The Wentworths Page 14

  Angela was late. It was difficult, waiting, and Honey was tempted to go take one hard last look at her horribleness or maybe even cancel but she resisted. God was presenting her with a friend and she was not going to pass up his offer. It was funny but this was the first time God had entered her thoughts since she left Colorado City. God, who had been responsible for so many things in her life. Her father’s death. Her stepfather and those horrible church elders. Jack Belmont’s delivery trunk. Kimmy and all the hard times since. But He worked in mysterious ways and even though His benevolence seemed to have been absent from her life for so many years, it looked like He was smiling on her again. The tide was finally changing and with that positive thought in mind, Honey sat on the edge of the chair by the front door and waited for Angela.

  The bell rang at twenty past seven. Finally. Honey sprang up and opened the door. Angela wore jeans, a white tank top, a black leather jacket and biker boots. She looked great but very casual.

  “Oh,” Honey said. “I think I’m wearing the wrong thing. Should I change real quick?”

  “Noooo.” Angela gave her a hug and walked into the apartment. “You look great.”

  Honey had been hoping that Angela wouldn’t come in. The apartment was a dump and she was embarrassed by the dumb furniture and Kimmy’s finger paintings that were taped up on the walls. But really, friends hung out at each other’s places. Friends didn’t judge each other and it wasn’t a bad apartment, just dingy and plain.

  “Great apartment.” Angela flopped down on the couch.

  “Do you want something?” Honey motioned towards the kitchen.

  “Tequila?”

  Honey could feel her face heat up. She didn’t have tequila, she didn’t have any alcohol in the house, not even beer. Those were things that adults had and Honey wasn’t living in that world. She spent her days in a mindless job serving coffee and never really talking to anyone. Gus came and went but he wasn’t interested in Honey’s feelings or thoughts. Did she even have thoughts beyond basic survival? Her only friend was Kimmy and they spent most of their time watching TV. Honey was in over her head. All she could offer was juice, soda and 2% milk and suddenly she felt like this whole evening was a very stupid idea. She looked at Angela and shook her head sadly. Maybe Angela would take pity on her and just leave.

  “Well then, we’re just going to have to go find some.” Angela stood and headed for the door.

  This was the moment that Honey could have ended it. She could have said that she suddenly didn’t feel well. That the baby-sitter fell through. That the truth was there wasn’t any point in going out, because eventually Angela would realize how stupid and boring she was and then she’d dump her and why not just save time and call the whole thing off. If Honey just told the truth, she could get Angela out of there in two minutes. She could say that she’d changed her mind and that she didn’t think it was a good idea to socialize with the head of Kimmy’s school. She could get a migraine. But Honey didn’t have the strength to resist and so she grabbed her purse and followed Angela out of the apartment.

  “If a guy runs his tongue down my back and kisses the base of my spine, I’m history.” Angela picked up the shot glass of tequila and threw it back. “I actually love to have my ass kissed too.”

  “Yeah,” Honey laughed. They’d been sitting in this bar all night and things were starting to get fuzzy but she was pretty sure that Angela had just made a joke. Honey drank her shot of tequila and said, “Who doesn’t like to have their ass kissed?”

  Angela looked into her eyes. “What else do you like, Honey?”

  “I don’t know.” Honey hadn’t minded the talk about sex as long as she could just be a spectator but she couldn’t possibly say anything about herself.

  Angela signaled the waiter for more drinks then said, “Do you like to have your breasts kissed?”

  Honey crossed her arms over her chest and looked at the table. She was embarrassed but she also felt the damp heat between her legs. She liked it and so she forced herself to meet Angela’s eyes. “Yeah, I like that.”

  “Licking the sides and underneath? Round and round your nipples with the tongue.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are your nipples sensitive?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Mine too.” Angela brushed her hand across her perfect right breast. She wasn’t wearing a bra and Honey could see her stiffen. “I like to have my nipples sucked and then pulled with the teeth, gently. I can almost come just from that.”

  Honey could see that now both of Angela’s nipples were erect. She had perfect tits, small and high. Her shirt was so transparent it was impossible not to look.

  “And I liked to be teased. I don’t want to get down to business too fast. So many people are goal oriented when it comes to sex. You know?”

  Honey nodded. She had no idea what Angela was talking about.

  “They jump into bed and all they want to do is have the big orgasm. A few acrobatics and kaboom. Not me. I mean I’m going to have my orgasm, probably a bunch of them, but I want to go all night. I want to be on the brink a hundred times before I give in. I want it to be about my whole body, not just the parts, ya know? The rhythm, up and down, in and out. And I want to kiss and suck and fuck until . . .”

  The waiter arrived with the tequila. He was tall and blond, very good looking, and he definitely heard what Angela had just said. He smiled at her, sex written all over his face. He set the drinks down and said, “Can I do anything else for you ladies?”

  “Not a thing.” Angela was annoyed at the interruption, her voice cold and dismissive. The waiter hesitated and stared at Angela’s clearly visible nipples. He wanted her to acknowledge him, but she would not look up. Honey would have smiled if he’d looked her way. He was gorgeous and the alcohol and sex talk made her feel wild and open in a way she’d hadn’t since before Kimmy was born. It was how Jack use to make her feel. Hungry and insatiable. Yeah, she would have smiled at that cute waiter. She probably would have gone off to the alley or back room with him if he’d just asked. But he didn’t. He stood beside Angela waiting for her attention. Finally she said, “The check. You can bring us the check.”

  There had been more tequila back at Angela’s house. That much, Honey knew. Tequila and maybe bourbon? Scotch? Something brown. Honey was lying in her bed. It was dark but it felt too hard to roll over and check the clock. Her head hurt and her body felt so sick, so filled with poison, that all she could do was lie still. She had no memory of coming home, in fact, the last part of the evening was completely blank.

  Honey sat up suddenly, shot through with panic. Where was Kimmy? There was nothing about Kimmy in her memory bank. She got up out of bed, still in her black skirt and purple sweater, and rushed into Kimmy’s room. Her daughter was sleeping soundly, tucked in under her pink quilt. Somehow she’d gotten home. Probably Honey had gone to get her at Mrs. Rappaport’s apartment. Undoubtedly there’d been some kind of conversation, some slurry babbling thank you. What had she done? What kind of mother has blackouts?

  Honey walked back to her bedroom and stripped off her clothes. She lay down on the bed and forced herself to reconstruct as much of the evening as she could.

  They’d driven from the restaurant back to Angela’s house. Honey remembered waving to the waiter on the way out and giggling in the car with Angela about his cute butt. The drinking. They’d talked. Honey talked about Jack, Angela hugged her. Honey cried. Oh God. The Jacuzzi. Somehow they ended up in the Jacuzzi. Naked. Honey curled into a ball. The very idea that Angela had seen her body without clothes. Shit. And Honey could remember Angela’s body, all sleek and tanned with those pretty breasts. Did they touch? Honey wanted to last night, she knew that. And the dread that maybe she’d made some kind of inappropriate move. But wouldn’t Honey remember if she had? Honey sat up. She did remember, she didn’t want to, but there it was. She had kissed Angela. She’d leaned over and kissed her and run her fingers across her collarbone and down between her
breasts. And Angela’s lips were so soft, not like a man’s at all. It felt so right. Angela kissed her back. And they touched each other and Angela asked if Honey had been with anyone since Jack and Honey told her about Gus. She told her everything while Angela stroked her nipples and kissed her neck.

  Did this mean that Honey was a lesbian? She fell back into the pillows. She’d been with a woman, wanted to be with a woman, but now it seemed so ugly and wrong. It was disgusting. What happened next? They obviously got out of the Jacuzzi at some point but that was lost. The rest of the evening was gone.

  6

  Norman on the Couch

  Norman lay on the couch gazing at the poorly framed Chagall. He hated Chagall, all those flying people with cows and goats. It was a poster, not a print, probably purchased on the Venice boardwalk: two for the price of one. Everything in the room was cheap: the acrylic rug, the no-stain upholstery.

  “Norman?” Dr. Rosenblatt said. “I asked you how you felt when Little Mister Swissick got lost. You said you thought your mother might have thrown him away?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Sit up.” Dr. Rosenblatt cleared his throat. “Norman, I want you to sit up. We’re going to try a different approach.”

  Norman sat up. What he wanted to do was go to sleep but Dr. Rosenblatt would never allow him even a second’s peace. The constant prodding and poking of his tender mind was becoming extremely aggravating. He found himself anxious most of the time and often worried about a brain hemorrhage. Why did he ever open this can of worms?

  “There are many types of therapy and theories about analysis.” Dr. Rosenblatt got up from his chair and joined Norman on the couch. “Cognitive, Attachment, Reality Therapy, Choice Therapy, Phenomenology, Womb Envy, Primal Explorations. I’ve studied all these and more. There is no single answer, Norman. Different things work for different people. It all boils down to pain.”

  Why did Norman feel like a puppy that’d wet on the carpet and was now being punished with a rolled-up newspaper? Why did Norman want to cry?

  “We’re trying to get past your survival mind and your thinking mind to your feeling mind,” Dr. Rosenblatt said. “I’m going to hold your hand. No one’s ever really done that for you, have they?”

  Norman yawned. He was completely exhausted.

  “Together we are going to break down your defenses because they are simply agents of repression,” Dr. Rosenblatt took Norman’s hand. “You don’t need them anymore. Your defenses consume energy while protecting your system from the catastrophic PAIN of unfulfilled need.”

  Norman tried to pull away, Dr. Rosenblatt’s hand was sticky, but Dr. Rosenblatt squeezed hard and wouldn’t let go.

  “Once we recognize the pain, it simply becomes a feeling.” Dr. Rosenblatt scooted over and pulled Norman into a fatherly hug. “I’m here for you. We’re going to do this together.”

  Dr. Rosenblatt released Norman from the hug, held his hand again, then settled back into the couch. “Make yourself comfortable, Norman. We’re about to embark on a fascinating journey.”

  Norman leaned back into the cushions. What choice did he have? The two men sat there together, holding hands, staring out at the drab and poorly-appointed office of Dr. Harold Rosenblatt, like an old married couple waiting for the evening news.

  7

  While Honey’s Hungover, Angela’s Making Headway

  Angela finished her cup of coffee as she watched Judith Wentworth pull into the parking lot and wait in the long line of cars. Angela left some money on the table then ran across the street and ducked down behind the bright yellow Hummer just as Judith pulled up to the valet station.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Wentworth,” the Hispanic parking attendant said. He was a short man with a pronounced limp and a withered hand.

  “Pedro.” Judith accepted the ticket. “All’s well?”

  “Perfect, Mrs. Wentworth.” Pedro hobbled to the car and hoisted his sad body up into the seat. “Everything is perfect.”

  Judith walked to the entrance of Salon Faberge and went inside for her biweekly hair appointment with Graziano. Angela smiled. Honey had been such a big help; she’d known virtually every detail about the Wentworth household.

  Faberge, the mecca of beauty in Beverly Hills, was a virtual beehive of activity. Busy hairdressers faced life altering decisions. Assistants fetched decaf nonfat cappuccinos or triple espressos for the valued clients. Apprentices washed hair or folded pieces of foil for the delicate and artful highlights that the master colorists strove to create. Brow and eyelash tinting, facial waxing in the front room, Brazilians in the back. All the employees dressed in black, all the clients wrapped in purple gowns and white, white towels. Very uniform and chic. Snipping and cutting and endless sweeping of the floor all accompanied by a subtle but insistent beat of the hip, yet soothing, (and vaguely suggestive) background music.

  Angela watched as Judith was greeted like royalty with a kiss and deeply felt hug by the twenty-year-old receptionist then led to one of the stations where her stylist could tell her how beautiful she was as he went to work. The bitch had a great body, Angela thought, and she looked fantastic in that skirt. There was a hot, twisted feeling in Angela’s stomach. It had been there since Conrad dropped her. Rage. It made her want to kick and scratch and bite. Kill something. What made these people think they were so much better than everyone else?

  The receptionist returned to the front. She looked down her badly reconstructed nose at Angela and said, “Yes?”

  “I’m here for a wash and blow dry.” Angela wanted to remind this child to respect her elders but she just smiled.

  “With who?” The receptionist actually yawned but failed to cover her mouth.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Angela said. She wanted to kick in the woman’s capped teeth but instead gave her most ingratiating smile. “Whoever.”

  “No appointment?” The receptionist looked at Angela with true surprise. “You just, like, stopped by?”

  Angela smiled as sweetly as she could and nodded. Where did this idiot with the dry skin, cut-rate rhinoplasty and overly processed hair get off having attitude? She could wear the clothes and pile on the make-up but Angela could see, she could smell, that this little floozy came from the same nowhere place that Angela did.

  “We are booked for weeks ahead of time.” The receptionist tapped her fingernails on the appointment book. Metallic-blue manicure. Chipped. “It takes months to get in even if you have a connection. I mean, I guess I could put you down on a waiting list but don’t hold your breath.”

  Angela looked around the room. There had to be sixty-five people working here. “You’re telling me there isn’t some assistant who could wash and dry my hair? Some apprentice?”

  The receptionist chewed her gum and shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry.”

  Angela leaned in close. She could smell stale garlic beneath the mint gum. “I’d like to speak to your manager.”

  The girl took a step back and folded her arms across her chest. “I’m the manager and I’m telling you we don’t have anyone who can work on you today or probably ever.” She smiled. “There’s a Fantastic Sam’s down on Pico. I’m pretty sure they take walk-ins.”

  Judith happened to glance in the mirror when Graziano rushed off for her mint tea. She saw that Chantal was talking to that woman of Conrad’s, looked like some kind of altercation. What on earth was she doing here? On a schoolteacher’s salary? The girl caught her eye and waved. Now she was heading over.

  “Mrs. Wentworth.” She grabbed Judith’s hand and shook it. “Angela Simms.” Then she leaned in for a double-cheek kiss.

  Judith sat perfectly still waiting for the contact to end. Who did she think she was? Conrad already dumped her; there was no need for this charade.

  “I had such a lovely time at your house.” Angela plopped down in the chair at the next station. “Did you get my note?”

  “Yes.” Judith certainly had not received a note. “Thank you.”

>   Chantal came over. “Everything all right, Mrs. Wentworth?”

  “Fine, dear.”

  Chantal lingered a moment. She clearly didn’t like this woman anymore than Judith did, but what could one do?

  Chantal touched Judith on the shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything.” She walked back to the front desk.

  “I was telling Conrad,” Angela said. “Next time, we’ve got to do it at our house. Has he mentioned my roasted duck with beet garnish? It’s one of his favorites. I know duck is rich and you obviously are so careful with what you eat, but once in a while you’ve got to splurge. Don’t you think? It just melts in your mouth.”

  Graziano returned with the tea and Angela jumped out of her chair. “Angela Simms. Conrad’s girlfriend.” She took Graziano’s hand and held it in both of hers. “Mrs. Wentworth has the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen. The color is perfection. Conrad suggested I come in and talk to you about doing my hair.”

  Judith was speechless. Conrad didn’t have a clue where Judith and Becky had their hair done. Conrad didn’t notice women’s hair. Graziano preened like he always did when someone paid attention to him or gave him the slightest compliment. Flattery shut down all his other senses and so he missed the look Judith was sending out. He missed her signals all together.

  “Do you have my tongs?” Judith said. She watched the woman closely. You could always tell when people like this were lying.

  “I’m sorry, what?” Angela’s body stayed relaxed indicating probable truth.

  “My silver tongs,” Judith said. “Didn’t Conrad mention them?”

  “He did. I searched everywhere. You still haven’t found them?”

  “No.” Judith wasn’t completely sure. A trained liar could get away with murder.

  Angela shook her head in sympathy then turned to Graziano and said,

  “Any chance of me getting an appointment?”