Underneath It All (12 page)

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Authors: Margo Candela

BOOK: Underneath It All
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30
Scooter
“
S
cooter Baxter.” The young, prematurely bald guy on my left offers me his right hand to shake. A firm three pumps and he snakes it back to his side and I’m left wanting more.
“Hi, Jacquelyn Sanchez.” I’m a bit drunk, but I think I’m hiding it rather well. I turn to my right to greet the other side of the sandwich. “Hello?”
She’s an ancient woman and I’m guessing will get her meal pumped through one of the bags suspended from her IV pole.
“Never mind Martha. She’s as old as the hills my family strip-mined to make its fortune,” Scooter says to me, then leans over and calls loudly, “AREN’T YOU, AUNTY MARTY!”
Aunty Marty lists from side to side and mumbles. I notice there is a nurse sitting right behind her. I smile at her, she ignores me. Fine. Whatever. Bitch.
“Are you a friend of the family or ...” Scooter lets the question trail off onto less unpleasant paths.
“I’m Katherine’s personal assistant so I guess that makes me an ‘or.’”
“Do you like that line of work, the personal assistant racket?” Scooter asks earnestly, very conscious of his whiteness, which, I’m sure, he’s tried to compensate for by reading and rereading
One-Hundred Years of Solitude
and making an effort to get to know the “help” as real people. “You must get such a unique opportunity to get to know people on such different levels.”
“It’s just a job. I never thought I’d be doing this, you know. I thought I’d do something way more, I don’t know, significant with my life ... oh, well!” Did I just say that out loud? That old biddy Baxter must have slipped some truth serum into my third or fourth Tom Collins. Lucky for me, Scooter can feel my pain.
“I’m the poster boy for bad Baxter behavior this month. I was in law school, but I said to myself, ‘Is this what I really want? To be yet another Baxter lawyer?’ So I quit and that’s why I’m here.”
“Oh.” I carefully arranged my napkin in my lap.
“Lucky for me your boss still hasn’t fallen in line. It’s a small scandal for the family, you know.”
“How so?” I ask, playing dumb.
Even Aunty Marty must know Mrs. Mayor is on the outs and is dragging her hubby down with her. He’s been bumped from the head of the table, sitting two seats down on his mother’s left. Katherine is way on the other side, sandwiched between two stony-faced women who won’t look at her. I almost feel sorry for her, trying so hard in her brand-new suit. Maybe she’ll blame the Chanel for her failure to win over the Baxter bitches and give it to me.
“Kit is in a bit of hot water with Aunt Gail, but I’m sure the golden boy will set things right. He always does.” I detect a slight snarl in Scooter’s voice.
“Yup.” I nod. I’ve been to some tense family events, but this takes the cake. “So is Scooter your nickname?”
“I can’t stand my nickname.” Scooter leans in close and whispers, “It’s Herbert.”
“I’m sorry.” On both counts.
“How do you like Carmel?” Scooter picks up a spoon and starts on his soup. I do the same. I can be as bland as the next person ... maybe not as much as Aunt Marty but Scooter has nothing on me.
“Fine. Great. So beautiful.” I spent most of the day on the phone frantically tracking down the perfect pair of faux pearls to complete Mrs. Mayor’s ensemble. She insisted they had to be faux in keeping with the “Chanel spirit.”
“Is your family in San Francisco?” An ambiguous-enough question, yet I don’t trust Scooter’s motives.
“No.” That should take care of this line of questioning.
“Ah, where does your family live?” Scooter asks, his eyes trained on the sensibly low centerpiece in the middle of the table.
“Los Angeles.” I take a closer look at it, just in case I’m missing something.
“I prefer New York. You get back to Los Angeles much?”
“I visit my parents all the time,” I say, eyeing him warily. He goes from asking about scenery to my family? This guy is working all the angles.
“Where are your parents from?” He swivels around to face me.
“Los Angeles,” I sigh. And so are my grandparents, and their parents and the parents before them, but I don’t think this will impress Scooter.
“Ah, originally?” Scooter doesn’t bother to hide his disappointment.
“Originally they’re from outer space, but I’m not supposed to talk about that.”
“Oh.” Scooter looks momentarily perplexed, but recovers suavely. “Oh! You are funny.”
“Are
your
parents here?” I don’t really care, but I hope if I get him talking about his family, he’ll leave mine alone.
“I’m afraid my mother and Aunt Gail are on the outs at the moment,” Scooter says, nodding solemnly.
“That must make life difficult.” I’m prepared to be sympathetic. At least, a sympathetic drunk, which is more than I can say for most of the people around this table.
“I hardly ever see or speak to either of them,” Scooter continues on as if this is the most normal thing to reveal to a complete stranger. “My dad is currently in Bridgeport, that’s in Connecticut, and Mother is resting at a spa in upstate New York.”
“I love spas.” Finally, something I can talk about.
“It’s not that kind of spa,” Scooter says with a snort.
“Oh.”
“How about your family?” he asks, tilting his head in a way that I assume is supposed to melt my heart and loosen my tongue.
“My family? Well, there are seven of us. Nine if you count my parents,” I say and brace myself for the usual gasp. The Kennedy family has kennels of kids, but they’re Catholic, so what else would you expect.
“Big family,” Scooter says, looking at me and, yes, nodding.
“Two are twins,” I say a bit defensively. “So really it’s only five. There’s my older sister, who works in a hospital counting bedpans or something. A job that totally suits her personality. There are my two brothers, who are the sons in Sanchez and Sons Electricians. Then there are the twins, who are moms. Then there is my other brother, I’m not sure what he’s doing at the moment. Maybe time, maybe nothing. And then there is me. Me, me, me. Me!”
“I would have thought you were an only child.”
“You know, you’re not the first person to say that,” I snicker.
“Over there is Meems.” Scooter nods his head toward a skinny, horse-faced girl with overprocessed blonde hair and an aggressive tan.
We all smile at each other politely until I’m on the verge of tears. I finally resort to a fake sneeze to bring an end to the staring match.
“She’s in banking and graduated from Harvard with honors.” This has been going on all night with everyone I’ve been introduced to: current job, past job if it was better than current job, university of graduation (accolades, if any) and sometimes an interesting hobby (if it’s unique).
“Wow. Honors.”
“And next to her is Maxfield. He’s in technology, the black sheep of the family. He started at Penn, but transferred to Harvard, thank God.”
“Harvard is my favorite.” I take a huge swallow of wine. Liquor seems to be its own food group for the Baxters.
“So do you speak Spanish?”
I guess he thinks we’re best chums now and it’s OK to delve a little deeper into my ethnicity. I nod and wait for Scooter to ask me to say something in Spanish but, perhaps thinking it would be like asking a monkey to perform a trick, he conscientiously resists the urge to have me prove my Latinaness.
“I speak French.” Scooter leans back and casually drapes an arm on the seat back behind me. “I’ve always wanted to learn Spanish. Or Italian.”
“They’re practically the same thing!” I say a little too loudly and startle Aunty Marty out of her stupor. The nurse quickly adjusts the dials on her pole, calming the old gal down.
Scooter nods and smiles. I nod and smile. Guessing this is the perfect segue he asks, “So, you want to hook up after dinner?”
I stop smiling.
31
Mrs. Mayor
“
Y
ou want me to what?”
“It’ll be fun, trust me, Myles always shows me a good time when I’m in LA. Won’t that be great?”
Mrs. Mayor grabs my hand, almost making me lose my grip on the plushy white robe I threw on just before she charged in. Steam is still rising off my head from my shower. The water pressure in this place is amazing and I was thoroughly enjoying my last shower here before we head out to Santa Barbara in a couple of hours.
“Hold on, I must have water in my ears.” I shake my head, careful not to get any drops on Mrs. Mayor.
She’s wearing a pair of khaki short-shorts, a snug polo shirt with all the buttons open and Coach sneakers. She topped off the ensemble with a logo baseball cap, set at a jaunty angle over her impeccable hair and makeup. She could feasibly be on her way out for a round of golf or to shoot a porno film on a golf course.
“Hurry, Jacquelyn, Clint’s waiting.” She looks genuinely happy. It can’t be the prospect of golf. She’s allergic to most types of grass and pollen, and generally hates being outdoors. “He’s such a sweetheart, letting me and Gail ... or is it Gail and I?”
“One issue at a time, Katherine. You want me to go down to LA and hang out with—”
“He’s the producer I told you about. A major player.”
“—your good friend the major producer Myles while you stay here?”
This guy Myles wants her to “star” in his next action movie. Her role would mainly consist of running around without a bra and screaming at appropriate moments. She’s actually considering it.
“Gail and I are going to spend some time together, just the two of us, so we can bond. Isn’t that great?” Mrs. Mayor is beaming. Poor lamb.
“What about Santa Barbara and the conference? Are you still going to that?”
“God, no! Those conference things bore me to death, you know? Remind me of high school.” Mrs. Mayor adjusts her cleavage.
“Um, what about Mr. Mayor?”
“He’s still going.” Her expression darkens a smidge.
“OK ... I thought you were, you know, worried about how much he’s been working lately?” Not to rub salt in her imagined wound, but one of us has to be realistic.
“You go in my place and keep Vivian company.” Meaning: make sure Vivian doesn’t keep company with her husband. “Kit is going to pick me up on his way back. So, see? It all works out for everyone. You can go visit your family, hang out with Myles and get into that political stuff you like so much, without having to worry about little old me.”
“And Mrs. Baxter, she’s OK with all this? Just the two of you here in this huge house. By yourselves?” Aside from the dozen or so faceless staff, of course.
“She’s the one who suggested it! Can you believe it?”
“Yes, I can.”
32
Emilio
K
it Baxter, great hope of the Democratic Party and mainstay of my sweaty fantasies, just gave me a warm hug and kiss on the cheek in the lobby of the Santa Barbara Four Seasons. In front of a small army of reporters, political groupies and party officials.
Since my room, which I’m sharing with Natasha, isn’t ready, I have no choice but to nonchalantly make my way to a club chair and flip through a magazine as I struggle to keep my face intelligently blank.
“Nice day,” a warm voice says. I look up. Sitting opposite me is Emilio Cortez.
“Holy crap! What are you doing here?” I yelp. I glance around to make sure I haven’t attracted more unwanted attention.
“I am a loyal Democrat, Jacquelyn, despite what you might have heard. I am just as concerned with the direction our party is taking as our very friendly mayor is.” Cortez looks gorgeous and, as usual, is smiling at me. “There is plenty of news, it seems, for me to report on already.”
I can’t help but blush, mostly because I know he knows I was enjoying the afterglow of my mayoral kiss. Mr. Mayor’s purely political kiss.
“You’re out of luck. Katherine didn’t come so I’m afraid you’re going to have to write about some real news, not what my boss is wearing or what she spends at the hotel boutique.”
“Gloves off, Jacquelyn. Like your boss’s husband, I’m in Santa Barbara to make nice with the big men in charge or, as we used to say in my old neighborhood,
chingarnos el hefe
.” Cortez laughs at his own joke.
“Oh ... Here?” I can’t imagine a reporter, whose politics are so far to the left he makes Mr. Mayor look like a Republican, would be staying at as fancy a hotel as the Four Seasons.
“A friend of mine is staying here, Jacquelyn. I’m not stalking you. It’s not my style.”
“Yeah, you’re a real gentleman, Cortez.”
Yesterday’s column had a lengthy diatribe on how Mrs. Mayor was trying to make San Francisco into Hollywood North. And, for good measure, he outed the Mayors as a nonrecycling/non-composting household.
“I report what the City of San Francisco wants to know. Needs to know.” Emilio stresses the last part. Even he must realize how petty it’s all become.
“Why do you have it in for Katherine? She’s harmless.” She’s only a danger to herself, but he already knows that.
He leans back in his chair, regarding me closely. “San Francisco is a unique animal, Jacquelyn. Very open in arms, but closed in mentality. The right kind of weirdo can go far, but someone like your boss ... She will never be a true San Franciscan.”
“How about me? I wasn’t born there, but I don’t get hate mail or dragged through the mud by the press for every silly, innocent mistake.”
“That’s true, but, then again,
mi amore,
you aren’t involved with the mayor of San Francisco.” Emilio raises an eyebrow and leans toward me. “Or are you?”
“Of course not!” I say too loudly, sounding guilty even to my own ears. Cortez smiles at me. “Well, I’m not!”

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