Читать книгу Indiscretion - M.G. Crisci - Страница 13

The tortured love sonnet, and other bad choices.

As I drove to the Périgord, my phone rang. It was Alexandria. My first thought — she was canceling. “Just wanted to let you know I’ll be a few minutes late. I just got off a long call with one of my producers.”

“Listen, we can do it another time,” I said.

“Not a chance; free drinks are free drinks. With the cost of cabs, a girl’s gotta economize somewhere.”

I loved her dry sense of humor and wondered what my real intention was. A middle-aged, ego-enhancing flirtation? The search for a new friend? A massive case of bad judgment? The desire to sample sex with someone other than Lauren? I concluded it was probably some combination of all four. But even acknowledging those possibilities, I didn’t turn around and go home.

The bar was half-full when I arrived. I spotted a quiet table in the corner, far away from the main dining area. Alexandria arrived a few minutes later, dressed to kill. Her form-fitting leopard-spotted dress, long straight golden hair, confident walk, and sensual red lips turned every male head in the place. And she knew it.

“UMMM-UMMM,” I drooled.

“You like?” she teased.

I tried to be cool. “So, how did your producer call go?”

“What producer?” She laughed. “Do you think I stashed this dress in my file cabinet?”

After ordering an Appletini and a Chivas on the rocks, we began to talk shop. She explained the telephone research conversations calls were an eye-opening experience.

One martini later, there was a second hint of honesty. “You make everything sound like success is guaranteed. I’m sick of hearing, 'What does Martin suggest?' Tell me, what happens when your damn suggestions blow up?”

I responded with bravado, “You pick up the pieces and get back in the batter’s box.”

She was concerned about her image. “So, you make the mistakes and I have to pick up the pieces as twenty years of building my credibility goes down the drain?!”

“Don’t you think you’re giving me a little too much credit by assuming everybody will try everything I suggest?”

“That’s the scary part. You could sell ice to the Eskimos.”

A second martini and scotch arrived. I launched into some esoteric diatribe about my business philosophy, as gleaned over the years. I sounded like a condescending, pompous ass; platitudes and clichés flowed like water. “Business is about survival through evolution. Good is no longer good enough. The best defense is a good offense.”

She shook her head. “Do you believe all that bullshit?”

I became defensive. “As incredible as it may seem, the answer is yes. Think about it for a minute. I didn’t need this job. I got involved because I thought AFA had a shot at being a big-time company with a big personal payoff. You know, I’m not a complete fool.”

“Why is it when a guy asks a challenging question, it’s just business, but when a woman does the same thing, it becomes highly personal? You men and your goddamn testosterone!”

“Another martini?” She nodded yes.

Either we were entering a different space or the martinis were wearing her down because she became less challenging, more conversational. She probed my background and seemed genuinely surprised at the depth of my operating experience and business accomplishments.

“Why did you stop?”

“I guess I was burned out from the nonstop business intensity. The lies. The posturing. The shades of gray.” I raised my hand. “Waiter, can I have the check?”

“Where are you going?”

“I figured we were finished.”

“I’d like another drink,” she smiled.

I looked at her. Something was different.

“Are you intimidated by me? Most men are,” she said.

“No. But then again, I’m not most men.”

I decided to add some finger food to the drink order. “Listen, if you’re going to keep beating the shit out of me, you need something nutritional to replace the lost energy.”

She laughed and then turned dead serious. “Why are you here? You’re married. Your wife’s picture is all over the damn company. You’re like the magical couple who has it all.”

“You want an honest answer, or just an answer?” I then gave her a Reader’s Digest version of the MJ situation. “So, I guess down deep, I just wanted somebody to talk to.”

She apologized, “Sorry I’ve been a bitch to you all evening,”

“Actually, from the very first day we met.”

“So why bother with me?”

“Maybe I’m just attracted to smart, beautiful, combative women.”

“I think that means you want to have sex.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied.”

~

Alexandria gave me a respite. “So, how much do you know about me?”

“For better or worse, I never got on the gossip train on Wall Street, and I’m sure as hell not going to start in Bridgeport. I do my own research and come to my own conclusions. No need to get clouded by someone else’s agenda.”

I touched a chord. I could feel Alexandria reaching out. She was born in the heart of Middle America — Lincoln, Nebraska — and had an older sister, Tori, who never left home. Alexandria was also a proud single mom with two grown daughters, Melissa and Shanti.

“My first husband was a real shit! We met, married, and lived in Boston. The two girls were born during the first three years. I worked part-time as an airline administrator in town. He was in outside sales and traveled Monday to Thursday. One day he came home from a trip to announce that he was leaving, and I could have the girls. We wound up in alimony court. He made a few payments then disappeared altogether.

“I was desperate to earn more money, since I’d decided to stay in Boston. I preferred the cosmopolitan lifestyle to the grim reality of small-town America. After some job interviews, I was hired by an insurance company that wholesaled fixed annuities to field marketing organizations like AFA. I broke my butt learning product lines, studying for licensing exams, and becoming a salesperson. Despite all the effort, I still had credibility problems with the mostly male target audience, a bunch of horny old middle-aged men. But I was determined to succeed, so I decided to use my looks and personality to my advantage.

“Most times I had to tease my way to that initial appointment. True to form, most guys wanted to get in my pants first and hear about my product line second. I never once mixed business and pleasure. Word got around I was for real. Before long, I had an envious customer list and was making pretty good money.

“Did the girls eventually get to know their father?”

“They haven’t seen him since they were two.”

“How does a father disown his children?”

“You think that’s pathetic? Guess what this ‘smart, combative woman’ did next? I got married again to a nice guy, and the girls liked him. He was ten years younger than me, so the sex was great. Unfortunately, he turned out to be a drug addict. The girls were teens by then and I wanted them to have some semblance of a father, so I foolishly supported his habit for three years. Eventually, we reached a stalemate — he wouldn’t enter rehab, and I was tired of the financial burden. I was also concerned he’d screw up the girls and turn them into addicts. We reached a rather bizarre court settlement: he would forgo all visitation rights in exchange for three years of alimony payments.

“I got stung financially. The girls were rejected again. After those three years, he just dropped off the face of the earth. Maybe now you have some sense of why this ‘smart, combative woman’ is so belligerent.”

There wasn’t much to say after that. I blurted out the first thing that crossed my mind. “So, how did you meet Dawson?”

She assumed I was referring to the generally salacious rumor making the rounds. “I was selling triple-A investment contracts. He was one of my prospects. He liked my spunk. My product lines. My pitch. When AFA started to grow, he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“Interesting.”

“In-ter-est-ing.” She had a phonetically peculiar way of enunciating the word. “Is that all you can say? And, no, despite what you may have heard, I never slept with him. It never even crossed my mind. Haven’t you noticed? The guy is homely, bald, and chubby. Not my type. If you and your buddies are going to play a game of rumors, at least make it somebody I’d actually consider.”

“I’m bald.”

“No, you’re married and bald.”

“So, why are you here?”

“I find you kind of sexy,” she purred.

I wanted to reach across the table and kiss her. Instead, I wrote a poem on a napkin and handed it to her. “Here’s a memento of the evening. Thanks for the time.”

She opened the white cloth napkin and read the title out loud, Should, Shouldn’t. “Sounds interesting. I’ll read it in bed later.”

Lights, action, camera.

Unreal set,

Noisy, crowded bar.

Surreal situation,

Dead silence.

Consuming dilemma

Can, can’t

Should, shouldn’t…

I paid the check. We got our cars from the valet. I kissed her gently on the cheek and we drove our separate ways.

~

A few minutes later, my mobile rang. It was 9:30 P.M. Lauren asked, “Are you all right? I was starting to worry.”

“God, baby, I’m so sorry I forgot to call. Two of our top advisors, Dave Lineman and Jim Cleveland, just dropped in out of nowhere, looking for a free dinner. Dawson was busy and I was standing nearby. Next thing you know, I’m the evening’s master of ceremonies.”

“No, you were asked because you’re his top schmoozer. And he knows you’ll do anything for AFA. Just be careful and don’t fall asleep; I want you home in one piece.”

“I should be home in about a half-hour; I’m just leaving downtown.”

As I drove, I wondered which was worse: lying to Lauren for the first time in 35 years, or the fact that she believed me, implicitly.

When I arrived home, Lauren was sleeping peacefully. I slipped in bed next to her soft, warm body. Instinctively, she knew I was there. She rolled over and kissed me gently on the lips.