The Hot Flash Club (12 page)

18

MARILYN

Thursday morning, fifteen men and two women sat around a long executive table in the TransWorld conference room for a getting-acquainted, brainstorming session.

Melvin Watertown, senior vice president in charge of international expansion, was holding forth. “—only natural that when two companies merge, positions will overlap. But when you see job cuts in this office, remember we’re expanding worldwide, opening offices in Canada, England, Australia, and Belgium, and investigating other territories.”

Alice Murray had a place at the table. Marilyn sat behind her, taking notes. Alison Cummings was directly across from Alice—by accident or choice, all the TransContinent people were on one side of the table, the new execs from Champion on the other.

Alison was obviously the youngest of them all, and lovely. She radiated enormous energy, even when she wasn’t saying a word. Her soft hands, nails tipped with the lightest of pinks, rested on the table, on either side of her pile of folders, but her eyes whipped from speaker to chart to speaker, not losing a syllable. Behind her, her executive secretary, Barton Baker, sat, tapping away at his Palm Pilot. Occasionally he shot Marilyn a quick, cryptic smile that made her toes curl.

Marilyn reminded herself to concentrate on Alice, who held her back so ramrod straight she nearly quivered with the strain. Alice and Alison were responsible for creating a detailed personnel policy to cover new international territories, investigating labor laws in each country, devising an organizational chart, job descriptions, and annual job performance evaluations, formulating an employee handbook to cover job discrimination, personal and health leave, health benefits, salaries, and promotion. It would be a massive undertaking, involving a score of accountants, international law experts, and management specialists.

“Any thoughts, Alice?” Melvin Watertown suddenly barked.

For a terrible moment, Alice didn’t reply. She cleared her throat, shifted in her chair, and rifled through the papers in front of her. From where Marilyn sat, it looked as if Alice was actually
squirming
.

Alison Cummings spoke up. “For our purposes, the British branch will be the model.”

When everyone’s attention shifted to Alison, Marilyn scribbled a note and slipped it to Alice, who showed no signs of reading it.

“It depends on where they decide to house the headquarters.” Alice’s voice was firm; she was back in control. “If they choose Manchester, they’ll halve the costs.”

“Manchester is hardly chic,” Alison scoffed.

Alice shrugged. “So they’ll put a small image office in London.” Her voice grew stronger. “I think Canada will be the model. She’s our neighbor. Canadians speak our language. They have a similar economy.”

“I think you’re right, Alice,” Marvin said. “Now about tax laws that impact retirement benefits. Henry?”

Marilyn saw Alice’s shoulders relax, just a little.

The rest of the meeting passed without incident.

Afterward, in the sanctity of her office, Alice said to Marilyn, “Thanks for slipping me that note. The frigging underwire in my bra broke loose and jabbed me in the armpit. Kept it up all through the meeting.” She tugged angrily through her clothes. “How am I going to get through the day? I can’t go without a bra!”

“Take it off,” Marilyn told her. “I’ll tape the wire back in.”

Alice went into the bathroom and shut the door. A few minutes later, she extended her arm, a contraption of spandex and silk hanging from her hand like a collapsed parachute.

Marilyn took it over to the desk, laid it out flat, studied it for a moment, then pushed the offending wire back down into its silken channel, secured it with several strips of fibrous tape, and stapled it all several times for good measure.

“This should last the day,” she said, handing it back to Alice.

“Thanks.” Through the slightly open door, Alice said,

“You’re lucky to be so slender. When you’re my size, nothing fits. My bras ride up, and my underpants curl down.”

Marilyn cocked her head, thinking. “Perhaps if you wore fasteners, like garters or suspenders, between the two, they’d stay in place.”

“More likely they’d break from the strain.” But the image made her smile, and she relaxed slightly. “I shouldn’t have gone blank in the meeting like that.”

“You’re under an enormous amount of stress with this merger,” Marilyn reminded her.

“That’s no excuse.” Lowering her voice, she asked, “How are you getting along with Barton?”

“We’ve been having lunch together, getting to know one another. He’s from Texas, he’s divorced, he’s terribly nice, actually—”

“What does he say about his boss?”

“He thinks Cummings is brilliant. Ambitious.”

“Is Barton loyal to Cummings?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ll find out.”

Marilyn shut off her computer. It was the end of the day, and she was exhausted. The pressure of the two colliding megacompanies made everyone tense, even Marilyn, who didn’t even really work there.

Barton Baker appeared in her doorway. “Want to go have a drink?”

“Yes,
please
,” Marilyn said.

The new TransWorld building had a cafeteria and a coffee shop, but no bar. Also, there was no anonymity.

“Let’s go to the Cottonwood Café and do tequila shots,” Barton suggested.

Marilyn had never done tequila shots. “Okay.”

“Let’s take my car,” Barton said.

Marilyn paused. At this time of the evening, city traffic was a nightmare. If she rode with Barton, he’d have to drive her back to her car, but she wasn’t in any hurry, and she was supposed to be infiltrating the enemy camp. “Okay.”

“What a car!” Marilyn exclaimed when she saw his bright red turbo-charged Miata convertible. He opened the door for her as she slipped in, and she noticed how he looked at her legs, which, now that she studied them, appeared sleek in her new expensive stockings, and sexy in heels higher than she’d ever worn before. While Barton went around to the driver’s side, Marilyn wondered idly if there were a scientific heel-to-arch ratio to predict how to achieve the sexiest leg.

On the ride, Barton concentrated on navigating through the heavy traffic. “I don’t understand why there are so many one-way streets,” he grumbled.

“Boston roads were originally cow paths,” Marilyn told him. She hoped he wouldn’t find the ride too distressing. Men found uncertainty so upsetting. Theodore always sulked for days if he’d had to drive along a new route. The first time he drove them out for dinner at the Eastbrooks’ home, she’d been afraid he’d have a stroke.

Fortunately, Barton quickly found a parking spot on Newbury Street. They hurried along the crowded side-walks to the restaurant and were soon seated at a horseshoe-shaped bar. Barton ordered tequila for them both.

“Salud!”
he toasted.

“Salud!”
she replied. He tossed back the liquor, so she did, too. Her throat burned and heat flashed through her like a lightning bolt. Blood rushed to her cheeks.

“This hits the spot, doesn’t it?” Barton said. “What a tough day. Want another?”

Her whole body
tingled
. “Sure,” she agreed. “I’ll have another.”

He ordered. They clicked glasses and drank. The tequila tasted earthy, primal, the way the world must have tasted when it was brand-new. How fascinating. This was what trilobites tasted five million years ago.

“More?” Barton asked.

Marilyn laughed. “More.”

The control knob of the universal laws clicked up a notch. Colors were brighter, sound more intense. The beat of background music, something Mexican, exotic, contagious, bounced off the pulse of her blood. Everyone else in the room looked young, hip, and happy, and for the first time in her life, Marilyn felt young, hip, and happy, too.

She’d never sat at a bar with a man, and she found it a bit terrifying, in an enjoyable way. Her stool had no back, and it swiveled, like something at a playground or amusement park. Across the bar, another man gave her the once-over. Marilyn blushed and wobbled.

Barton put his hand on her back to steady her. His touch loosened every tendon in her body.

“I don’t go to bars often,” she confessed.

“Me, either,” Barton told her. “But I just can’t face my pathetic rented apartment just yet.”

“Oh, too bad. Where are you living?”

“Arlington. After the merger, I had to find a place fast, just to eat and sleep in. But I’m looking for something a little more comfortable. Where do you live?”

“In Cambridge. A nice old house.” She remembered she was supposed to be widowed. “It’s too big for me now that my children are grown and my husband’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“He died, two years ago. Heart attack.” She clicked her fingers. “Just like that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” She was slightly appalled at how much she enjoyed being widowed. “It was hard, of course, but the fact is, we hadn’t been—close—for years.” This was the truth, and it felt fabulous to say it.

“A beautiful woman like you,” Barton mused. “What a shame.”

More tequila arrived. She tossed it back. “I’m embarrassed I said that. Way too much personal information!”

“I’d like to know everything about you,” Barton said, looking warm and sincere. Moving closer, he put his hand on hers.

She stared at their hands. They were emitting a weird kind of heat that lit up her body all the way down to her crotch, which glowed like an outer space alloy. Surreptitiously, she glanced down: Nope, nothing showed.

“It’s a hard world we work in,” Barton confessed softly. “Competitive and aggressive. We wouldn’t be in it if we didn’t enjoy the challenge—and the money—but sometimes I think I’d enjoy a less combative kind of work.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Marilyn agreed.

“And as much as I admire Alison Cummings,” Barton continued, “by the end of the day I find her fairly exhausting.”

Why, it was easy, doing this detective work, Marilyn thought. And it was fun!

“I’ve only worked for Alice for a few days,” Marilyn said, “but I have to say I find her rather abrasive.” Her elbow almost touched Barton’s, and her knee actually did touch his now and then, when her stool swayed a little to the left.

“Hey, they’re all abrasive,” Barton said. “It comes with the job description. And we like some of it, or we wouldn’t be working for them. I certainly want to rise in the company. But for people like you and me, well, with all the stress and pressure, we have to be sure to balance our lives with indulgences. ”

“That’s very insightful of you.” Marilyn studied Barton. How young he was, to be so wise. His dark eyes were liquid, electric, and transfixed on her face.

Barton leaned close to her. “Alison Cummings is a Type A personality: driven, egotistic, obsessed with Champion to the detriment of any private life. That’s not what I want for myself. I want success, achievement, but not at the cost of personal pleasures.”

“Personal pleasures,” Marilyn said seriously, “are very important.”

Other people were edging up to the bar, pushing against Marilyn’s arm, making it impossible for her to pull away from Barton’s powerful sexual force field. She felt like a meteor being pulled into the track of a potent star.

“How’d you like the meeting?” Barton asked.

“I found it fascinating,” she answered truthfully.

“You were pretty fabulous, passing that note to Alice Murray.”

Bells went off in Marilyn’s head. “Note?”

“Don’t try to kid me. I saw you.”

Perhaps it was the tequila. Marilyn burst out laughing. “God, this sounds just like high school! And the note, for your information, said, ‘Alison Cummings is a snot.’ ”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Why? Because she had her fingertips on information your boss didn’t know?”

“Listen, Alice knows everything, believe me.”

“Hey.” Barton put his hand on Marilyn’s. “I’m not trying to pick a fight. I didn’t mean to insult your boss. It’s just that I really did think she was kinda slow off the mark a few times during the meeting.”

Marilyn gazed into his dark seductive eyes.
Focus
, she ordered herself. “Well, I’m new at TransWorld, but I think Alice has an incisive mind and an encyclopedic grasp of her field. She’s been in this business for a long time, after all—”

“That’s just the point.”

His hand was still on hers. “What’s just the point?”

“She’s been in the business too long, perhaps, to deal with a business the size and complexity of TransWorld. She’s okay for TransContinent, but too antiquated for TransWorld.”

“That’s not true!” Marilyn snapped, and to her intense embarrassment, she burst into tears. With a rush of chagrin, she realized she was drunk.

“Oh, God,” Barton said. “Oh, Marilyn, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Could we leave?”

“Of course.”

He threw some bills on the counter and, putting his arm under her elbow, escorted her out of the bar and down the street to his car. He settled her in the passenger seat, went around and got in the driver’s seat, and started the engine, but didn’t put the car into drive. Marilyn pulled tissues from her purse and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She wondered if her mascara had run. She wondered what women did when their mascara ran. She wondered if the formula for mascara—

Barton turned toward her. “Marilyn,” he said earnestly. “I apologize.”

Marilyn looked at Barton.
Antiquated
, she thought. Alice is
antiquated
, and so am I, and that’s wonderful if you’re a trilobite, but pretty awful if you’re a living woman.

Barton looked distressed himself. “I never dreamed I’d upset you so much. Please—” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Marilyn—”

Then, to Marilyn’s amazement, Barton had his arms around her. He was kissing her, ravishing, hot, furious kisses, kisses like an astronaut returning from space, a soldier returning from war.

And Marilyn was kissing him back.

19

Saturday morning Shirley drove to Jennifer D’Annucio’s home on a tree-lined street in an idyllic neighborhood of Stoneham, all single-family homes, with picket fences and birdhouses and tree houses and trikes and bikes in the driveways.

Jennifer, it turned out, didn’t live in one of the houses, but in the apartment over the garage of one of the houses. Shirley groaned. She hated carrying her massage table up stairs. But she was feeling unusually optimistic after her session with Alice, so she hoisted the carrying case strap over one arm and her bag of oils and CDs over the other, took a deep breath, and began climbing.

“Hello,” Jennifer sang, throwing open the door. “Here, let me help you with that. No, please, I insist.”

Shirley nearly fell back down the stairs with shock. Jennifer, sleek slick secretary, wore jeans and a T-shirt, both covered with flour. Her long black locks were stuck up any which way on the back of her head with several barrettes, and her hair and face were also powdered with flour.

“God, it smells good in here,” Shirley said as she stepped inside.

“I know! Isn’t it wonderful? I made some pies for a friend’s child’s day-care’s bake sale. Apple, pecan, and peach. Where would you like to put your table? There’s more room in the living room.”

“Could we close the curtains?” Shirley asked. “Just to dim the light of the room so you can really relax.”

“Sure.”

Shirley couldn’t help but think, as she set up her table and arranged her oils and plugged the electric blanket in to warm the pad, that if she lived here in Jennifer’s apartment, she wouldn’t need a massage. She hadn’t ever seen a more welcoming space. Several ancient silky deep Oriental carpets overlapped one another, obviously covering worn spots. The far wall was entirely covered with shelves, holding all kinds of books, paperbacks mixed in with thicker hardbacks, with brightly framed photos and painted pots and statues tucked in here and there. A fat, ancient sofa, draped in soft shawls and littered with plump cushions, sat near an old trunk serving as a coffee table, holding more books and a low vase of daffodils. Two other chairs, venerable and cozy, book-ended the trunk. The window was draped with curtains in rich floral pinks and greens; Shirley could imagine Jennifer closing them against the bitter winter dark, blushing the room with summer. A drop leaf walnut table, much polished, stood in front of the window, a vase of spring flowers on it, and just a few steps away was the kitchen, old-fashioned, the appliances nearly antediluvian, but everything shining clean. And on the counters sat the pies with their beautiful golden crusts.

Jennifer helped Shirley move the chairs and trunk to make room for her massage table, then went off into the bathroom. Shirley set up her CD player and slipped in an Enya CD, then set out her oils and aromatherapy candle. On second thought, she didn’t light the candle; the smell of baked pies was therapy enough.

Jennifer came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped modestly around her torso.

“I’m fat, I know,” she said apologetically, “but you see, I love to cook. I love to eat.”

“Sweetheart, believe me, you’re not fat,” Shirley told her. “You’ve got a fabulous body.”

“Thanks, but it’s true, I am fat, at least for getting a man. Men want their women lean and muscular these days.”

Jennifer lay on the table, and Shirley flicked on the Enya CD and began the massage. Jennifer’s skin was as smooth as cream, the flesh beneath it firm. Her hair was silky and luxurious. She carried her tension in her hips and lower back and in the arches of her feet, and as Shirley worked, she felt the young woman’s body relax, rock turning to petal.

The phone rang. Shirley’s ears perked up.

“Let the machine get it,” Jennifer murmured from her deep repose.

“Hi, honey. It’s Carol. Adrienne told me I could call you and
beg
you for some cookies for the church spring fair. You know yours sell before anyone else’s, and we desperately need new choir robes, so if you could promise us, oh, say, twelve dozen cookies and maybe a pie or cake? Please? It’s not
our
fault you’re such a good cook.”

Interesting, Shirley thought. Jennifer’s body didn’t tense at the message, but seemed to expand even more into a mellow space.

Jennifer purred. “I love baking,” she said. “I’m always so glad when I have a reason to do it.”

“They’re all lucky to have you bake for them,” Shirley said.

As Shirley kneaded the knots in Jennifer’s lower back, the phone rang again, and this time a man’s voice came into the air. Jennifer’s body tensed.

“Hi, Jenn, it’s me. I think I can make it tonight. Sevenish. Dinner? I’ll bring wine. Okay, then. See you later.”

“Your boyfriend?” Shirley asked.

Jennifer sighed. “Kind of.” Her muscles, which had been nearly fluid, knotted up as she spoke. “I mean I love him. And he loves me. But he’s married.”

“Oh, dear.”

“And his wife just had a baby.”

“Oh.”

“You must think I’m a terrible person.” Face flat down on the table, Jennifer’s voice was muffled.

“No, not at all,” Shirley told her honestly.

“I never meant to be a home wrecker.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Shirley went to the foot of the table, lifting and arranging the sheet so that Jennifer’s left leg was exposed, and worked on her thigh with long, smooth motions.

“He insists he loves me. He says his marriage is just a sham, that all his wife cares about is the baby. She never wants to make love anymore, she never cooks for him, she doesn’t care about him, she’s always nagging him, they never have fun, she’s always running home to her mother and leaving him alone without dinner and all alone all night.”

Shirley moved to the other leg. “That must be difficult for him.”

“It is! Very! He says if he crawled in the door bleeding one day, she’d just scream, ‘For God’s sake, take care of the baby for a while, I’m exhausted, I have to have a nap!’ And he works so hard; no one works as hard as he does.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a lawyer in the firm I work for. He’s way junior, so he’s like their slave, he has to take what they dump on him, he’s given all the shit work. He’s a really nice man, he never meant to run around on his wife, but he says she wouldn’t even care if she knew, she can’t stand to have him touch her, all she wants to do is sleep.”

“Well,” Shirley said, “it is exhausting, having a newborn baby in the house.”

Jennifer tensed all over. “But if it were
my
baby, I wouldn’t ignore my husband!”

You’re not here to give a lecture, Shirley reminded herself. You don’t even know yet who the man is. There must be hundreds of new fathers in the Boston area.

“He must feel like he’s entering heaven when he comes over here,” Shirley said honestly. “Your home is so welcoming, and I’ll bet you make delicious meals for him.”

“It’s true, I do. He’s always so grateful. And so tired. You know, most of the time we don’t really have sex. What I think of as sex. We don’t actually make love, not very often. He’s always in a hurry to get home so his wife won’t find out, so usually I just give him a blow job.”

Shirley moved to the head of the table. The hour was almost up, and she still didn’t know the boyfriend’s name. Still, she couldn’t help but feel slightly protective of this beautiful young idiot. “Let’s see now, you feed him and comfort him and love him and what does he do for you?”

“Why—he loves me!”

“Which he shows,
how
?”

Jennifer’s body was a mass of knots all over again. “He tells me he loves me. He sends me flowers. He gave me a beautiful bracelet from Cartier.”

“Is he going to leave his family and marry you?”

Jennifer sat up, red-faced, indignant. “Jesus! You sound just like my mother!”

“I’m sorry,” Shirley said. “I had no right to ask you that. It was very unprofessional of me. I guess I just got involved.”

“That’s all right.” Jennifer’s shoulders slumped. “You’re not saying anything I haven’t said to myself, believe me.”

“Yes, but it’s my job to help you relax. You should get up from this table invigorated and refreshed.” She smiled. “Next time I come, we won’t talk, how’s that?”

“All right.”

“I usually get my clients a drink of water after a massage,” Shirley informed Jennifer. “Would you mind if I get you a glass of water from your kitchen?”

“Why would I mind?”

“I always ask the first time. I never want to overstep any boundaries.” In the kitchen, Shirley ran the water, quickly scanning the calendar on the wall for names. She saw hearts drawn next to some dates, but no names. She filled the glass and brought it to Jennifer. “Drink it all down,” she instructed. “It will help drain off toxins loosened into your system by the massage.”

While Jennifer was dressing in the bathroom, Shirley packed up her gear.

“I do feel more relaxed,” Jennifer said. “Especially right in my back. Did you do that thing for my thighs?”

“That thing for your thighs?”

“You said you had a technique to get rid of cellulite.”

“Oh. Oh, yes, I did. But for your first time I have to go carefully. I’ll work a little harder on that area next time. Is next Saturday okay, same time?”

“Sure. Oh, and um, I know I won these sessions, but I’ve never had a massage before—um, should I tip you?”

“It’s not necessary, hon. And I wouldn’t take a tip today. I feel like I upset you rather than calming you down.”

“No, honestly, I feel really good now,” Jennifer protested. “Look! Would you like a bag of my cookies? I just made some oatmeal-raisin yesterday. Oatmeal and raisins are healthy, right?”

“Jennifer, I would love some of your oatmeal-raisin cookies.” And I’d love to know the name of your married boyfriend, but I guess I’ll learn that next time, Shirley thought.

At the door, Jennifer surprised Shirley by hugging her. “You’re really nice,” she said. “I think you bring good energy with you.”

“You give off good energy, too,” Shirley said, and she meant it.

“Let me help you carry all that down the stairs,” Jennifer offered.

“No, I’m fine.”

Oh, dear, Shirley thought as she walked to her car. If I were a man, I’d want to be with Jennifer. Jennifer seemed like a nice girl with a lot to give. Shirley would do what she had to do for her HFC assignment, but she knew she also would like to do something to make Jennifer happy.