It’s amazing how similar a wine charity luncheon can be to stripping. In both, I fake interest, laughing at bad jokes, smiling at conversations I couldn’t care less about. In both, I give compliments I don’t mean, and fake emotions I don’t feel. In both, I’m judged, though it’s funny—in stripping, I was judged for my body. Here, I am judged because of it. Not that they are that obvious. Oh no, they act sweet, but I see the daggers in their glances, the fangs in their smiles. At least in stripping, the assholes are upfront about it. Here, I have to learn an entirely different game to play, the current one against … I silently count my opponents, my eyes hopping across the expensively attired women perched around Nathan’s living room, their hands filled with Beth’s finger foods, most sinking comfortably into their second wine glass. Ten women.
Of all of Nathan’s demands, this has been one of the hardest to take. I had balked when he brought it up, my lonely boredom not to the stifling degree that I wanted to entertain strangers.
“You’re doing it.” Three words tersely delivered over his morning eggs, his fork scraping the plate as he scooped up his final bite and stood, lifting his coffee cup for a quick sip. “The battered women’s shelter is a good cause, and one of my sister’s passions. It’ll be good for you to get involved.” His sister. It was his first mention of her, though I’ve seen her photo around the house, and Mark mentioned that she passed away a couple of years ago.
So here I am, hosting a two hour “meeting” that has skipped over a variety of topics, none of which seemed to concern battered women and most of which has centered on gossip. I pick at my plate and daydream about our Bahamas trip, now only one week away, assuming my new passport arrives in time. I’m ready for it, my excitement building with each passing day, despite my best attempts at setting low expectations.
“So, Janice.” A leggy brunette with boobs as big as my head, leans forward; and it takes a moment to realize she is talking to me.
“It’s Candace.” I correct her, and when she smiles, I can see a wedge of spinach in her teeth.
“Right.” She brushes off my name with a flick of her diamond studded hand. I run a thumb over my ring, a simple three carat princess cut diamond that—in any other scenario—I would have swooned over. But in this life, it feels like a shackle. Did hers feel the same way? How many of these women, each pampered and glistening with the sparkle of upper class wealth—how many of them hate their lives? My gaze drifts back to the woman, who has her brow raised in the expectant manner of someone who is waiting on a response.
“I’m sorry?” I start to cross my legs, then stop, pinning my knees together.
“I asked if you ever knew Cecile.” There is a gleam in her eyes, one that raises an alarm and reminds me that I am a spindly gazelle, surrounded by a pride of lions.
“Cecile?” I glance at the other women, to see if anyone else is listening to this conversation. They are. All of them, their bodies tilted forward in the subtle manner of eavesdroppers everywhere. Whoever Cecile is, I’m suddenly as interested in her as they appear to be.
“Why yes.” The brunette smiles in a smug manner that makes me vow, right then, to not tell her about the spinach, which has now shifted to a front row location that is hysterically apparent. “Nathan’s fiancée.”
My stomach flips at the title. I’ve wondered a lot of things about Nathan, including his past dating history. Was this fiancée a contract girl, like me, one that backed out of the deal? Or was she legitimate, someone he loved, and who loved him in return? I feel a stab of jealousy at the latter option, and glance down before the emotion shows in my face.
Whatever she has to say, I’m not sure I want to hear it. I reach forward, piercing a crab cake ball with a toothpick and pop it into my mouth. I chew, turning toward the curly-headed bean stalk to my right, and search for something to say.
“Hasn’t he told you what happened?” She doesn’t give up, all but waving her hands at me in an attempt to draw attention to the question.
I swallow, and try to ignore her, my hands flexing on my thighs, an exhale hissing through my lips. I try. I fail. I turn back to her, my voice as calm as I can manage it.
“What happened?”
“Well that’s just the thing.” She leans forward as if her next sentence might change my world. “No one knows. One week, they were planning their reception and sampling wedding cake. The next week, she just disappeared.”
She disappeared? I think of my past life, and the sudden exit, no explanations given, my stuff packed up by strangers. I disappeared, and yet here I am, perfectly fine, save my junk food deprivation. Maybe Cecile’s the same way. Maybe a sexy man waltzed into her life, offered her the moon, and she took it.
I discard the idea as soon as it hits. What man could compete with Nathan? Especially if this bitch had been getting Napa Valley Nathan. There is no amount of money, or sex appeal, that could compete with that Nathan.
But if not that … then what?
I glance at my watch and wish these women would hurry this meeting the hell up. If Nathan’s fiancée disappeared, that only makes my next step that much more important.
They finally stand, hugs and air kisses all around, promising to get together soon, flowery bullshit stacked upon flowery bullshit. It’s been, in terms of the women’s shelter, a complete waste of two and a half hours. I sit in the window seat, watching them walk down the front steps, and will them to hurry-the-fuck-up, to get into their cars and off of this property, so that I will be alone with Drew. Today is a quiet day—no Beth, no landscapers, no housekeepers. It will be just him and me, and I plan to take full advantage of the opportunity. Not just to seduce, but in hopes of getting access to the house, my fingers itching to explore Nathan’s office and what he may hide there.
Drew walks in, glancing out the front windows. “Why are you still in here?”
I keep the smile on my face. “Nathan is always so concerned with appearances. I thought it’d be odd for me to run to the guest house before they pull out.”
He nods, and turns away. “I’m sorry for coming into your room the other night.” His words are soft, almost whispered, even though the cameras are off—the security system only activated at night and by his control.
I say nothing, swallowing, and look out the front window, seeing the cars stop at our gate, the wrought iron slowly opening. He’s sorry. He certainly should be. He’s put me in a terrible position, he’s put my agreement with Nathan in jeopardy, and risked my father’s health in doing so. But this sudden change of conscience is terrible in its timing.