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Late Monday night, I stepped into my condo lobby for the first time in a week. I couldn’t stop my pulse from spiking as I glanced around, my box of leftover PFEM pastries clutched to my chest. I’d grown accustomed to checking for murderers lurking and, despite Richard Preser’s assurances, the habit was hard to break.
Although I was eager to get upstairs, I grabbed the mail first. I almost hoped to find the box crammed full of bills. They could keep Brian entertained while he recovered.
I sorted the envelopes in the elevator. I located one bill, which I tucked on the bottom of the stack. The rest was mostly junk.
Except for one other item: Brian’s brokerage statement.
I’d been so preoccupied today, I hadn’t thought about Newie once. For all I knew, the company had introduced a poisonous new product and quadrupled in value.
The letter was postmarked last week, but that didn’t dampen my enthusiasm any. I’d bought Newie two weeks ago, which meant it had to be printed on the statement. I’ll frame it, I decided as I exited the elevator and moved down the hallway. Newie would symbolize my inauguration into this crazy world of stocks. I patted the envelope. My first-bought.
I unlocked the condo door and swung it open, my heart swelling with love. God, I’d missed this place. I tossed the mail on the coffee table, toed off my shoes, and made my way around the living room. I kept picking up different objects and putting them down again, thrilled at being reunited with all my possessions. Even the tap-dancing neighbors, still going strong, failed to ruin the homecoming.
I eventually proceeded to the kitchen. After munching on PFEM pastries all day, I actually wanted to consume a balanced meal. I rummaged through the freezer for a moment before finding one. Lasagna, garlic bread, and peas. Perfect. I could just throw the peas out.
As I waited for the microwave to ding, I replayed the events following the disrupted shareholders’ meeting. After clearing away the remaining buffet items with Richard Preser’s aid, I’d found Julie buzzing around outside the building. When she’d seen me, she’d parroted back all the quotes she’d obtained from the panicked shareholders. “This one guy, he even said to me, ‘PFEM’s meeting today was a modern-day apocalypse,’” she’d gushed, a smile stretched from ear to ear. “I’m using that in my article.”
Somehow, Julie had convinced me to give her an interview about my role in the day’s events. Initially I’d told her no, but she’d looked so enthusiastic about the whole blasted idea that I’d caved under the condition that she didn’t invite anyone else to listen to me jabber on and promised to edit my statements to make me sound intelligent. Her eyes had practically popped out of her skull when I’d named my terms. She’d shrieked, “An exclusive interview!” and danced a jig in the parking lot.
The microwave sounded. I pulled my dinner from its belly and peeled back the cellophane wrapper, breathing in the intermingling aromas of cheese, butter, and garlic.
I carried the tray to the living room, where I could inspect the brokerage statement as I ate. The envelope was thicker than I would have expected. Maybe the brokerage had included some bonus information, such as whether Newie would rise or fall within the next few weeks. I hoped they’d printed ‘NUI’ in big, bold letters.
I took a bite of lasagna and ripped open the envelope. My eyes moved down the first page as I chewed. Newie . . . Newie . . .
Oh my God.
My fork plopped into the dinner tray, sending peas shooting across the living room. I gripped the pages with both hands. Newie was nowhere in sight, but other stocks were. A lot of stocks. In fact, this statement looked like the entire list of stocks quoted in the Wall Street Journal.
And what were these numbers on the right side of the page? Big numbers, huge numbers, trailed down the edge. I tried to add them in my head. $4,098 plus $3,059 plus $7,243 plus . . . Whatever the end result, it was large.
I swallowed hard. This was impossible. On March’s statement, Brian’s account only had several thousand dollars in it. I couldn’t have misread the figure. Even I wouldn’t have missed a slew of zeros at the end of a number.
With wobbly legs, I made my way to the bedroom, pulled the stolen account statement from under my bed, and carried it to the living room. Peas squashed between my toes, but I barely noticed. I fell onto the couch with a thump. Sure enough, March’s update showed a liquidation value of only $3,790. Could it have been a typo? Did brokerage firms ever make the same errors I did, misplacing decimals and punching the wrong ten-key button?
I looked again at the old statement. It was for the period ending March 31. That was almost nine months ago. Maybe Brian had added money between then and now. But when I’d logged on to his account two weeks ago, it had held little more than four thousand dollars.
This just didn’t make sense. I picked up the recent statement and compared it to March’s. Two lines of AMR trades versus a bazillion lines representing every ticker symbol under the bulls and spanning the entire alphabet. This could only mean one thing: I’d gotten someone else’s mail. I checked the header of the new statement again. But no, there were our names printed in bold.
Wait a minute. Our names? I jerked forward so violently I nearly knocked the lasagna over. I noticed from a corner of my mind but found it hard to care. If this statement were true, I didn’t need to worry about tomato sauce ruining the carpet. I could just move.
Sure enough, ‘Brian and Vanessa Collins’ was printed at the top of the new statement. I glanced back at the March statement. That one only had Brian’s name on top.
My eyes darted back and forth in search of more conflicting information. The addresses matched. The generic text littering the bottom of the pages looked the same. The company was the same.
The account numbers were different.
Even I, with my poor eye for matching digits, could tell these were not the same account.
I sagged against the couch. Brian had set up two brokerage accounts.
I bolted upright as another realization struck. I made my way back to the bedroom to fetch our bank statement.
Once I resettled in the living room, I studied the August bank statement for the second time in my life, but now I noted there was no mention of cash being withdrawn. Instead, the line items only said ‘Withdrawal.’ Yet somehow I’d come to the conclusion that Brian had been siphoning cold, hard cash from our savings.
I picked up the recent brokerage statement and flipped through the pages. Lines reading ‘Automatic Deposit’ leapt out like measles sores.
Of course. I should have thought of it before. Brian was just the type of person to have everything set up so money would be automatically transferred from our bank account to our portfolio on a regular basis. And he was just the type of person to set up two brokerage accounts. And he was just the type of person who’d want to have play money to throw into the market based on nothing more than a whim. Being simpler and preferring consolidation—or flat-out avoidance—when it came to matters of money, it hadn’t occurred to me that Brian might have accounts scattered all over the free world. When I’d rifled through his papers, I must have grabbed the statement for his play account, never realizing the pages detailing our real nest egg lay right beside it.
It all made sense now. Brian wasn’t funneling his income into some other woman’s chest. He was dumping it into our joint portfolio, saving for our future as old prunes, when we’d be too senile to enjoy massive accumulations of wealth.
Content for now, I took another bite out of the garlic bread.
* * *
I slept in late Tuesday. I woke up briefly around eight-ten out of habit but squeezed my eyes shut when I remembered my employment situation. God, it was nice not having a job. I hugged a pillow closer to my body and fell back into unconsciousness.
I woke up for good at ten o’clock. After taking a shower, I settled in the living room. Now that I was unemployed and had already done my part to save the world, I turned on the television and hunted down one of Beth’s hospital soap operas. I stayed glued to the set for the entire hour.
I was inclined to watch the next show too, but I made myself stand up. Before the market closed, I wanted to check on PFEM.
I wandered into Brian’s office and booted up the desktop computer, trying not to notice how neglected the room looked. A lot of his stuff had been moved to his Queen Anne apartment, and a thin layer of dust coated what remained.
I logged on to Brian’s play account. Although I itched to crack the PIN to the mother lode discovered yesterday, I could wait. For now, I was a woman on a mission.
I opened the Level II and popped in PFEM’s ticker symbol. Down. A lot. Since I’d last looked at it—the day it reported third-quarter earnings—PFEM had dipped below the double-digit range. It now traded at $5.42 per share.
My heart thumped as the bids and asks updated. The stock continued to drop, heading toward delisting depths. It was simply a matter of time.
Next on the list was Newie. I punched ‘NUI’ into a quote window and waited for the numbers to materialize.
Down. Down four cents since I’d purchased it. Sure, it wasn’t as bad as PFEM, but it was depressing nonetheless. Relying on my typical method for dealing with such disappointments, I closed the quote window.
I tried to imagine how investors who owned PFEM felt right now and had to tamp down a wave of guilt. Although I knew I’d done the right thing, I still felt bad for the people who had lost their money trusting in a company that lied and covered up crimes.
I forced myself to open the quote window again. So NUI was down. Big deal. Brian—Brian and I—still had tons of money in our real account. Maybe it was time to sell this financial drain and cut my losses.
As I navigated to the order screen, my stomach fluttered in a flood of nervous emotion. I was going to do it. I was going to learn how to sell.
I read the instructions detailed on the form and spent the next five minutes figuring out what to enter where. After three failed tries, the brokerage finally accepted my order.
I refreshed the screen until my sale of NUI showed up as filled. Then I breathed a sigh of relief. My money was safe.
I leaned back and waited for my excitement to die down. Selling hadn’t been so hard. Okay, so I’d lost money. But if I could lose money that quickly, I could undoubtedly make money that quickly too. And I hadn’t felt this alive since . . . well, since watching that soap opera ten minutes ago.
I recalled the few times I’d been in Mike54’s day-trading chat room. Although I hadn’t acted on any tips, I remembered with dizzying clarity the adrenaline pumping through the room. Strangers cheered each other on. Profit-making advice flowed as freely as alcohol at a frat party. And I’d gotten to watch it all from the sidelines, drinking in the traders’ joy as I tried to figure out just what was going on.
Well, vicarious living was not in the cards for Vanessa Collins anymore.
Invigorated, I opened another browser window and pulled up Mike54’s chat room. This time I logged on using the handle Ness. I was tired of hiding. Besides, I didn’t think anyone would make the connection between Ness, harmless day-trading junkie, and Vanessa Collins, corporation terminator and destroyer of innocent investors.
‘Watch for the consolidation breakout,’ Mike54 was saying.
‘PFEM’s on the fall again! Just shorted 1500 shares,’ GotCash? informed the crowd.
‘Okay, folks, keep an eye on LJPC.’
I reopened the Level II window and popped in ‘LJPC,’ watching as orders flew off the screen. I filled in my own order and waited for Mike54 to give the cue.
My new life as a day trader had begun.
* * *
After market close, I took the bus to the hospital. I was so exhilarated from my day-trading session that I considered running the six miles, but by the time I made it downstairs the extra energy had dissipated.
Brian smiled as I entered room 214. “I saw you on the news today.”
I waved my hand, content to forget that whole incident. If I never had another corporation stalking me, I’d be a very happy woman, sex deprived or not.
I pulled a chair closer to Brian’s bed and fell into it, exhausted from the bus ride.
“You look happy,” he commented.
“I am,” I concurred. “I made thirty bucks this morning.”
Brian’s forehead wrinkled. “Thirty bucks? You mean in overtime?”
“Oh, I’m not working overtime,” I said. “I quit.”
His eyes bugged open. “You quit?”
“Yes, but don’t worry. I don’t need your money or anything. I can take care of myself.” Besides, I just discovered I’m co-owner of every publicly traded company in existence. “I’m going to start day trading for a living.”
Brian cocked his head. “Huh?”
“Trevor didn’t tell you?” I asked.
“Tell me what?”
“That I’ve started day trading.” I paused, then added, “That’s how I made the thirty bucks.”
“You made thirty bucks day trading?” Brian gripped the bed railing. “You? I didn’t even know you knew what day trading was.”
“Well, a lot’s changed since you moved out,” I said, a bit miffed. “What did you think, I planned on being an admin assistant for the rest of my life?” Of course, that was what I’d planned for myself at one point, mostly by default, but he didn’t need to know that. As my husband, he was supposed to have more faith. “I may fail as a day trader, but I’m going to fail trying. I enjoy this. And I am capable of using my brain to earn a living, you know.”
Brian rested his good arm on his chest. “I know that, Ness. You caught me by surprise is all. I always expected you to get into computer programming or something, like your sister.”
“Programming?” He’d never mentioned this expectation before. How long had he been housing private programming fantasies about me?
“You have this logical aura about you,” Brian said.
I let out a single snort of laughter, choking back the others when I realized he was serious.
I studied him, wondering what other thoughts he cultivated in that head of his. Over the past month we’d grown so distant we hadn’t even shared our thoughts on the weather, never mind our opinions of each other. A pang of loss and longing pierced my heart. I hadn’t realized until now how much I missed our old conversations about life and political preferences and nothing at all. It felt good to be talking again, even if we were getting divorced.
Perhaps we could have an amicable divorce after all and remain close friends. Maybe he’d even volunteer to dust the condo every now and then. Surely friends helped each other out with such tasks. And I’d invite him over every month for a bill-paying party. I’d collect the car insurance and utility bills as they arrived, and when the due dates neared I’d buy champagne and strawberries and ring up my ex-hus—
My fantasy shattered when a cute nurse traipsed into the room with a lunch tray. Her skirt fell exactly two inches below her crotch, revealing stunningly gorgeous bare legs. I had to rub my eyes to make sure they weren’t deceiving me. Had nobody told her winter was one week away?
I watched her sashay across the room, consoling myself with the knowledge that she had another decade to suffer through before reaching her sexual peak.
“Time for your snack, Brian,” she chirped. She repositioned a rolling table over the bed and set the tray on top. As she bent over to adjust the height of the table, she provided Brian with a fantastic view of her cleavage.
“Can I go home after I finish this?” Brian asked.
His chipper tone prompted me to straighten. I swung my gaze toward him in time to see a humongous grin break out across his face. Even damaged as he was, Brian looked wonderful when he smiled. This tramp couldn’t possibly miss his charm.
What was he doing? Was flirting with health-care providers a regular activity of his?
The nurse giggled, causing me to bite my lip hard enough to taste blood. “You know you’re not well enough to be released from my care.”
“When will I be ready?”
He sounded serious. That was a good sign. When the nurse eyed me, I smiled as if his indifference to her feminine wiles was the product of being happily married to me.
The nurse turned her attention back to her patient. “You won’t be released for another week at least.” Although she infused her voice with sympathy, she couldn’t mask the way her eyes brightened, presumably because my husband would be subjected to her peepshows for seven more days.
Brian frowned. “A week is longer than I’d hoped.”
“Are you saying you’ve had enough of me already?” The nurse affected a pout as her eyelashes fluttered. The way she carried on I would have thought a contact lens had burrowed deep into a cornea if I didn’t know better.
Brian’s mouth flipped into a grin. His torso gravitated toward this shrew despite her eye infection. “Not at all. I was just hoping to resume my normal activities as soon as possible. But if I have to wait a week, then so be it.”
I glowered at him, but the look went unnoticed.
“A week at the least,” she emphasized. She touched his arm. “Do your best to get well, and then we’ll see.”
We’ll see? Certainly she wasn’t in charge of this joint.
I cleared my throat. “Don’t you mean the doctor will see?”
The nurse blinked as though my continued presence startled her tiny pea of a brain. “Um . . .”
Brian coughed and tore his gaze away from the nurse’s bosoms. “Well, thanks for the snack. I’ll see you at dinner.”
The vixen peered from him to me and back again before nodding. She flashed Brian a coy parting smile before exiting. I valiantly refrained from smacking Brian as he watched her retreat with his tongue practically touching the floor.
Once the nurse and her giant breasts disappeared, Brian redirected his attention to me. “You okay?”
I scowled. “Was all that table adjusting really necessary? It didn’t look like she moved it an inch.”
I saw him try to hide a smile as he turned his head away.
“And what was all that talk about her deciding whether you could leave the hospital?” I exploded.
“I think she meant ‘we’ collectively, as in the hospital, not her personally,” he said, his eyes sparkling.
I narrowed my own eyes. “What’s so funny?”
His nonchalant shrug only infuriated me more.
Well, fine. I could be just as aggravating.
When Brian leaned forward to inspect his snack, I reached into my purse and extracted an extra-large candy bar. As he lifted a square off his tray and tried to figure out whether he’d been served granola or processed rabbit turds—it was a toss-up from my angle—I slowly unwrapped the candy bar. I made sure to face Brian before chomping into it.
Brian sighed and took a guarded nibble out of the square. I saw him wince, but he forged on, chewing bite after bite with the colossal jaw motions required to grind up such an inedible item.
“That looks terrible,” I said.
“Tastes terrible too,” he confirmed.
I tried to imagine being stuck in a hospital with nothing but hardened rodent feces to keep my strength up, and a bolt of pity shot through my body. I glanced at my half-eaten candy bar, feeling a guilty prickle.
Okay, so Brian flirted with women other than me. So he even slept with women other than me. At least he didn’t give them our money. That had to count for something, right?
I tossed him another candy bar from my purse. “Here.”
Brian caught it with his good hand. “Thanks.”
I rolled my eyes and went back to consuming my own bar.
He held the package in front of him. “You know, I haven’t seen one of these since I moved out.”
“Julie doesn’t eat chocolate bars?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Brian’s brow furrowed. “I’ve never seen her eat one, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t.”
“But you’ve seen her eat?” I persisted. Now that I had plunged into this line of conversation, I was desperate to prove even blond goddesses needed sustenance.
“Hmm,” Brian mused, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her eat either, come to think of it.”
I slumped back in the chair. Blond, skinny, and never hungry. How could I hope to compete?
Brian must have noted my dejection. “I have seen her blow her nose,” he supplied.
“I bet she’s a cokehead,” I enthused. No wonder she didn’t eat. Anyone that strung out wouldn’t care about food.
Brian lifted his good shoulder. I could tell he didn’t agree, but it was nice of him not to quash my happy delusions.
Somewhat mollified, I took another bite out of my candy bar.
Brian looked closer at the wrapper in his hand, squinting at the nutritional information. “I forgot how hazardous these are.”
I held out my palm. “You can give it back if you don’t want it.”
He hugged the chocolate to his chest. “I want it.”
“Then what are you complaining for?”
Brian unwrapped the candy. “I wasn’t complaining. A lot’s changed since I moved out, is all.”
“Hrmph.”
“I miss having these candy bars around,” he said. “I miss the condo.”
I remembered how joyous I’d felt last night after returning home for the first time in a week. I’d loved that place from the day we’d first visited with our real estate agent, and my affection hadn’t dampened one bit in the past two years.
Although, I admitted, being alone in the condo I once shared with Brian felt strange. I couldn’t get used to seeing the toilet paper hanging in the right direction whenever I entered the bathroom.
“Why don’t you stay at the condo while you recuperate?” I suggested.
Brian eyed me but didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Where would I sleep?” he finally asked.
“The bed,” I replied automatically.
He raised his eyebrows with the obvious unasked question.
I felt my face heat. “I’ll take the couch,” I mumbled, suppressing the salacious images forming in my mind. The last thing I needed was my invalid of a cheating husband thinking I’d invited him over for a convalescent booty call. He didn’t need to know I was desperate for sex.
I’d just have to keep reminding myself that Brian would only be staying at the condo until he recovered. After that he’d resume his normal lifestyle of bedding various women and droning on about beta factors. We’d have an amicable divorce, hug our civil goodbyes, and be done with it.
Maybe I’d run into him occasionally in a chat room, I realized. Given my new career, an impromptu meeting was not entirely inconceivable. I’d be chatting away with Mike54 about the sorry state of the airline sector, and in would pop Brian. I’d know it was him because he’d log on using the handle GotTheLostProgrammerBlues.
We’d end up in a heated debate about ordinary dividends. The charm and wit I would exude through the Internet lines would send him running back into my arms, which would be buff from repetitive order executing. I’d let him into the condo, and he’d fall to his knees, hugging my newly slim legs and telling me how stupid he’d been to let me—
“That was good.”
I bolted upright as Brian’s voice penetrated my thoughts. “Excuse me?” Had I been mumbling aloud? Rambling on about an X-rated reconciliation with my almost-ex-husband wouldn’t be good for the sexually satisfied image I was attempting to project.
Brian wiped his mouth using the flimsy gray napkin on his lunch tray. It ripped on contact. “That chocolate bar was good. Thank you.”
“Oh.” Flustered, I leaned back against the chair and pulled my deviant mind out of the gutter. “Okay. I mean, you’re welcome.”
He cleared his throat. “When will the condo be ready for me?”
I flapped my hand and tried not to get too excited about the idea of my Brian back in my condo. Back in my bed. Back in my arms, where he’d use his teeth to tear off—
“Ness?”
I gulped. “Um, right. The condo. It’ll be ready whenever you’re released.”
“I’ll be released tomorrow.”
My eyes bugged open. “You’re still in casts.”
“I’ve been in casts before and come home.”
“Not a cast that covers half your surface area,” I argued.
“Whatever. I’m ready to go home,” he told me.
“You haven’t even been approved to leave!”
Macho defiance flashed in his black eye. “Approved by whom? I’m the patient here. I think I can determine when I’m well enough to return to my own home.”
I didn’t mention that technically it would be my home he’d be returning to. Of course, if his recovery went well, maybe it would be his home too by the time his casts were removed. After all, helping Brian to and from the toilet would demand a sort of rekindling of the intimacy we’d once shared.
“You look preoccupied.”
I started. “What? Yes, I guess I am a bit distracted.” I sprang out of the chair. “I’ve got some errands to run. I’ll meet you here tomorrow at two.”
Brian’s upper body shot off the pillows. “Wait. Before you go, I want to apologize for being so distant this past month.”
My purse dropped to the floor. This was unusual. Didn’t the divorcer usually wait until after the settlement before uttering anything that could be interpreted as guilt?
“I’ve been preoccupied too,” Brian said. “I know I haven’t been giving you the attention you deserve. I’ve been so damn . . .” He groped at his hair, testing his ability to resist male pattern baldness.
God, he had nice hair. And hands. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to continue my traversal of his individual body parts. When he slammed his arm cast on the tray table, I jumped, jarred out of the beginning of a lustful fantasy. The uneaten portion of the seed square bounced off the tray, plummeting like a rock and pounding a sizable crater into the floor of room 214.
“. . . consumed!” Brian continued, releasing his hair. “So damned focused on those lab reports that I didn’t even notice the heat disappearing between me and my wife.” He shook his head, evidently bewildered by his own loss of libido.
He looked so distraught that I thought about pointing out how he wasn’t entirely responsible for his own diminished sex drive. But somehow, I doubted piping in with Beth’s theory on the natural decline of men’s bedroom abilities after age twenty would provide him with any comfort.
“I kept worrying that whoever wanted those reports would hurt you just because of your proximity to me,” Brian said. “I thought if I could get you to move out you’d be safe until I figured out what to do. So I asked for a divorce thinking that was the easiest way to get you to go. Then when you refused to leave, I thought maybe if I left instead and kept far away from you, you’d be safe even if you did stay in the condo. And those damn threats kept pouring in, demanding I return the reports when I didn’t know where to return them.” He grimaced. “It was enough to make me feel absolutely . . . impotent.”
Yes, I could see how death threats might make someone a little less amorous than normal.
“Anyway,” Brian said with a sigh, “I don’t want to keep you from your errands.” He offered me a smile that made my knees practically buckle with lust. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I plucked my purse off the floor and tried not to think of how easy it would be to ravish my husband right here in the hospital. I took a deep breath and crushed my purse for stabilization. I needed to attend to this unfinished business before I decided whether I could afford to let my fantasies get too out of control.
* * *
Had Passive Vanessa still been around, she would have been resigned to living in uncertainty for the rest of her life. But Passive Vanessa had receded into the shadows during the past week, leaving Proactive Vanessa wild and free to destroy the lives of large-cap executives and expose corporate wrongs. And Proactive Vanessa needed to know for sure the extent of her husband’s indiscretions before she jumped him.
When I returned home from the hospital, I dialed Julie’s work number. “It’s Vanessa Collins,” I told her when she answered.
“Vanessa!” My telephone receiver practically vibrated from her excitement. “Woman of the hour!”
“Oh, right. Anyway, this is kind of a strange question but—”
“I’m so glad you called,” Julie rushed on. “I want to buy you dinner to thank you for granting me an exclusive interview yesterday. You wouldn’t believe what you did for my career.”
“Right, your career. Not a problem.”
“Does dinner tonight work? You pick the place.”
“Um, okay.” I gave her directions to a restaurant favorite of mine, and we arranged to meet at seven. When we hung up, I sat back, stunned.
Would Julie suggest dinner if she were on a diet of illegal narcotics? It was doubtful, but drug addicts could be sneaky when it came to hiding their dependencies.
The more pertinent question was whether Julie would invite me to dinner if she were having an affair with my husband. I wouldn’t think so, but then again, perhaps she intended to divert my suspicions by acting in unexpected ways.
I sighed and stood up. With any luck, my questions would be answered tonight.
* * *
Although Brian and I were both dedicated carnivores, the vegetarian Tofu Haus was our favorite restaurant. Through some strange culinary feat, the tofu served tasted eerily similar to slaughtered animals, only without the E. coli and mad-cow threats. Being able to practically roll off the condo elevator and into the open bar also ranked high as a benefit.
Julie arrived before I did. Dressed in her chic business outfit, she looked very out of place among the pierced and tattooed regulars.
I assessed my beautiful dinner companion from the entrance, trying not to feel jealous. Most of the eyes in the room were glued to her, but she didn’t seem to notice. Confidence radiated from every perfect pore as she studied the menu.
I considered turning around and leaving, realizing any proximity to Julie could only draw attention to my physical deficiencies, but she spotted me before I could run. She set her menu on the table and stood up, giving me no choice but to join her.
She stretched one arm in front of her as I closed the distance between us. I shook her hand, garnering the approving nods of several nearby lesbians.
Julie smiled. “So, how does it feel to be famous?”
“Famous?” I would have probably used the phrase ‘publicly scrutinized’ instead. After all, if Julie weren’t here, even the waitress wouldn’t notice me.
“Since the shareholders’ meeting yesterday, you’ve become the talk of the financial world,” Julie said. “Your name has been spreading through my office like the flu. It’s not every day that one woman takes down an entire corporation.”
“Oh, right.” I sat down and peeked at my fellow diners, now questioning whether the awestruck looks were directed at me rather than Julie. Weren’t famous people regularly mobbed by their adoring public? Last week I’d been plagued by corporate stalkers. I needed a break before I felt up to fending off celebrity groupies.
Julie smoothed her skirt and sat down. Two men at the adjacent table didn’t even attempt to hide their intentions as they bent their bodies at hard right angles before her butt hit the chair.
A waitress approached, nose and eyebrow rings glinting in the light reflecting off Julie’s hair from some unknown source. “Can I help you?” she asked in a frosty tone, her arms folded across her chest.
Oblivious to any ill will, Julie glanced at her menu. “What do you recommend, Vanessa?”
“The tofu third pounder is good.” I suggested it for purely selfish reasons. If Julie Van Allen saw no disgrace in ordering a third-pound burger, I couldn’t be faulted for doing so either.
“Sounds great.” Julie closed her menu. “I’ll take it. Extra mayonnaise.”
Extra mayonnaise—and with no indication the substance would be applied to her tresses rather than run through the digestive system. Well, this was absolutely fantastic.
“Make that two,” I piped in. “But hold the tomatoes on mine and put the pickle on the side. But not those sliced pickles. I prefer a wedge. And one that’s not dripping juice. Better yet, just put the pickle on a separate plate.”
Normally my orders elicited some reaction from the waitstaff, but this server never took her narrowed eyes off Julie. “What do you do?” she asked.
“I’m a reporter,” Julie replied.
The waitress paled, the eyebrow ring creeping farther up her forehead. “A reporter?”
“I write for Mark It News,” Julie supplied.
“Mark It News?” the waitress queried.
Julie nodded. “We report on issues pertinent to the market. Earnings reports, new products being manufactured. Things like that.”
The waitress dropped her arms to her sides, smiling for the first time. “Wonderful.” She gathered our menus and turned around. “All clear!” she called out to two greasy characters on guard behind the counter. “She’s not from the Health Department!”
One guy loosened his death grip on a spatula and donned a filthy apron pulled out from somewhere under the counter—or snatched off the floor—before disappearing into the kitchen. His counterpart followed, whipping off his hairnet and letting his long, bleached locks cascade down his back where they could shed more easily into the food.
Across from me, Julie stiffened and lifted her hand as though to rescind her order, but the waitress had already ducked into another section. Julie watched for her return, but after a few moments she relaxed and turned to me. “Thanks for agreeing to dinner. I wanted to thank you for all you’ve done for me.”
“All I’ve done for you?” I said. “Without you, I’d be stuck waiting for the government to investigate my StaRipe claims. People would be getting ill left and right, and I’d be helpless to save them.” Even if I did suspect this woman of stealing my husband away, I didn’t need to be rude. If I offended her she might make me pay for my own burger.
Julie beamed. “I was happy to help. Brian’s always been so great to me. I’m glad I could return his generosity.”
My heart jumped. This was the opening I’d been hoping for. Now I just had to figure out the best way to pose my question.
I lifted the salt shaker off the table and turned it around in my hand, as if whatever we might discuss couldn’t possibly be more fascinating than these white crystals. “What’s your relationship with Brian anyway?”
Julie’s face lit up. I’d have blamed glittery makeup, but the restaurant remained cloaked in shadows. “He helps me with a lot of stories. And if he doesn’t know the answers, he always knows who I should talk to. A lot of analysts aren’t that helpful but—”
“I mean, what’s your personal relationship with Brian?” I interrupted, unable to keep up the masquerade of indifference. Brian was coming home tomorrow. I didn’t have time to listen to his mistress describe his boring professional value.
Julie tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you bopping my husband?” I said. Passive Vanessa cringed and faded a bit more.
Julie’s mouth dropped open. Then she began giggling. It started off slowly but quickly grew into full-blown guffaws.
The salt shaker slipped from my fingers and fell onto the table with a thud. Was Julie laughing over the idea of having sex with Brian, or was she recalling a recent bedroom mishap? I wasn’t sure which would irk me most. Either way, I was on the verge of defending Brian’s sexual prowess. After all, once I survived the obligatory pre-deed market recap, I rather enjoyed sleeping with the man. Or used to. Who knew if I’d ever get to again.
Fortunately, Julie couldn’t possibly have heard me whimper with all the raucous laughter coming from her side of the table. The other diners took advantage of the scene she created by staring at her while they mindlessly lifted meatless burgers to their mouths.
Eventually, Julie began to calm down, taking great gulps of air into her lungs. She plucked a napkin out of the holder and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. I felt a pinch of bitterness when I noted that either she wore waterproof mascara or her lashes naturally grew that thick.
“Oh God, Vanessa,” she said with a residual chuckle. “Brian is right. You really are funny.”
“Brian said I’m funny?”
Julie nodded, then looked at me. “No, I am not bopping your husband.” One last snigger escaped. “Not that I haven’t thought about it. He is very attractive.”
My lips curved into a small smile. It was quite validating to have this beautiful woman say she thought my husband was attractive.
“But it’s not my style to sleep with married men,” Julie said. “There are plenty of other dogs in the pound.”
I studied her, deciding she was telling the truth. Not a hint of guilt lined her perfect features. She looked calm, confident, and completely sure of her values.
It occurred to me that Julie was out of Brian’s league. She made good money. She possessed awesome looks. What had ever made me think she’d go to bed with my Brian?
The gears in my brain turned. Julie might be too much of a catch for Brian, but she wasn’t the only potential home wrecker out there. There were other, more desperate women who wouldn’t have access to Julie’s choice of hunks.
I leaned forward. “You don’t happen to know if Diane Mann is sleeping with Brian, do you?”
With that, Julie burst into laughter for the second time that evening.
