tonight," said Virginia, turning toward
the front door. "Morgan's got a business meeting here tonight.
Gives me a chance to catch up on my reading."
"You need a sex life, Gin."
"I need peace and quiet," snapped Virginia
with sudden unconcealed bitterness.
"Why don't you come to the party with me
tonight? Maybe you'll meet somebody."
"No, thank you." Clarissa's naiveté was almost
painful, Virginia thought.
"Suit yourself," Clarissa said as she tossed
the towel over the shoulder with the broken strap and started to
climb the winding staircase.
"Morgan dismissed the house staff a little
while ago," Virginia told Clarissa. "All except Dory. Your
hairdresser arrived while you were out at the pool. He's setting up
his stuff upstairs. I'll be at home if Morgan needs me."
"I'm sure he knows where to find you, Gin.
Have a good one."
Virginia watched Clarissa climb the stairs and
wondered just how naive this one was. There were times when she was
empty as a Barbie doll. Then, when Virginia least expected it, a
glimmer of iron laughter mocked her from those sable
eyes.
Clarissa studied her nude form in the
bedroom's full length mirrored wall. The extra two days a week with
her personal trainer had added a little shape to her biceps and her
shoulder muscles, and given a bit more definition to her otherwise
flat buttocks. It had flattened her lower abdominal muscles and
rounded out her pencil thin thighs. But all of the energy and
sweat, pain and exertion, had done nothing for her pectoral muscles
or uplifted her tiny breasts. They drooped as if they were
chronically depressed. The only answer was implants and Morgan had
refused.
"You have a perfect body, my darling," he had
told her when she begged for the implants. "I would not change an
inch of it."
"Well, to hell with your blind eyes, Morgan
Wolfe," Clarissa whispered to the image in the mirror. She had
already made plans to sell a thin diamond and sapphire bracelet
Morgan had given her on their first vacation together in Rome. At
dinner last night, Morgan told her he was planning a business trip
to the Cayman Islands, Venezuela, and Paris right after their
wedding. He would be gone for nearly two months. That was plenty of
time for Clarissa to sell the bracelet and have the surgery done by
Dr. Brown in Santa Barbara. It would be a nice surprise for Morgan
when he returned, and too late for him to do much about it.
Clarissa patted her breasts and grinned impishly.
"Your bath is ready, miss," Dory's round dark
face peered at Clarissa from the bathroom. "I've poured you a cup
of tea and laid out your dress for this evening. The black De La
Renta."
"I'll need a facial too, Dory," said
Clarissa.
"I'm sorry, miss. There isn't time tonight. I
should have been out by six o'clock and it's nearly six fifteen.
Mister Wolfe has given Hugo until seven-thirty to do your hair, so
you'd better hurry, miss. No one would want to disobey Mister
Wolfe, if you know what I mean."
Clarissa's cheeks flushed with sudden anger.
She curtly nodded to Dory who bustled out of the bedroom as if
chased by banshees. Clarissa slipped into a pale blue silk robe and
stepped into the spacious bathroom. A Japanese silk screen
separated the sunken black marble tub from the make-up table where
Hugo was sitting reading an old copy of Vogue with Clarissa's
picture on the cover, her blonde hair tucked up under a
wide-brimmed red hat.
"This stuff is disgusting," he sneered as he
tossed the magazine on the floor. "I could cut hair better when I
was ten. Really. Who do these New York hussies think they are? Yet,
that's all you see in these magazines. Hair by Alfred Sayer, New
York. Hair by Randolph Iveres, New York. Give me a decent break. So
how are you, Clary? You look pale."
"You always say that, Hugo. You've been
telling me I look pale since I was fifteen."
"Don't get testy, Clary."
"Sorry, hon," Clarissa slipped out of the robe
and eased herself into the steaming bath, barely disturbing the
pink peaks of the jasmine bubble bath. "I'll be out in a
bit."
"So, Clary, you've decided on complete
retirement?"
"Morgan wants me to quit. I can understand his
feelings."
"You were, the best, you know. You've still
got it."
"I looked in the mirror, Hugo. I'm
twenty-eight. Way past prime. I'm too old to go back in front of a
camera. I've found someone who will take care of me. Give me a good
life. I've been working since I was fifteen. It's time for a
break."
"Are you in love? There was silence for a
moment then Hugo heard the movement of the bath water.
"Clary?"
"Yes, Hugo, I love him. You want to come to
this party with me tonight?"
"Can't. I'm going down to La Jolla tonight. We
open the new salon Monday, you know. Invitation only. The grand
opening is on Friday. I need a good receptionist, Clary.
Interested?"
"Drop dead, Hugo."
"Don't be snotty, girl."
"How are things at the Beverly Hills
salon?"
"Now that I own it, it's a damn lot of work,"
Hugo replied as he crossed his thin legs and admired himself the
lighted mirror. Hugo smiled. He was small and slight, dressed in
his usual black t-shirt, and black jeans, black boots, and silver
Indian jewelry. He was handsome with dashing black eyes and an
infectious smile. He had had several small roles in movies but his
first love was hair. He could flatter the plainest of women, making
them feel like a Vogue model. Everyone loved Hugo. His clientele
grew so fast that he bought out his partner in the Rodeo Drive
salon and bought a rambling ranch style house in Pacific Palisades.
His success was due partly to Clarissa's praise of his talents with
brush and comb to anyone who would listen. It was the least she
owed Hugo. He had saved her from a life on the streets nearly
thirteen years ago.
Clarissa stepped from the behind the Japanese
screen and slid into the chair in front of the mirror.
"I worry about you," said Hugo as he started
to comb out her freshly washed hair. "You okay marrying this Wolfe
guy?"
When she looked at him in the mirror, for a
moments it was the face of the fifteen year-old, wide sable eyes
frightened and innocent. Then she broke into her impish
smile.
"Don't be silly, Hugo. Morgan is wonderful.
This is what I've wanted all my life. "
"He scares the hell out of me."
"I'm going to be okay. I just don't want to
end up back on the streets."
"Have you told your brother?"
"Andy wouldn't understand. He never wanted me
to model or do anything but go to college. After mother died, he
insisted that I come to Egypt or Kuwait and live in some American
oil company settlement for two years. That was thirteen years ago.
He's still there. I don't know how his wife stands living in that
pile of sand. I couldn't."
"So you thought the streets were
better?"
"I've made my mistakes. I can't afford to make
any more. I'm not Andy. I'm not that smart. Not exactly college
material. I made a good living and Morgan has invested my money in
some good businesses. This is my security, Hugo. My protection from
ever having to scrap and crawl up from the streets."
"You were on the streets for exactly two weeks
when your mother died and you decided to run away... Little miss
rich bitch on the streets for two weeks."
"My mom and I were dirt poor, Hugo. We lived
in east Hollywood, in a one bedroom apartment filled with Armenian
immigrants that were little better off than we were. My mom worked
nights in a photo lab and my brother sent us a little money from
time to time when he had it. When mama died, Andy wanted me to go
to the Middle East with him. Do you know that women, even American
women over there can’t drive a car, go out even to the store
without a male escort? What a life would that be? That’s why I ran
away I was not exactly a rich bitch."