Fortune Is a Woman (8 page)

It was a Saturday. Helaine was home for lunch on Saturdays. She had to go home for lunch. “We can’t do this,” Lydia said, grabbing the doorknob. “This feels…very wrong.”

Venus took her hand. “Lydia, I lo–”

“Don’t do that to me. Don’t do that.” She pushed at the door with both hands.

“Okay,” Venus said, stroking her back. “Okay.” Those shoulders were hard and tense–“It’s okay, Lydia.”–her stomach warm through the skirt.

The skirt zipped in the back. Venus undid the button.

“Honey,” Lydia whispered. “I really,
really
have to go.”

The ring on Lydia’s finger shone brilliant in the fluorescent lights. Venus shielded it with her hand and hit the light switch again. “I can deal with this, Mrs. Kristenson.”

Lydia pulled her hand away. “I can’t.”

“It’s not a big–”

“I CAN’T.”

She was glued to the door. Venus held her against it. “Okay then. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. It’s not. I have to go.”

“Why isn’t it? Tell me.”

Lydia grabbed the knob again and jiggled it. “Because I love her.” The door cracked open. “I love her,” she said, grasping Venus by the hand.

Venus pushed against her and the door shut again. “You love her and there’s nothing here for me? What’s this?” She brought her hand to her lips. “Tell me, Lydia. What’s this?”

What, what. Lydia laid her head against the door. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Venus kissed her cheek. It was hot. “Lydia…Lydia Beaumont.”

She heard her name and her pulse, the labored hum of the clock stubbornly keeping time on the wall.

“Lydia…?”

“Venus Angelo.”

“I’m in love with you. You know that?”

She shouldn’t answer her.

“Is that all right?”

“I can’t…I can’t answer that.”

“Can I see you again?”

No. She was hot. She should tell her no. “I’m not sure.”

Venus kissed her neck. “When?”

Lydia sighed. Tell her never. “I–I don’t know.”

“When I return? Can I see you then?”

Venus was holding her up with her hips. “From–from Tokyo?”

“Yes.”

“In a month, you mean?”

Venus held her by the waist, caressed her through her blouse. “I’ll call you in between.”

In between. Oh, god, in between. She couldn’t think.

“You’ll take my call?”

Helaine would be home for lunch soon.

“Can I give you a ring?”

She was wet–she had to go.

“Can I, Lydia?”

Can Venus Angelo give her a ring? Christ, she already had a ring! She let go of her hand.

“I’ll call you, Lydia…in between.”

“No, Venus,” she choked. “NO, NO, NO
.
”

And with that Venus released her.

VP Beaumont leaned on the wall with one hand and with the other she fastened herself and adjusted her hair. She did not look at Venus while she did this nor when she was done, but waited in silence for her to open the door.

Once in the hallway, she took a very deep breath and made herself walk.

Venus watched her take a few shaky steps and then stop again. Standing still with her back to her, she thought that Lydia seemed very much like the kind of woman who would want to apologize for an incident like this, who might be forming a perfectly respectable apology in her mind.

She couldn’t stand the thought of it. “Keep going, Ms. Beaumont,” she told her. “Tell Paula I said thanks.”

_____

Only two sessions this Saturday morning and Helaine was ready to leave her office by eleven-thirty. She marveled at the briefcase again, smiling in a satisfied way before closing it. No time to walk home. She called a cab.

She had in her haste this morning grabbed Lydia’s instead of her own, never having noticed before how similar they were. Inside Lydia’s briefcase she had discovered the Abstract of Title for the Beaumont’s summer place, the old Queen Anne that she had heard so much about, as well as the new deed conveying it from Edward and Marilyn to their daughter and herself.

That was supposed to be a present, Helaine figured. So it was her duty to preserve Lydia’s surprise.

Lydia didn’t work Saturdays so it was entirely possible she hadn’t discovered the mistake. Sneaking her briefcase in without her knowing shouldn’t be that big a problem, Helaine thought, as long as she wasn’t acting dopey about it. Of course, there was the chance that Lydia had wanted to put the paperwork in the safe this morning. Then she would have seen right away that there had been a mix-up. She worried on that likelihood before finally dismissing it. Lydia would certainly have called.

Who knows, maybe she won’t even be home, considering the ill treatment she had received over the matter. One night on the couch, the next equal to sleeping in the doghouse. Goodness, Helaine thought, urging the cabby to drive faster. She had to make that up to her somehow.

This would put the kibosh on the meaningful discussions she had planned for the weekend. But the truth was that no matter when she broke the news of her upcoming world tour, Lydia would still act blind-sided when departure day arrived. She might as well put it off until her suitcases were in the hall if she wished to avoid that.

She was relieved when she returned to the penthouse to find that Lydia was out. She checked on the last known location of her own briefcase and felt lucky there, too. It was exactly where she had left it. She placed Lydia’s by the front door where she remembered picking it up.

_____

She placed her briefcase on the bar and popped it open. There was nothing left for her to do now. Everything was in order. She would be flying all Monday, in Tokyo by Tuesday, lose a day or two in the process. Tickets, cell phone, passport, plastic (never too much plastic), hotel reservations, laptop.

She chose to add to her carry-on weight only two books. The first was her already worn copy of
The Prince
. That was just in case Paula Treadwell could beam herself down. The latter was a fairly recent purchase and it still looked mint. This was Dr. Kristenson’s best-selling magnum opus, which although not her usual fare, Venus felt obliged these days to study. She flipped to the inside of the dust jacket, to the black and white photo of Dr. Kristenson. Venus frowned at herself in the mirror over the bar. The doctor was undeniably wonderful. Likable, talented, beautiful, sexy. She closed the book and laid it on top of the other.

The stakes were high and the competition was very, very hot.

Praise and Blame

Paula had not actually given notice to the board. She had merely given them a heads-up, leaving Lydia in charge of the kingdom for a while. Several of the directors held informal discussions concerning the future governance of Soloman-Schmitt and they were impressed with the senior vice president’s record of achievement and her management style which differed so dramatically from CEO Treadwell’s sandpaper diplomacy. Not that the board had any genuine grievance with Treadwell. After all, as abrasive as they might find the woman, her techniques had definitely produced positive gains. And they couldn’t forget–and she never let them–that she had rescued the corporation from the Securities and Exchange Commission, as well as ultimate bankruptcy. Tally that in with a five-year average annual growth rate of four percent and it was all good. Their only concern was for a smooth transition in the event that Paula stepped down, which seemed more and more likely as the days turned into weeks and Beaumont still stood at the helm.

Some members and prominent shareholders claimed, unofficially, that a smooth transition had already taken place, but the board was taking a wait-and-see approach before stamping their approval. Nothing could become official until Paula Treadwell tendered her resignation. That remained a big IF.

In the meantime Paula acted as a cheerleader on the sidelines and praised her protégé both publicly and privately. It was a great comfort to be able to rely on her for a change. Especially under the present circumstances.

“Paula. What can I do for you?”

“Kristenson, I need to chat.”

“Speak freely.”

“I mean professionally. Death, dying stuff, you know?”

Very admirable, but it was not the doctor’s specialty. “I can recom–”

“Nonsense. I don’t trust anyone else.”

“I see.” Dr. Kristenson took the compliment without comment. “You want to come in?” she asked, leafing through her appointment book. “I should tell you, though, my calendar is full till next month.”

“That’s too long. Make time for me now. I’ll pay you double.”

“No charge, Paula. I’ll check with my secretary for cancellations and get back to you.”

“Don’t give her my name, please. And thank you, but I don’t need your charity.”

“I’ll leave payment to your discretion then. But you can trust my secretary won’t reveal your–”

“I trust no one. I mean as a rule that is.”

“Okay…I’ll make the arrangements myself then. How’s that?”

“Dr. Kristenson, I thank you.” (click)

_____

“Yes, Jen?”

“Lydia. Line one.”

“Thanks, Jen. Well! Good afternoon, Ms. Beaumont.”

“Helaine…I’m sorry if…do you have ti–?”

“Two o’clock.”

(The line crackled.)

“Lydia?”

“I–you were expecting me?”

“Everyday, darling.”

“Everyd–for how long?

Helaine counted in her head. “Nineteen days.”

“Nineteen days, Lana?”

“Lydia.”

“Nineteen days?”

Helaine fidgeted with her pencil. “Two o’clock then?”

“Lana, I thought–I really don’t know what I thought.”

“My fault. Can you be here at two?”

“Two o’clock. Definitely. I’ll see you at two.” (click)

Nineteen days trying somehow to make it up to Lydia. Every subtle overture an act of futility. Nineteen days and nights Helaine had watched in dismay the woman tripping around the house anxious and shy, acting as if she was walking on glass, floundering at night like an amateur, stomping off to work in the morning, her libido in a pretzel.

Talk about sensitive. Dr. Kristenson had forgotten about this part of Lydia’s nature.

Two o’clock appointment for hypersensitive Lydia Beaumont. Helaine laughed out loud.
Last attempt, my love. After this, I’m sending you for professional help.

That didn’t prove to be necessary.

_____

Nineteen days in the doghouse. Every subtle overture an act of futility. Stomping off to work every morning for nineteen days in a row with her libido in a pretzel until she couldn’t be subtle anymore.

Two o’clock appointment with Dr. Kristenson. Helaine was herself again. It took Lydia less than nineteen minutes to “pop her thing” as Venus liked to refer to it.

Venus and her bad self and the street slang she had resorted to using to get a laugh or a rise out of her prim and proper ex-boss.

She was in Japan, knocking them dead, and Lydia had received only two short communications from her. Progress reports. They were coolly addressed to “The Interim President” sent via Paula’s e-mail. Lydia might not even have had those if she wasn’t temporarily set up in Paula’s offices.

Interim President Beaumont was up to her elbows in Paula Treadwell’s duties. It’s only when you fill someone else’s shoes that you can appreciate their burden. Lydia also appreciated the pep talks. And, of course, not having to hear about Venus Angelo.

“How we have to live as opposed to how we ought to live, Beaumont. That is the real question.”

Right.

“Goodness is not a profession.”

But what is it? Lydia was indulging Paula these day.

“Goodness is imaginary. It’s a state of mind. And more important than that, a vice when surrounded by those without virtue.”

Treadwell and Machiavelli.

“Vice and virtue, Beaumont. That’s the perfect martini. I have it for breakfast myself.”

Lydia laughed.

“Straight up.”

She needed her former assistant but was inexplicably angry at or about her. She couldn’t decide which. Maybe both at different intervals. The source of this disturbance, she believed, was their last encounter, but she couldn’t deny that she was at the same time extremely put off by the cold and distant shoulder she was getting now. As interim president she might have called the woman herself and given her a piece of her mind over it since she had her cell number and a secure line and the compunction to do it, but she was certain that the instant she heard Venus’ voice in her ear again that she would lose her resolve and thereby subject herself to yet more withering remarks such as the last one Venus had issued. In fact, she was still stinging from that crack, in part because what Venus implied felt true.

Or if not exactly true, not exactly false.

The situation that had erupted with Helaine over dinner with Dad had only deepened Lydia’s resentment. She couldn’t confront this when she was home, but high on her perch at Soloman-Schmitt she thought about these things extensively. Somehow it was all related. Vice and virtue and Venus. Her security and well-being. That of Soloman-Schmitt’s.

Helaine Kristenson and Venus Angelo. They had, independent of each other and yet simultaneously, reduced her to nothing for nineteen days. Nothing but a seething woman. A furious woman. A woman scorned. What a release after that to have finally experienced orgasm again.

Lydia sat at the end of the day in Paula Treadwell’s corporate compound, safe and secure there, at least for the time being. She was thinking, thinking, thinking. She thought about love. She thought about sex. She thought, with horror, about living without sex for nineteen days and how it had felt like an eternity. She thought it was frightening that Helaine and Venus were both somehow linked to this privation. She had been angry with both of them over it, but now she knew she was, in fact, only mad at Venus. Why that should be the case she couldn’t say, but she worried about it nevertheless, what that kind of low-grade, chronic fury might mean, and what it could be doing to her in the long haul.