Authors: Jean Stone
Suddenly a hand was on Ginny’s elbow. It was her husband. Beside him was a huge man with a few strands of graying hair swept toward his forehead in a ridiculous effort to make people think he wasn’t going bald.
“Darling, I’d like you to meet Mr. Jorgenson,” said Jake.
Ginny straightened up and slipped her foot back into her shoe. Jake might be a Hollywood producer, but deep down he was, Ginny knew, pretty much a square. And Jorgenson was the reason they were here tonight, so she might as well be nice and keep the old man happy. Jake
wasn’t such a bad guy, as husbands went, and he was good enough. For now.
“Hello,” Ginny said pleasantly, and extended her hand. From the corner of her eye she saw the platinum-haired woman disappearing into the crowd, in true L.A. cocktail-party tradition.
His enormous paw grasped Ginny’s hand and pumped. Shit, Ginny thought, I wonder if his dick is as big as his fingers.
“Mrs. Edwards,” Jorgenson said. “How delightful to meet you.”
“And you,” she said. “Jake has told me a lot about you.”
He finally let go of her hand and put an arm around Jake’s shoulder. “He’s my boy! And his film is going to make Jorgenson Vineyards bigger than Gallo.”
His
boy
? Christ, Jake would be sixty next year. “We enjoy your wine, Mr. Jorgenson.”
“Please.” He showed a hearty smile. “Call me Eric.”
“Eric,” Ginny corrected, and smiled back. She palmed the side of her glass, trying to disguise the gin. “Especially the Zinfandel,” she continued. “My personal favorite.” She chanced a glance at Jake, hoping she’d said the right thing. He smiled. “What are you planning to do with the documentary?” she asked, referring to the film Jake was about to do.
“Europe,” Jorgenson boasted, his jowls jiggling over his collar. “We’re buying half-hour segments on cable. Starting with France.”
Ginny giggled her you-are-the-most-clever-man-I’ve-ever-met giggle. “California wine in France? How bold!” Her eyes moved back to the bartender. He held her gaze. She puffed out her lower lip and arched her back, then looked back to Jorgenson. He was staring at her boobs. Ginny was glad for the air-conditioning. A chill in the air always made her nipples stiff.
“You have a charming wife,” Jorgenson was saying to Jake, as he removed his arm from Jake’s shoulder and his eyes from her chest. “Will she be coming up to Napa?”
“I’m afraid not, Eric,” Jake said.
“But it’s such a lovely time of year.” His disappointment showed. He turned back to Ginny. “Can’t you reconsider?”
Ginny took a sip of her martini. Enough of this bullshit, she wanted to say. I’ve been as nice as I can stand for one night. “Sorry,” she said. “I have my charity work.”
His thick eyebrows raised. “What charities are you involved with?”
Ginny felt Jake shoot her a warning look. She knew that look: It said, “Better make this good.”
“Children,” she said quickly. “Mostly with children.”
“How rewarding that must be,” Jorgenson said.
“Eric,” Jake interrupted. “I see Raymond Flynt over by the sofa. Raymond will be doing our editing. Come. I’d like you to meet him.” He turned to Ginny. “Excuse us, won’t you darling?” He took Jorgenson’s elbow.
“Nice meeting you,” she said coolly. “Eric,” she added.
“If you change your mind, I’d be honored to show you the Valley,” Jorgenson said.
Jake led Jorgenson away.
Ginny watched them go, then looked back to the bartender. He was mixing a drink for a short man with a bad toupee. She sauntered over to the hors d’oeuvres table. Unbelievably, the people who were throwing this asshole party had been too cheap to hire waitresses. They must be new to L.A., she thought, as she scanned the table. She glanced at her watch. It would be another hour before Jake would say they could leave.
She adjusted the silver chain of the Judith Leiber bag onto her shoulder, picked up a strawberry, dipped it in whipped yogurt, then threaded her way through the mannequin crowd toward the bar. Standing behind the man with the bad toupee, Ginny watched the bartender until their eyes met.
He stared at her, even as he handed two drinks to the man. She raised the strawberry to her lips and slowly licked at the white cream, from the point on the bottom, around, and up to the stem. The bartender smiled.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
She put her full lips around the end of the strawberry and sucked at the moisture, never taking her eyes from his, though she wanted to look at his pants, to check for a rock-hard bulge. She pulled out the strawberry and moved her tongue to the corner of her mouth, pushing it forward, ever so slowly. She fluffed her dark hair. She didn’t smile. Then she slowly turned and went to look for a bathroom. These little games always made Ginny have to pee.
She found the bathroom. It was done in neo-something-or-other: bold reds, yellows, and oranges. Ginny closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall-length vanity, aware that a trickle of perspiration had formed on her brow. She touched her crotch through the spandex of her dress and felt her swollen bulb. A smile came to her lips. She moved her hands across her hips, then up to her breasts. She threw her head back and laughed.
The door opened quietly. The bartender stepped inside. He closed the door and reached for the bolt.
“Don’t lock it,” Ginny said breathlessly. “And don’t talk.”
He smiled and took his hand from the bolt. He hoisted his pants at the waist. Ginny looked at his fly. Yes, there was a bulge. He walked toward her. She tossed back her hair, puffed her lower lip again, then slowly raised her skirt. He stood in front of her and lifted her to the vanity. In response, Ginny parted her legs.
He started to undo his zipper. Ginny put a hand over his and pulled it toward her. She lowered it to her panties, and pushed the silk to one side. He knew what to do.
His fingers were large and firm and quickly moist. He moved them vigorously. Ginny stared into his eyes, watching him watch her. He pinched her. Gently. She muffled a cry. He pulled his finger out and drew it to her mouth. She sucked the wetness. He smiled. He bent his head and put his tongue where his fingers had been. He licked. He prodded. He lapped. Ginny’s hips thrust forward. Backward. Forward. Her breath became short, quick. His teeth came
down on her. Softly. Then hard. Suddenly she felt a surge through her body. Her insides burst.
“Jesus Christ!” the bartender screamed.
Ginny looked down. She had pissed all over his face.
She put a hand to her mouth and started to laugh. His face contorted, yellow liquid streaming down his chin.
“Fucking cunt!” he yelled and pushed her aside.
Ginny slid off the vanity. She could not stop laughing. “I’m sorry,” she said.
He pushed on the red porcelain faucets and scooped water to his face.
“Fucking bitch,” he mumbled. He grabbed an orange towel and mopped his chin, then threw the towel onto the vanity and stormed out the door. “Asshole,” was his parting word.
Still laughing, Ginny looked at herself in the mirror. Well, she thought, that was a first. Too bad too. He would’ve been good.
A hollowness pitted her gut. Ginny squeezed her eyes shut, sighed, and pushed the feeling away.
Fuck it
, she said to herself.
Just forget it
. She opened her eyes, applied lipstick and checked her makeup. Then she raised her chin, slung the chain of the rhinestone frog over her shoulder, and returned to the party.
She walked through the living room, carefully avoiding the area of the makeshift bar. Jake was still in the corner, talking with Jorgenson and the film editor. Looking around the room, Ginny checked out the plastic smiles on thousand-dollar-makeup faces, the noxious leers of soft old men, the overeager bodies of the young. This is where the deals are made, Ginny thought, at these boring have-to-go-to parties that have nothing to do with what anyone was, but everything to do with whom one knew. A high-pitched laugh came from a Julia Roberts look-alike in the corner, followed by a deep snort from the lecher beside her. Ginny saw the man touch the girl’s chin, then draw a straight line with his finger down to the crack between her tits. His gesture
was followed by more high-pitched laughter. She stared at the scene and came to a familiar conclusion: Life sucks.
She breezed by the hor d’oeuvres table, piled a plate with cracked crab and avocado wedges, and headed for the sliding glass doors, thinking that for as long as she had lived in L.A., she still couldn’t believe nobody out here ate real food.
She stepped out onto the deck and nearly bumped into two young lovers with their tongues down each other’s throats. They were both guys—hunks too. It figures, she thought. She kicked off her shoes and, plate in hand, made her way down the wooden stairs to the beach.
Ginny knew she was getting restless again. She’d be forty-three years old in January and was still trying to figure out what the fuck it was all about. She dropped down on the sand and munched at the crab, as she stared into the moonless sea. Jake was the best husband she’d had, and Ginny had been with him five years—longer than she had with any of the other three. But though his demands were fewer, like the others, Jake wanted her to be
his
, and she’d yet to decide if it was worth the price she had to pay for financial security.
She polished off the avocado slices, tossed the plate into the sea, then drew her knees up to her chest. Sand ground into her ass like tiny shards of glass. In the distance Ginny could hear the muted sounds of the senseless bullshit.
“I thought I saw you sneak out here.” It was Jake’s voice, behind her.
Ginny looked up to see his silhouette against the lights from the beach house. “I was bored,” she said.
He squatted beside her. “I know you hate these parties. I only ask you to come when they’re really important to me.”
“Yeah. I know.”
He put his arm around her naked shoulders. She pulled away.
“Aren’t you cold?” he asked.
“No.”
He removed his arm and sat down. “Jorgenson likes you.”
Ginny stared at the ocean. “I don’t know why you have to go through this. You already have the job.”
Jake shook his head. “It’s not because of this job. It’s for the one that might come after. Jorgenson has interests all over the world. And contacts.”
“You’re almost sixty years old, Jake. And you don’t need any more fucking money.”
Jake winced as though he’d been stung. “How do you think I manage to keep you in hundred-dollar haircuts and fifteen-hundred-dollar dresses that you feel free to lounge around on a beach in?”
Ginny looked down at her dress. It hadn’t cost fifteen hundred. More like twenty-three hundred.
“What would you rather have me do?” Jake went on. “Stay home and play with you all day? Go to the health club with you? Eat watercress sandwiches at the Wilshire every noon?”
Ginny looked back to the sea. “We could travel,” she said. “Monte Carlo, Hong Kong, Rio. Anywhere. Just to get out of this shit hole. Find some action.”
Jake was quiet for a moment, then he spoke quietly. “So I could watch you hit on a different bartender every night?”
Ginny didn’t answer. They never talked about her escapades, but Ginny had always known that Jake knew. Shit. He was an old man, with neither the interest nor the ability to get it up often enough. So he let her have her fun and probably thought she really got off on it. And she did. At least in the beginning. Christ—she smiled as the bartender’s contorted face came to her mind—Jake should’ve seen what happened a few minutes ago.
“Besides, Ginny,” Jake spoke again. “It’s not the money. It’s the opportunity.”
“For what? To be able to keep coming to these shit-ass parties?”
“More like the chance to keep learning. To interact.”
He was thoughtful for a moment, then added, “To stay in the game.”
“Jesus,” Ginny whispered, and dug her nails into the sand. Then she stood up and brushed off her dress. “I want to go home,” she announced.
Jake pulled himself up. “Wait, Ginny.”
She turned and looked at him.
“Why don’t you come on the shoot with me? A few weeks in Napa is bound to be better than hanging around L.A.”
Ginny laughed. “Can’t. Got my charity work, you know.”
Jake bent his head. “I hate it when you lie like that.”
“Oh, Christ, it’s not like he’ll ever find out. Besides, doesn’t that make me sound like the perfect wife?”
“Ginny …”
She turned on her heel and headed back to the house.
“I’m not going to any fucking vineyard,” she called back. “You’re lucky you got me to come here.” She marched up the steps to the house, wondering why she kept wanting to hurt Jake, wanting now only to go home, take a Seconal, and go to sleep.
They didn’t talk on the drive home. The only words that came out of either of their mouths happened when Jake wheeled into the circular driveway of their house in the canyon and they spotted the red Porsche.
“Oh, no,” said Jake.
“Jesus Christ,” said Ginny.
Jake pulled up next to the Porsche, and they both got out. Silently they walked to the front door. Jake turned his key in the lock, the sound of rap emanating from within. They stepped into the foyer. To the left was the family room. Brad was sprawled across floor pillows, tapping his fingers on the Aubusson rug to the beat of the CD.
“How the hell did you get in?” Jake barked over the noise.
Brad turned and waved. “Yo, Pops! How’s it goin’?”
Even from the doorway Ginny could see that Brad was shitfaced.
“Leave him alone, Jake,” she said. “Let’s go to bed.”
Jake stalked into the room and snapped off the CD player. “Get up,” he commanded his son. “And get out of my house.”
Brad rolled to one side. He had on torn, tight jeans, and the buttons on his white shirt were undone, revealing his muscular chest and taut stomach. As he turned, his gold chains clinked together. Nice body, Ginny thought. Too bad he’s such an asshole.
“Is that any way to talk to your only son?” Brad chided.
Ginny could see Jake was fuming. Something, maybe everything, about Brad always touched his anger button.