Page 62 of The Cruiser
He answers on the first ring. Not like he has a life or anything. “Finally,” he gripes. “Where the hell have you been?”
“I took a time out.”
Unseen birds begin to warble in the branches above me, prompting Olivier to ask, “Where are you?”
“Italy. In the mountains.”
“Uh-huh,” he says. “And she’s with you.”
“Not that it’s any of your concern, but yes.”
After a long, chilly silence he says, “You fucked her.”
“That’s really none of your concern.”
“Jesus. You are so predictable. And of course, it’s my concern. What did I tell you? Leave your dick out of this.”
“She’s not like the others,” I argue. “Not at all.”
“That’s what every man says after they sleep with a woman for the first time!” he shouts, with really no reason to.
“I’ve never said that. Not once. That’s why I know she’s different.” I reach for a lemon on a nearby tree and press the fragrant flesh against my nose. “When you meet her, you’ll understand.”
Nothing. Then, in a tone colder than usual, “She doesn’t need to meet me.”
“Yes, I’d like your opinion. I’m thinking there might be more she can offer than PR. She’s an excellent people person. Curious about design. Perhaps she can assist in growing that division.”
“Wow,” he says, sardonically. “One screw, and you’re giving her the keys to the kingdom.”
“Fuck you, Olivier, I’m being serious.”
“No, fuck you. Focus. Put Khaled at ease. She’s supposed to be a long-term asset, not one of your disposable toys, remember? The best PR money can buy. Not the best ass money can buy.”
“Very clever,” I grumble. “And I am always focused.”
“You are self-focused to the extreme, until a woman you haven’t slept with walks into the picture. If Khaled finds out you’re fucking yet another married woman…”
“That’s one thing we don’t have to worry about. She’s leaving her husband.”
He chuckles morosely. “And let me guess, she told you this a few minutes ago? That damn afterglow.”
We’ve been friends for so long, Olivier’s cold and uncaring nature—calculating, is how a former schoolmate referred to him—is so part of the fabric of who he is, it barely registers anymore. But I’m truly incensed at his judging flippancy. Outrage takes over, spilling out in the worst way. “Her husband is gay. He just came out. The marriage is over.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve made a mistake. It’s not my news to divulge. I glance at the house, feeling guilty, hoping my voice didn’t carry. Turning to face the driveway, I speak more quietly. “Keep it between us, okay? Apparently, her father is in California politics and is up for an election. She doesn’t want any news to rock the boat.”
“Huh,” is all he says. “Interesting.”
“How so?” I ask, picking up on an air of scheming in his delivery.
“Nothing,” he adds, breezily. “I mean, people in general. I guess you never know what’s really going on.”
“No, you don’t,” I say, surprised. Sympathy is completely out of character for him. “And speaking of that, are we confirmed yet with Khaled?”
“That’s why I’ve been hounding you. He wants to meet on Tuesday. Dinner at an undisclosed place. His driver will pick you up at seven. I wanted to clear it with you before I confirm.”
My anger fizzles, melting away into the blues and purples of approaching dusk. I’ll address his attitude in due course but for now, I wiggle my toes against the warm pavers, a sense of newfound purpose filling my soul. “Thank you, Olivier.”
He inhales deeply on his cigarette, blows out the smoke in a tense puff. “Thank me after you get the deal.”
“Can you be at the yacht club tomorrow at one o’clock? I’d like you to meet Vandana.”
