33
Scooter
“
T
here are a million reasons why I won’t sleep with you, Scooter.” I should be tired of this cat-and-mouse game, but I’m not. It’s kept my mind off my encounters with Mr. Mayor and Emilio Cortez, both of which were too close for comfort.
I try to find a comfortable position on my stiff, standard-issue hotel dining chair as I look for Vivian and Natasha. Over Scooter’s head, a writhing mass of bodies get down to the sounds of a cheesy cover band. After a day of fetching coffee, practicing their nascent networking skills and collating paper, the young Democrat aides and interns have been set free on the hotel parquet dance floor while their elders watch from a dignified distance.
“Just one, I don’t think my ego can stand a million,” Scooter says next to my ear. I shove him away with my shoulder.
Scooter has been pawned off on Mr. Mayor in hopes that he will see the error of his ways and return to law school. Mr. Mayor promptly pawned him off on me, with a kiss and a hug to seal the deal. I suppose he wants Scooter to see what happens to people who don’t put their educations to proper use.
The only ambition Scooter has expressed so far is getting me in bed. I’ve had fantasies of banging a Baxter, but definitely not this Baxter.
“Fine. Reason number one is I have a boyfriend.” That’s settled, maybe now we can talk about something interesting. Like Baxter family gossip and scandal that doesn’t involve Mrs. Mayor.
“Is he here?” I foolishly shake my head. “I won’t tell if you don’t tell.”
“Oh, I’ll tell.” I told Vivian that Scooter has been humping my leg and she thinks I should throw the boy a bone and make a real man of him. Seems Scooter has been labeled the Loser Baxter. I don’t know how sleeping with me will nudge him into the winner category.
“You are a cruel and heartless woman, Jacquelyn,” Scooter says with obvious delight.
Masochist. Looks like I temporarily have another Danny on my hands.
“Thank you. Go try your twisted Ivy League psychology on the interns. I’m sure you can swing a threesome as soon as you mention who you’re related to.”
People have been fawning over Mr. Mayor, and Vivian has had her work cut out beating them off, especially the women. The Baxter name is golden in these circles and Kit Baxter is a future ticket to a job near the Oval Office.
“Jackie, I love a challenge.”
“Would you love my elbow in your throat?” I ask, removing Scooter’s hand from my thigh. “Call me Jackie again and I’ll knock your toupee off.”
“Who is this boyfriend?” Scooter tries to casually pat his rug without looking like he is. “Kit said you were single.”
“Oh, did he?” A thrill rushes through me, or maybe it’s the cheap red wine we had with dinner that’s killing my brain cells. “What else did he say?”
“He said you were smart and single. I’m smart, single and attractive. . . so?”
“No. I have a boyfriend. George. We’ve been together for a while now.” George will never find out that I’m using him as my beard.
“It’s not like you’re going to marry this guy, right?” Scooter asks, pouring himself more cheap wine.
“You never know.” I even sound confused and unsure to my own ears. Would I marry George? I’ve never even kissed him. And there’s still the little matter of his current marital status.
“Here she comes,” Scooter says, straightening up and bracing himself against his chair.
“Who comes?” I ask nervously. I don’t think I can stomach another drunk idealist with a resume in one hand and a knife in the other. “Which she? All these girls look alike to me.”
“Pamela Richards Barstow. The Florida Barstows, not the New York Barstows, but the Maine Richards, so it evens out, barely. Brown alum, worked in fashion for a while but is now an aide for Senator Cullman of Connecticut. Pammy! You look beautiful, as always,” Scooter says with such sincerity that I now can’t help but doubt his attraction to me.
“Scooter!” She air-kisses him and checks me out at the same time. “Where have you been hiding? And with whom?”
“This is Jacquelyn. She’s visiting from San Francisco. She works for Kat,” Scooter adds dismissively. I almost want to interject that I graduated summa cum laud from Berkeley and am currently at work on a novel, but don’t. I don’t think she’d be much impressed even if it was true.
“Who?” Pammy looks over at me a bit more closely. Her eyes are too closely set together, her hair is overprocessed and someone should explain the principal behind bronzing powder.
“Kat, Katie, Kate Bishop, she was on
Love and Lies
.” Scooter openly appraises Pammy’s neckline.
“Oh, her? Is she here? These things attract such second-rate celebrities.” It’s obvious she knows who Scooter is talking about.
“She goes by Katherine Baxter now.” Scooter crosses his arms over his chest waiting for the inevitable.
“Oh, Kit! Where is that scrumptious thing?” Pammy exclaims, continuing to ignore me. “I can’t believe how gorgeous that man is. Tell me, Scooter, I heard he’s hung like a horse. So where is he?”
“He’s hard at work trying to save the world,” I say. I can’t help myself, but I hate her. Tonight, I hate everyone who pretends I’m not here when clearly I am. Or, like Scooter, lavishes attention on me and acts like everything I say is significant and rife with hidden meaning.
“How boring. Oh, Scooter, look, it’s Veronica. Veronica!” Pammy raises her glass and sloshes her drink on the table, and me, waving over another horse-faced girl, this one also tanned and even skinnier but with a huge rack on her. Fake, of course.
“Veronica is also a Brown alum. She worked in publishing, now she’s a legislative aide in Washington to some feminist congresswoman or something. She, we, used to go out,” Scooter confesses in my ear.
Pammy stares at us. I can tell she’s trying to size me up to see what kind of hold I might have on Scooter. I throw my arm around him and sit closer. Scooter grins stupidly.
“I’m so sorry for you,” I say loud enough for Pammy to hear me over the music.
Scooter laughs, causing Pammy to narrow her eyes at him.
“Veronica, you bitch. Where have you been?” Pammy says to her carbon copy as they exchange kisses and some good-natured faux-lesbian fondling.
“I was in my room recuperating from a bikini wax. Scooter, darling.” Veronica leans over me and plants a huge, wet kiss on his mouth. I get a face full of fake tits. “Who is your little friend?”
“I’m Jacquelyn. We’re not really friends. I’m just here because my boss decided to stay in Carmel and take inventory of the furniture so when her mother-in-law finally keels over she won’t get screwed out of her fair share of the loot.”
Veronica and Pammy laugh, making me feel stupid and petty just like Veronica and Pammy.
Vivian strides over, her arm linked with Natasha’s. She’s past tipsy and is now gloriously drunk. Seeing her approach, Veronica and Pammy stand up simultaneously.
“Call me, Scooter, when you’re not so busy.” Veronica takes Pammy’s hand and they walk off, out of arm’s reach but close enough to give Vivian dirty looks.
“What was that, a bulimic convention?” Vivian asks with a broad smile on her face.
Pammy and Veronica look outraged and edge back closer to the table, like suicidal moths to a homicidal flame.
“Come on, ladies, not tonight.” Natasha throws an arm around Vivian and looks around for any roving reporters and photographers. They’re all drunk and dancing, having long ago abandoned their journalistic duty to document the important goings-on of democracy in action.
“Not tonight
what?
” I demand, my pulse kicking up a notch, just as it did right before junior-high cat fights. I’m fully prepared to back Vivian up.
“Vivian and Veronica don’t see eye to eye,” Scooter whispers excitedly in my ear. I guess Scooter has a thing for women wrestling in front of him. Hell, who doesn’t?
“Is it because Vivian didn’t go to Brown?” I ask, exasperated at Scooter’s infinitesimal attention span.
“No, it’s ... oh, hee hee.” Scooter laughs, his eyes on Vivian and Veronica, ready for the inevitable confrontation. “There was a ... well, an incident at a fund-raising party for Kit at Aunt Gail’s. Veronica got a little too enthusiastic with her, um, support for his, you know, campaign.”
“And?” I prod. Scooter needs a lot of prodding to stay on track. We’ve known each other only a few hours and I already feel I’ve been married to him for fifty mostly senile years.
“And Vivian sort of poured red wine down the front of Veronica’s white dress,” Scooter says, not taking his eyes off the impending action.
Veronica, with Pammy closely in tow, passes our table, purposely bumping into Vivian. Vivian turns around and grabs a handful of Veronica’s straw hair and yanks. Hard.
“Ouch, my hair!” Veronica takes a wide slap at Vivian, catching her under the jaw.
Natasha and Scooter pull Vivian and Veronica apart, right before a couple of burly security guards show up. It all happens so fast I don’t have a chance to spring over the table and tackle Pammy.
“Seems these ladies have had a little too much to drink.” Natasha gestures to Veronica and Pammy, hiding Vivian behind her bulk.
“She hit me first!” Vivian screams.
“Veronica would never hit anyone! She’s a vegan!” yells Pammy.
“Then someone should let her know that her tits are totally artificial,” Vivian says, rubbing her jaw.
“Come on, ladies. Night’s over for you two,” one of the guards says, as he and his partner step over to Veronica and Pammy, firmly grasp their boney arms and prepare to escort them toward the exit.
“OK, I think I’ll call it a night, too.” I get up and hand Vivian her purse. “Scooter, thanks for the conversation. It was ... Natasha, you ready to go?”
“Since yesterday, honey.” She tips her head at Scooter and walks us out, holding Vivian firmly by the upper arm.
“It’s cool. I’ll catch you later. Call me!” Scooter calls after us.
As we wade through the crowd for the door, I watch Scooter flow into a cluster of people and, like an amoeba, is seamlessly absorbed.
34
Vivian
I
n the hallway, Vivian looks completely calm, as if nothing had happened, but whatever did sobered her up.
“I can’t believe that fucker hasn’t called me.” There is a slight slur to her voice, but she sounds lucid enough. “What should I do, Jacqs?”
“What do you want to do?” From my experience, at this stage Vivian doesn’t want advice, she wants reassurance.
“I should leave his ass, is what I should do.”
“Vivian, you’ve only been married a few months. Maybe it’s just, you know, growing pains.” As a formerly married woman who has been through her fair share of therapy, I have to be rational and logical. Something I never really was when I was married to Nate.
“Growing pains! I caught him in bed with another
woman!
”
“For Christ’s sake!” Natasha jerks to a stop, causing us to run into her. “Pigs. Men are pigs.”
“Amen, brother,” Vivian sings out, sounding drunk again, “amen!”
“I’m so sorry, Vivian. Really.”
Cheating. I can’t really take the moral high ground on that one since my boyfriend is slightly married. Wait, is he even my boyfriend? He must be, since I turned down an invitation to have sex with a man I find reasonably attractive.
“It’s not what you think,” Vivian grumbles.
“It’s not?” Natasha and I say at the same time.
“OK, they weren’t actually in bed,” Vivian admits.
“Vivian”—I cup her face in my hands so she has to look me directly in the eyes—“is Curtis sleeping with another woman or not?”
“Technically, not,” Vivian says, looking down. “As far as I know!”
Natasha rolls her eyes. “So which is it? Because it’s pretty obvious when you walk in on your man banging some slut.”
“Is it another man?” I don’t ask only because we live in San Francisco, but because I’m an open-minded person and I’ve always had my suspicions about Curtis—either that, or he’s into heavy bondage. Natasha’s eyebrows shoot up and she looks a lot more sympathetic.
“No!” Vivian looks horrified.
Ouch. I guess, a little late, it never entered her mind that her husband might be gay or, at least, bisexual. Thanks to me, it’s now firmly rooted there. I’ll pat myself on the back later.
“So who? If you don’t mind me asking.” She shouldn’t, since she’s the one who brought it up, after all.
“I listened to his messages.” Vivian blushes like it’s the first time she’s done this. “On his cell phone.”
“Uh-huh.” This I did know about Vivian. Suspicious, manipulative and sneaky, but in a good way. These are skills she’s honed on the job and techniques she’s been happy to pass on to me.
“And ...” Vivian’s eyes are watering.
“And what?” Natasha asks with all the expectation I feel. This is going to be good.
“There was a message from a woman. Saying to meet him for lunch. And when I asked him he said it was
work
related.” She wipes her nose with the back of her hand.
Curtis is the publisher of an edgy magazine and has to deal with unconventional models, literary types and people who are too cool for their own good. With her milk-and-honey beauty-pageant looks, above average but pedestrian intellect, Vivian is at a great disadvantage. At a party Curtis once complained to me that she wasn’t esoteric. I drunkenly suggested he try wine, soft music and lube before he broached that kind of action again.
“Maybe it was. You know he works with all types of people.” I am willing to give Curtis the benefit of the doubt. I’d put my money on him having an affair, all right, but with a guy, not a woman. Having an affair with a woman is boring, unless she happens to be a lesbian. “Did he go to the lunch?”
“Well, no. We had a huge fight and he sort of missed it because I sort of flattened all his tires,” Vivian says between sobs. Natasha hands her a handkerchief.
“Vivian! You did not!” I knew Vivian had a temper; all redheads are a little off, if you ask me, but I never imagined she’d resort to something so physical and destructive. That’s pretty impressive.
“I did and he hasn’t spoken to me since,” Vivian hiccups between sobs.
“Maybe that’s why he hasn’t called?” asks Natasha.
Vivian sobs louder.
“Thanks, Natasha. Vivian, listen to me.” I’m about to impart some sage advice and I want to make sure she’s listening. She looks sober but wobbly on her stilettos.
“What?” She dabs at her eyes, mascara everywhere.
“You’ve got to apologize to him.”
“And buy him some new tires,” adds Natasha.
“I don’t want to!” she cries, and then blows her nose.
I send Natasha a sympathetic look. She likes Vivian, I can tell, but I doubt she’ll want a snot-covered handkerchief back.
“Listen, is it really worth it? All this grief over a lunch date, a
work
lunch date he didn’t even go to?” I am sort of enjoying me the grown-up. Usually it’s Vivian who’s organized within an inch of her life—this explains why she’s finally snapped.
“I guess not.” Vivian covers her face, resentment giving way to the realization that her husband is not talking to her and is alone in their ultramodern San Francisco loft where he can have another woman (or man) for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
“Trust me, it isn’t. We’ll call him when we get to your room.
After
you’ve had some coffee.” I pat her back and she leans heavily into me.
“Thanks, Jacqs. Really. Natasha, thanks.”
“No problem. That’s what we are here for,” I say, bracing myself under her weight. Natasha takes her other elbow as we carefully make our way to the bank of elevators.
“Yeah, I’ll give him a call and everything will be great. Just ...” With that, Vivian passes out.
I smile lamely at the small crowd of onlookers. Out of nowhere a bellhop appears with a wheelchair, and Natasha and the bellhop settle her boneless form into it. I try to push her knees together but have little success.
I can feel the crowd staring at us as I maneuver the wheelchair through the doors, holding my head up high and not making eye contact.