Fortune Is a Woman (2 page)

She had something for her boss. Something she couldn’t put in a memo. Something huge.

Is a Woman

“Darling, you’re limping.”

“It’s nothing. Made an ass of myself at the club again,” Lydia said, rubbing a swollen knee. “Helaine…what are you wearing?”

“It’s–” she measured Lydia’s reaction to the new gown. “It’s for Paula’s big shindig. I absolutely forbid you to tear it.”

Forbidden. Lydia hobbled to the bar, poured herself a glass of wine. “It’s the furthest thing from my mind, Lana. Trust me.” The leg really hurt. She leaned on the counter for support.

“Yah. Venus clobber you again?” Helaine asked, unzipping herself.

Lydia groaned an affirmation. “Come here. Let me help.”

Helaine went to the bar, knelt on the floor and lifted Lydia’s skirt. “Ooh, it’s swollen, honey.”

“Hah.”

“Your knee, of course–you’re fresh sometimes. I want you to have it looked at.”

“Sometimes?”

“Listen to me. I want you at least to rest it.”

“Okay,” Lydia said, managing to slide beneath her. “I’m resting it.”

Helaine drew the gown up over her head, hurled it toward the couch. “Really, Ms. Beaumont. You need to be a bit more cautious. She’s a young woman, more than a decade your junior and–”

“Are you going to do something here, or just talk up Venus all night?”

Helaine leaned into her. “You two will be the death of me yet,” she whispered.

“Mmmmmmmm.”

_____

“For fortune is a woman and therefore, like a woman, she is always a friend to the young, because they are less cautious, fiercer, and master her with greater audacity.”

OH, YEAH, Venus wrote in the margin next to that passage. Oh, yeah, in hot pink highlighter pen.

_____

“Let me see it.”

“Don’t worry about it, Venus. A week, it’ll be fine.”

“Ms. Beaumont, let’s see it. I know about these things. I’m qualified.”

Lydia sighed. It hurt to wear heels. Hurt her pride, too. She swiveled in her chair and let her assistant kneel beside her. Let her remove her shoes. Let her lift her skirt. Let her examine the knee. Let her massage–

“It’s fine,” she blurted, removing Venus’ hands and arranging her skirt so that it once again covered her knees. “It’s better today.”

Venus went back to her desk. “Water,” she said, over her shoulder. “Fluid. It’ll be all right, though,” she added, pecking at her keyboard aimlessly.

Later in the day, as Lydia was heading for home, she hesitated at her assistant’s desk and addressed the side of her face. “Stop calling me Ms
.
Beaumont,” she instructed.

Venus ceased typing. “Okay,” she said without looking up.

“I mean you’ve known me for nearly two years.
Ms
. just seems so…so awkward, I guess.” She turned to leave. “I hate it, actually. Call me Lydia,” she said, listing in the doorway with the briefcase dangling from her like an anchor. “Or even Beaumont, if you must.”

Venus resumed typing. “Okay.”

A Woman

There were no queers in the hood. Only he-and-she things. No queers in African America, Venus Angelo had been raised to believe. So she had some issues to straighten out.

By the time Venus had come to work for the financial giant Soloman-Schmitt, she had, like everyone else, already heard of Lydia Beaumont, through the tabloids and television gab shows that had outed the camera-shy investment strategist as “Jane Doe” in the highly sensationalized “Love Doc Triangle”. The Love Doc, Dr. Helaine Kristenson, was, prior to all this, famous enough for her popular self-help bible, “Keeping Mr. Right,” but the palimony suit filed against her by her notorious lover, super-model Sharon Chambers, quadrupled that fame and served as a catalyst to make the name Lydia Beaumont a household word as well. Venus remembered how shocked she had been to learn that Jane Doe worked in the financial industry. There were no queers in finance…well, maybe the whole world is queer then. How do you know?

Low-key, high class, financial strategist Beaumont was not born to be in the limelight, but she wowed the public once she got there, buying off Sharon Chambers for an undisclosed sum. In the millions they said. Wowed Venus Angelo, too, because that’s exactly what she would have done if–

Venus had been at the firm for only three years when Lydia Beaumont promoted her to be her assistant. A meteoric rise to be sure and she couldn’t turn the offer down, no matter how much her family razzed her about it.

They had never approved of her working for “The Man” anyway, let alone one disguised as a beautiful woman.

Her sister was her worst critic.

“You a ho, Venus.”

“Kiss my–”

“Stop it, both of you!”

“C’mon, Mama. She’s such a–”

“Out, Jasmine!”

“Yeah,” Venus said. “Git.”

Jasmine huffed and ran out. Venus heard the door slam and put her head in her hands. Her father, who had been completely silent this afternoon, got up from the table and left the room.

“What do ya’ll expect me to do,” Venus finally implored, “march on Washington or something? I don’t see any of you making sacrifices.”

Her mother raised her hand to end the discourse. “How’s Michael taking all this?” she asked.

Venus was too perturbed to change her tone. “What do you care, anyway?”

“Well I do care. I care about my baby girl. I was hoping he was right with it, that’s all.”

“He’s fine, Mama. He’s not contesting it.”

Divorce. What next? “Then you’re lucky, Venus. This time, anyway.”

“This time? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, baby. Eat your food. Why are you always on edge? If you don’t like coming here then you don’t have to. She’s just a kid, Venus. She’s only teasing.”

Venus hesitated before responding. “I get you this beautiful place–remember how we used to have to live?–and all I get is hassle when I come home.” She pointed toward the living room. “
He
doesn’t even speak to me.”

“He never did, Venus, so don’t you fret over it. Eat. Everyone knows what you done for us. Eat.”

“Maybe the food’s not bland enough,” Venus heard her father say from the couch. “She likes everything bland now.”

“Blond, my ass,” Venus muttered in return and with that she got up, kissed her mother goodbye and took a cab downtown to Frank’s Place.

_____

Frank’s was crowded and rowdy this Friday. Harry, the waiter, sat Venus temporarily at the bar and apologized profusely for inconveniencing her. It was against his policy to seat women alone at the bar, especially pretty women, which Venus was. When her table was finally ready, she found he had left a glass of cognac for her. On the house, he said, in passing. She thanked him and shot it down.

Michael had been such a love about everything; an uncontested divorce. Venus had shared the news with her family only because it was something they had to know. There was no way around it.

So that was that and she would be free again and she didn’t have to wear this silly ring anymore. But she didn’t exactly relish having to sleep alone either. What could she do about that? she wanted to know this Friday, this minute. The cognac burned. Nothing.

Lydia Beaumont. Lydia. Beaumont.

They had not been to the club together in weeks. In fact, Lydia had taken time off so the knee would heal. She was expected back on Monday. In the interim, Venus had asked her husband for a divorce. It seemed right. She hailed Harry and ordered another cognac, some fries and wings, a mesclun salad.

Beaumont and Kristenson were happily married. What could she do about that? Harry brought the salad. Nothing. She thanked him. Nothing, that’s right. And no one knew better than Venus just how happily married they were. It was Venus who delivered Helaine’s cryptic love messages to Lydia at the office. Venus who saw the focus go out of Lydia’s eyes after she got them. Venus who was forced to observe for the rest of the day the dreamy-eyed VP proceeding then hot and distracted. Another cognac. Another thank-you. Venus had been to their home and to their cocktail parties and to their dinner gatherings and every other kind of event, in every other kind of setting and it was no act, they were happy with each other. Harry brought the wings and fries. She thanked him again. She could see the sparks fly from one to the other, those fireworks. That they were still fresh in love was so painfully clear, their sex life so… well, they never even noticed anyone else. The wings were very hot. Had she said painfully clear or painfully hot? She gulped the cognac down. God, everything tasted like jet fuel tonight. She searched the room for the headwaiter, her mouth on fire.

A good waiter is hard to find. Harry was better than good. He was a mind reader. “Here you go,” he said, depositing a glass of water.

That man did everything right. “Thank you.”

Mr. Right! What if Mr. Right is somebody’s missus? What if she was a pair of well-toned thighs and dreamy blue eyes and a to-die-for sultry mouth? Why didn’t the Love Doc write about that? Why didn’t she write about
getting
Mr. Right, huh? Maybe getting is much more difficult than keeping.

Getting, keeping, whatever. The immediate problem would be sleeping alone again. And dodging Paula tomorrow night. Where’s Michael? Why didn’t you bring your husband, Angelo?

She’d have to rehearse some lines for the Treadwell’s dinner party, but for right now, oh, man, how the thought of sleeping alone again horrified her. She sized up the situation at the bar and made a quick selection
. I sleep alone for fucking no one
, she reminded herself, deliberately passing over the guy with the dark hair and blue eyes for the hazel-eyed cutie standing beside him. Why should she sleep alone? For a woman? She winked at him and felt her ring under the table. He smiled confidently, laid a tip on the bar and headed toward her. Ah, that wedding ring. She pulled it off and hid it in her vest pocket. She’d have to put the darn thing on again tomorrow, just for appearance’s sake and so Paula wouldn’t notice and interrogate her about it. Tonight though, she wasn’t into sleeping alone. Not for no one. Not even Mr. Right.

She asked the gentleman to join her for dinner. He did.

_____

“Tell me about Venus.”

Lydia gave Helaine a mysterious look. “Tell you what, Lana?”

“What is her story? I find her so impressive.”

“Her story? Her story is that she was a child prodigy. Completed her undergraduate studies by age nineteen, graduate, MBA by twenty-two, Soloman-Schmitt twenty-three, assistant to the vice president twenty-six. Married last year. No children–or no children as yet. Athletic, honest, hardworking, indispensable.”

“And beautiful.”

“And beautiful, of course. But you don’t need that to work for Soloman-Schmitt.”

“Hah! But between the two of you it is looking rather like a market trend.”

“Now you flatter. You are attracted to my assistant, Dr. Kristenson?”

Helaine paused for a second. “No, my dear.
You
are.”

Lydia coughed and sat up. “I am?”

“Oh, yes. You are.”

“Lana, I really don’t think so.”

“I saw it last night at the dinner party. It happens to people all the time, Lydia Beaumont. Even people like you.”

“Helaine! You say this as casually as you might say, ‘darling, you have food on your chin.’ I am not attracted to Venus Angelo.”

“Oh, not true. I would be quite alarmed if you had food on your chin.”

“Oh? Good to know. And it would not alarm you if I was attracted to my assistant, which I adamantly deny?”

“It would alarm me if you were in love with your assistant, which you are not.”

Lydia put her head on Helaine’s bare shoulder and breathed down her neck. “Lana?”

“Yes?”

“I really wanted to rip that dress off you, last night. Did you happen to give any notice to that?”

“Yes, darling. I did see that, too.”

“Why don’t you be sweet to me then and put it on?”

“Now? Tonight?”

“Now. Tonight.”

Helaine threw her head back and laughed. “You have so very little discipline in this department. For such a highly disciplined woman.”

“And does that alarm you?

Helaine thought for a moment. “No. I’ll be right back.”

Flatterers Must Be Shunned

Paula Treadwell shunned flattery and surrounded herself with wise women and men who did not offend her if they spoke the truth. That is, when she asked them to. By example, Lydia Beaumont, too, chose for her counsel people of wisdom and integrity and gave them full liberty to speak the truth. That is, whenever she asked them to. Helaine Kristenson, on the other hand, with far more porous boundaries than the other two ladies, chose trustworthy friends and associates, but gave them license to speak the truth whenever they damn well pleased, and this, she hoped, would be all the time. Usually it was. Of course, truth is so subjective these days.

“Swell dinner party that was. Put the thank-you note in the mail already. You looked like an exotic dessert,” Robert Keagan Esq. said into his coffee.

Kay Keagan smirked. “Or exotic hors d’oeuvres.”

Helaine beamed. “It’s nice to be edible, but it took me weeks to get into that dress.”

“And only a few minutes for Lydia, I bet.”

“Well…she is pretty handy.”

Lunch at Frank’s with her old friends. Helaine had resumed going there again, usually on weekdays, now and then on Saturdays, as she used to before all hell had broken out.

Total hell, but that was years ago. Things had quieted down since then and she was no longer sinking in scandal and front page exposés, courtesy of her ex “pal” Sharon Chambers, who was no longer super-modeling these days, having herself settled down into super-motherhood, a status that seemed, at least for the time being, to be keeping her too busy to make any more trouble for Helaine and Lydia. Of, course, the ten-year gag order Robert Keagan had slipped by Team Chambers did a great deal to contribute to the peace. Helaine was always grateful to him for it and from time to time expressed her gratitude, but he disliked the subject and rarely spoke of their past ordeal. Things had not gone their way and if Lydia hadn’t met Sharon’s demands, he knew they’d still be fighting the tarantula today, not to mention that Sharon’s kiss-and-tell would have long since been published, and who could predict the fallout from that, or what it might have done to Helaine’s career, or Lydia’s for that matter? Certainly, the ladies would never have been comfortable enough to marry if the melee dragged on still, or carried itself into the next decade.