Nightlife_ A Novel Part 3

"No," she said. "It's all yours."

He grinned, sat down, and said, "Thank you. If you're waiting for someone to meet you or something, I'll be happy to give it up when he comes."

"No need," said Rachel Sturbridge. "I'm alone."

He ordered a Macallan single-malt scotch, which showed he had some standards, but he wanted the twelve-year-old instead of the eighteen, which meant he wasn't showing off. He turned to her. "Can I get you another martini?"

"No, thank you," she said. "I just started this one."

She decided he was probably the sort of man Rachel Sturbridge would like. He was tall and manly looking, and he was friendly in his manner but polite, and he hadn't leaned over her to talk, the way some men did when they met an attractive woman.

He sipped his drink and looked straight ahead. She sensed that if she wanted to talk to a gentleman like him, she would have to give him a signal she was willing. "I like this place, don't you?"

He appeared mildly surprised, as though he wasn't quite sure that she had intended her question for him. When he turned and she met his eyes, he seemed pleased. "So far, I like it very much. I haven't been here before, but I've heard good things." He glanced at his watch, and the gesture gave Rachel Sturbridge two competing sensations. The indication that he might be bored made her stomach feel hollow, but her heart's tempo picked up when she recognized the watch, a Patek Philippe that sold for around six thousand dollars. She was relieved when he added, "It's pretty crowded. I didn't have a reservation, but they said they'd try to fit me in. It's nine now. I have to hope somebody cancels."

The young maitre d' appeared beside Rachel and said, "Miss Sturbridge, we can seat you now."

Rachel smiled. She had favors to dispense. "Come along. You can share my table."

The man was delighted. "Well, thank you." The maitre d' returned to his podium and the hostess arrived just as they were going about the awkward business of getting down from adjacent bar stools. Rachel noted that he quickly slipped off his, stood back, and held her hand to keep her from falling. They both left their barely touched drinks, but the hostess gave an invisible signal to a pa.s.sing waiter, who s.n.a.t.c.hed them up and followed.

The dining room at the bottom of the stairs was bright, lit by large bowl-shaped ceiling fixtures, and the light was reflected up from bright linen tablecloths. In the light, Rachel's companion looked a bit more attractive but a bit older, and she revised her estimate from forty to fifty. While they were getting settled at a table near the far side of the room, she held her compact in her palm to see what the lighting was doing to her, but quickly verified that her makeup had kept her from losing her color, and the new brown hair shone exactly as she had intended. She slipped the compact back into her purse.

He said, "I'm David Larson, and I thank you for your gracious invitation. I was kicking myself for coming without a reservation, and I find that it worked out better this way. I may never call for a reservation again." She detected a faint accent, but couldn't quite place it-the South?

She liked it that he was confident enough to give an exaggerated compliment, and she liked the way his blue eyes transmitted sincerity without awkwardness. She decided to encourage him. "My name is Rachel Sturbridge, and it's a pleasure to have your company." She delivered her words with a condescending ease, like an actress stopping on the red carpet outside a movie premiere to speak to a camera.

Larson said, "Usually I have my a.s.sistant make all my reservations from home, but this time I didn't have much notice. It was one of those times to throw some clothes in a bag and head for the airport."

"Where is 'home'?"

"Austin," he said. "How about you?"

"At the moment, I'm living in San Francisco," she said. "I've only been here a short time." If he was from Austin, the safe place to be from was the Northeast. "Originally I'm a Connecticut girl."

They had to devote some attention to the menu, because the waiter had begun to hover nearby. Larson ordered salmon, and Rachel decided her first compliment to him would be to order the same entree, the same salad.

He ordered a good bottle of wine without any consultation that would have forced her to acknowledge his extravagance, and she liked that. When the waiter had departed again, he said, "What brought you to San Francisco?"

"Business," she said.

"What sort of business are you in?"

She devoted a half second to the thought that she should have said it was a vacation. He was obviously a businessman, and now she was going to have to talk about a subject he knew. All she could do was try to sound sensible. "I'm trying to start a magazine. This is a good place to do that. There are plenty of artistic people who will work cheap on the speculation that when the magazine takes off, so will they. There are almost too many good technical and business types who used to work for deceased Internet companies. There are lots of printers and good shipping facilities."

"What about the rents?"

"They're expensive, but not like New York, and I can work out of my apartment and my post office box for a long time before I need to expand," she said.

"I can tell you're a practical businesswoman," said Larson. "And I know a little about that. What's the t.i.tle of your magazine?"

"I'm calling it Singular Aspects. Singular Aspects. It's going to be about alternative lifestyles." It's going to be about alternative lifestyles."

"What does that mean?"

"It means nothing and everything. Americans love to think they're special. Every last one of them, no matter how much of a conformist he is, wants to believe he's a maverick, an innovator. What people want to believe is what they'll buy, and lifestyle is everything. So I can do clothes, furniture, houses, music, books, movies, art, food, relationships, and say it's about them. It doesn't take much of a pitch to get them to buy an attractive version of themselves. They already like themselves."

"And you think San Francisco is a good place to do this?"

"Not just a good place," she said. "The very best place. More huge fads have come out of San Francisco than anywhere, block for block. This was the place to be a beatnik in the fifties. Practically the whole hippie movement in the sixties came from the corner of Haight and Ashbury. The food-worship fad came from restaurants like Chez Panisse in Berkeley in the seventies. The computer revolution came from just down the road in the eighties. It's wave after wave. Not only will fad watchers pay for the latest from here, but advertisers will pay to be part of the next wave before it leaves here."

He laughed. "Well, that's just great. I like everything about it, and I think it's a good bet to succeed." He stared at her for a few seconds. "I think it's the best idea I've heard this trip."

She saw her chance to move the conversation onto him. "You've heard others?"

"Well, yes," he said. "I feel so comfortable talking to you that I keep forgetting that we don't actually know each other yet." He took out his wallet-she caught a thick sheaf of green bills and a platinum card-and slid a business card out with his thumb, then handed it to her.

There was a logo with a pair of longhorns, and a business address in Austin for David Larson Ventures. She held it out for him to take back, but he said, "No, please hold on to it."

She slipped it into her purse. "So what are David Larson's ventures?"

"Oh, I make investments."

"In what?"

"Young companies, mostly start-ups. Anything where I can evaluate the product, the market, the compet.i.tion, and the costs. I came to meet some people and hear some pitches."

Rachel Sturbridge let the topic drop to see whether he was going to be a bore who didn't talk about anything but business. Instead he talked about other restaurants he knew in the Bay Area, an art exhibition he wanted to see while he was in the city, a book he had read on the airplane.

She silently cursed the waiter when he delivered the check. She had not had enough time. When she reached for the check, Larson's big hand was on the little tray, covering it. He said, "Please. I already know you're the kind of person who likes to pay her own way, but you would be doing me a kindness to let me have it. You did a great favor to let me join you, and it's all I can do in return."

"Well, all right." When the waiter took his card and went away, she said, "Thank you."

She pretended not to pay any attention to the check after that, but she had found that the way people treated servers could be an early indication of unpleasant qualities. She excused herself to go to the ladies' room at the right moment and looked down at it over his shoulder. He was a generous tipper. When she returned, she said, "I would like to take you out for an after-dinner drink. There's a place near here that's quiet."

He seemed taken aback. "I would be absolutely delighted." He stood up, then said, "How near?"

"Two hundred feet." They walked down the street to the bar of the Pan Pacific hotel, just off the huge white marble lobby. They sat at a table and ordered drinks. He said, "I gave you my business card. Have you had any cards printed yet?"

"No," she said. "I haven't hired my designer yet, and I want to be sure everything has the right look."

He produced another card of his and a pen and set them on the table in front of her. "Then please write a number where I can reach you."

She hesitated, then wrote the phone number at her house. They had their drink, but before either of them had finished it, she said, "I've got to get up early and meet with a photographer to look at his portfolio." He put her in a taxi in front of the hotel, and she went back to her house feeling pleased with herself for timing her exit to pique his interest.

The next day she got up early and walked to a newsstand on Market Street to buy the Portland Oregonian, Oregonian, then had a cup of coffee and a bagel while she searched it for new information about Dennis Poole. She found no mention of him, and she walked home feeling relieved. She turned the television to the local morning news for company while she read the then had a cup of coffee and a bagel while she searched it for new information about Dennis Poole. She found no mention of him, and she walked home feeling relieved. She turned the television to the local morning news for company while she read the San Francisco Chronicle, San Francisco Chronicle, but didn't bother to turn it off when the news was replaced by reruns of a situation comedy. At eleven, her telephone rang for the first time. n.o.body had her number except David Larson, so she hurriedly muted the television set before she answered it, smiled to herself, and said, "Singular Aspects." but didn't bother to turn it off when the news was replaced by reruns of a situation comedy. At eleven, her telephone rang for the first time. n.o.body had her number except David Larson, so she hurriedly muted the television set before she answered it, smiled to herself, and said, "Singular Aspects."

The second dinner with David was at the Dining Room at the Ritz-Carlton on n.o.b Hill, and it went better than the first for Rachel Sturbridge. Just after their entrees were served, he said, "You know, I've been thinking. I would like to buy a half interest in your magazine."

She smiled and shook her head. "There is no magazine yet. How can I sell it?"

"That's why I'm offering now. I'm betting you're going to be so successful that it will be too expensive to buy in later. I bring you capital and business knowledge, and you bring me the idea, the talent, and the effort. That's how start-ups work."

"That's very flattering," she said. "But let's not be in a rush."

"Why the delay?"

"I'm going to ask for fifty billion dollars, and I need to give you time to raise it."

He laughed and touched her hand. "That's it," he said. "That's why I'm willing to bet on you. I wanted to make you the offer before I left for Austin, but that doesn't mean I need the answer by then."

"When are you going back?"

He looked unhappy, as though he had been dreading the subject. "On Friday. I hate to do it, but I have a meeting that afternoon, and I've already postponed it once."

"That's only two days."

"One, really. I leave early Friday morning."

"Is it that important?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. People are coming from New York and London."

She couldn't let him go this way. She knew that he had been enjoying his time with her, and that she was rapidly making an impression on him. But he was a rich man in his fifties. He had met a great many attractive women by now, and he probably met more every month. She had not yet had time to reach the point where she would not simply fade into his memory with all of the others. She had to do something quickly. "Then you'll have to go. But can I take you out for a farewell dinner tomorrow night?"

He looked surprised. "Thank you. I'd love that. But it shouldn't sound so final. You and I are going to be partners, just as soon as I raise that fifty billion."

The third dinner was at the Fairmont. Once they were past the lobby, with its high, vaulted ceiling and marble columns, David seemed to relax. There was a quiet, comfortable quality to their conversation. He told her stories about his childhood in Texas, his business a.s.sociates, his friends. When the waiter asked whether they would like anything else, Rachel said, "No, thank you." He asked, "Would you like to charge it to your room?" She said, "Yes."

David met her eyes, and she shrugged. "Another cat out of the bag."

He said, "You're staying here?"

"I reserved a suite when I made the reservation. The view from the tower rooms is one of the best in the city. I thought it might be a nice way to be sure you didn't forget me as soon as you got back to Texas."

"Not likely," he said.

She had prepared herself in advance for a night of closing her eyes tight and enduring, but she was pleasantly surprised. He was a gentle, considerate lover with an easy, appreciative disposition that made her feel less self-conscious. When they were not making love he was a cheerful, affectionate companion.

Late that evening after he fell asleep, she lay awake considering the best way to make use of him. She had been wise to resist the temptation to sell him a half interest in her imaginary magazine. She had been very close to yielding. He seemed accustomed to risky investments, and he would probably forgive her when she faked an attempt at a magazine and didn't return any money. But she could afford to let her bet stay on the table. She was beginning to think that maybe the way to get her money was the way lots of other women had done it. Maybe she should marry it.

The next morning they said good-bye in the room. He called a cab to take him to the Prescott to check out and then to the airport. Rachel took a second cab back to her house. She put his business card on her refrigerator with a magnet and waited.

On the third day, a FedEx package arrived. Inside was a velvet box. She opened it, and found a white-gold pendant with a single large diamond. The velvet box said Van Cleef & Arpels, but that was only a box. She took off the shade of her reading lamp and held the diamond close to the bulb. She could tell it was a good stone, about three carats, and very bright. It must have cost him at least ten thousand dollars, and possibly much more.

Looking at the light sparkling in the facets of the diamond made her feel lucky. It had probably been dangerous to get involved with another man so soon after Dennis Poole, but there had seemed to be n.o.body looking for her, so she had begun to look for a new man.

Men were a difficult way to make a living. All any of them really wanted was s.e.x. It made them easy to attract and easy to play for a little money, but not necessarily easy to control. They got jealous and watchful, and at times the s.e.x could be troublesome, too. At least with David it wasn't unpleasant or especially demanding. She took his card off her refrigerator, went to the telephone, and dialed the private number he had written on the back. When he answered, she said, "You certainly know how to keep a girl's attention, don't you?"

A week later David was in San Francisco again. He called her from the airport, then picked her up at her house and drove to a hotel in Carmel that consisted of a group of luxurious cabins on a wooded cliff above the ocean. They had dinner in the restaurant in the central building, watching the waves crash against the rocks below, then walked along the path through the pines to their cabin, and sat on the couch before the stone fireplace, listening to the crackling of the wood fire.

After a time, he said, "I've been thinking a lot about you."

"Good," she said. She leaned close and kissed him softly.

"I've even been trying to find ways to help you get your magazine started."

"You're sweet." She kissed him again.

"While I was doing it I found out a couple of things that made me curious."

"What kind of things?" She turned her body on the couch to face him. She could feel the hairs on her scalp rising. It wasn't exactly fear, but an intense antic.i.p.ation.

"Well, you said you had never been married."

"That's right."

"I'm wondering if you changed your name at some point."

She kept her eyes on his face. "You've hired somebody to investigate me?"

He smiled. "Now, please don't get mad at me. It's a normal thing to do if you're thinking of making an investment in a start-up. I have a standing account at the Averill Agency in Dallas. Whenever I'm about to make a seed-money investment, they routinely do a quick rundown on the princ.i.p.al players, just to be sure none of them has a tail and a pitchfork. It's no different from asking your mechanic to take a look at a car you're buying."

Rachel leaned forward, her eyes searching his. "And?"

"As you know, they didn't find any problems, because there are no problems. But they did have trouble finding out much else about you. They said that either you'd had a marriage at some point that you forgot to mention, or maybe had pet.i.tioned for a name change."

She stared at him coldly, sensing the urge to make him suffer. "Rachel Sturbridge isn't the name I was born with. My family was well-off and respected, but it looked good only from the outside. From the inside, it wasn't a group you would want to belong to. There wasn't a lot of love." She paused, as though bravely controlling her emotions. "What there was, was a lot of cruelty. After I grew up I spent years trying to get over it, and on the advice of my therapist, I severed the connection completely. Being really free of them meant using a different name, so I do. You're the only person I've ever had to explain this to."

He was embarra.s.sed at his mistake. "Rachel, I'm sorry. I just cared so much about you that I couldn't know enough."

She stood up.

He looked horrified. "Please. I never imagined that talking to you about it would bring back bad memories. Stay with me."

"I'm tired, and I'm going to sleep now. We can talk in the morning." David had carried both of their suitcases into one of the bedrooms when he'd unloaded the car. Now she went into that room, took hers into the other bedroom, and quietly closed the door.

When she awoke in the morning she knew that two things were going to happen. One was that David Larson was going to buy her a big present. The other was that she was going back to San Francisco. She went into the bathroom, stood in front of the mirror, and began to pull herself together. "I'm heartbroken," she told the girl in the mirror. It was well said. She would use it.

During the time while he was in Austin she had allowed herself to grow overconfident. She had formed plans that carried them both years into the future. She had pictured them spending time in Europe together-maybe in the Greek islands, which looked beautiful and warm in the magazines, or Provence, which sounded in articles as though it existed solely to serve food and wine to people like her. She was sure David had acc.u.mulated enough money already. It seemed to her that the only reason he still traveled around chasing investments was that he'd had nothing better to do until he'd met Rachel Sturbridge. She could have made those years wonderful for him. But that was before he had betrayed her.

She watched herself in the mirror as she said, "I'm heartbroken" again. She meant it. He had told his stupid private detectives to pry into her private life looking for incriminating information, and she was just lucky they had not found anything. It had been a cold, calculating thing to do. Men always wanted you to do impulsive, risky things because you let your pa.s.sion for them get too strong to resist. They wanted you to trust them completely, holding nothing at all back to protect yourself. But then, after your body and soul had gotten to be things they had, rather than things they wanted, they announced that they had reserved the right to be suspicious and cautious about you.

When David knocked and asked if she would go to breakfast with him, she called through the closed door, "No, you go ahead."

Rachel spent the next hour working efficiently and methodically to make herself beautiful. She had started beautician's school the summer she had turned sixteen, and had learned some cosmetology and hairdressing before she had missed a tuition payment. But she had learned her most valuable tricks years before that, in the long succession of beauty pageants her mother had entered her in beginning at age four. She had been born with good skin and small, symmetrical features, and she had a quick, practiced hand with a brush, eyeliner, and mascara.

She was good at dressing herself because she had a hard, objective eye. That was something else the pageant circuit had done for her. She could look at herself the way a contest judge would, with no sentimentality and no mercy. She accentuated her figure's best points and hid the flaws. She tried all three dresses she had brought, chose the one that would give him the most haunting memory of her body, and put on spike heels.