The Wentworths Page 17

  “We do a pretty mean duck,” Angela said.

  Rico finally arrived and walked to the front of the class, stopping here and there for the heartfelt kiss on the cheek. He didn’t even notice Becky sitting in fourth row.

  “What do you say?” Angela said. “We could make it early?”

  Becky said. “I don’t eat ducks.”

  16

  What Does Norman Think?

  The alarms are blasting, can you hear them? Warning, Warning, Warning. Interloper. Danger, Danger, Danger. Someone beneath us trying to step up. Man the turrets, load the cannons. Judith is having trouble with the drawbridge and August is offering virtually no help at all. It’s a potential crisis with global ramifications. Level 5 alert. Conrad’s girlfriend isn’t crawling away with a broken heart and crushed spirit, never to be heard from again. NO. Angela Simms is fighting back. She wants her piece of the pie, a big slice, a la mode. And even though we own the bakery, we don’t offer handouts. Oh, what shall we do? Is this the beginning of the end of the Wentworth Empire? Becky just called hysterical; the encroacher showed up at the exercise studio offering a duck dinner. Pure evil. What is the solution? How will the Wentworth family survive this attack?

  I haven’t had a visit from Miss Angela Simms. She hasn’t bothered to ascertain my day-to-day routine. She hasn’t made an appearance at Joe to Go, my coffee spot. I don’t see her lurking in the weight room of Hardbodies Gym in West Hollywood. She’s not lunching at Ken’s Deli or having drinks at the Friendship Bar. No, she’s not making any effort at all to contact me. I should be hurt. Am I not also a full-blooded Wentworth? Do I not have value as a bargaining chip in her complicated plan? It could be seen as the ultimate insult, one from which I might not recover if I were a weaker sort of soul. I could withdraw in anger and bitterness, vow to reject this thoughtless harlot in the way of my kinfolk. I could potentially turn violent at the indignity of the situation. But, as you so well know, I exist on an elevated plane, far above the petty concerns of my oh-so-small-minded relatives. No, I will not reject Angela Simms. I will find her and I will embrace her. I applaud her spirit and her courage. I will aid her in battle and see to it that she is triumphant in this heroic effort.

  17

  If You Wax It, He Will Come

  At the beginning, the woman has all the power and it’s on the first date that you want to lay the groundwork for future operations. Get through dinner quickly and head back to the house, make a beeline for the bedroom and get busy. Men are helpless when it’s new and strange, intoxicated by the smell of you. Pretend to have an orgasm right away just from kissing and rubbing back and forth against him. Be fairly vocal about it, he’ll be amazed. Enthusiasm counts for a lot. Peel his clothes off and marvel at the size and beauty of his penis. If it’s small, focus on the beauty part. Have another orgasm when he sticks his hand in your panties, try to work up a real sweat. Talk dirty about his amazing body and the way it makes you feel. Again, if the body isn’t so great, focus on something like skin tone or color. Take him over to the bed and jump on board for a very animated ride then suddenly stop and walk around the room. Sit in a chair, play with yourself, legs wide apart so he can see you. Talk about his huge size, again. Have yet another orgasm (this one will probably be real since you’re doing all the work). Come back to bed and slowly lower yourself down on top of him, but not all the way. Drive him crazy. Make him beg. He will be so, so grateful that you can probably get away with anything. Yeah, get what you need quick, on that first date, cause he’s never going to want you this badly again.

  I memorized the combination to the alarm system on that first night as we came in Conrad’s front the door. I just stood beside him and kissed his neck as he punched in the code. #-4-5-4-3-7-*. I’m good with numbers so there was no danger of forgetting but you might need to jot it down. Later I nabbed his keys on the way up the stairs to his bedroom. I just grabbed them and zipped them into the inner pocket of my purse. When it was time to take me home, he blamed himself for being forgetful and went off for his spare set. You see, I had my security plan in place right from the start.

  It’s a big house. Cold if you ask me. No homey touches, no knickknacks. Concrete and glass and leather with those godawful paintings. Francis Bacon was one fucked-up guy. Tortured souls being pulled apart in slow, bloody motion. Grays and blacks and dripping, meaty reds. Depressing. What’s wrong with a nice landscape? A vase of flowers? Bowl of fruit? We’re sending those paintings to his office, or selling them, once I get this all worked out.

  There’s a safe in the bathroom behind where he stores the towels. Probably a couple more located throughout the house. No, I don’t have the combinations to those—even I’m not that good. It’s okay though, there’s plenty of stuff just lying around the house. Like what? Well, how about the copious supply of party favors? Cocaine? X? Quaaludes, believe it or not? Yeah, the guy’s well stocked. He’s got an assortment of medieval torture junk—or whatever you want to call it—the hoods, chains, stockade. I just know his lovely mother would be interested in that nice collection. But the thing that interests me most, the real reason I’m here, is his personal video collection. The guy’s quite the cinematographer. I starred in several feature length films, alone and with my friend Alison. I was an enthusiastic supporter of Conrad’s efforts and insisted we view our movie over and over. And thus his secret library was revealed to me. With a little begging and a lot of flattery I was able to talk him into showing me some of his earlier work and what do you know, some of those girls he so skillfully recorded are definitely not 18, a couple of them don’t even look 14. So I’m here today to pick up the highlights. The D.A. would be interested in a special screening should the need arise, don’t you think?

  Is it dangerous for me to be sneaking around in his house? Naw. The maid’s gone for the day and it won’t get dark for at least another hour so I don’t have to turn on any lights. No one’s going to know. Except Conrad. Conrad will know. He gets back from his trip tonight. Conrad will come home and he’ll find my panties on his pillow and my nice note.

  Dear Con,

  I borrowed a couple of movies. The twins, Alison and me, and that one with your friend’s teenage daughter. What was her name? So pretty. I miss you and I can’t wait till you get back. Maybe we can make a new film all our own.

  Eternally Yours,

  Angela

  18

  Wake Up, Jack

  Jack was sick. He’d been driving around California, aimlessly, sleeping under the stars, smoking and drinking way too much. Now he had a cough and a fever. The sheets were damp with sweat and he alternated between hot and cold. Jack was thirsty but the refrigerator in his cheap motel room was broken. Warm beer did-n’t sound like a cure. His skull pounded. He kept thinking that if he could just take his head off and lay it on a cushion of soft pillows, he’d feel a lot better. If he got rid of his head, life would be so simple. Food, drink, sex, sleep, that’s all his body would need. He wouldn’t have to think about any of the bullshit. But he was stuck with his head and it was making his whole body miserable.

  He coughed and the pressure made his eyes water. The tearing feeling in his chest made him wonder again about his lungs and their actual life span. He’d been smoking those hand-rolled cigarettes for close to twenty years now. No filter, no sissy shit for this man. His attitude had always been, fuck it, when my time comes, I’ll be ready to check out. Live every moment. But lately doubt had been creeping in and enveloping his whole belief system like a dense fog pushing in from the dark cold ocean. Things weren’t so clear to him now. What if this was cancer? He definitely wasn’t ready to go yet. He’d spent his life drifting from one place to another leaving virtually no trace with the exception of a few hard feelings. Shouldn’t there be something more? A reason.

  Jack sat up and took some more aspirin for his headache. Sick or not, he had to make a plan. Honey was listed in the phone book. Her apartment wasn’t too far from his shit-hole motel. All he had to do wa
s pick up the phone. A simple call would tell him everything he needed to know. But Jack had been camping out in this room for three days now, sick with a flu that was probably brought on by doubt and fear. He hadn’t been sick in years and now he couldn’t shake this damn thing because his mind was using every ounce of energy in an effort to answer one stupid fucking question: What exactly is the right time to call someone and tell them your whole life has been a mistake? How do you start the conversation that ends with I’m sorry for ruining your life and will you please forgive me? In the course of those long days at the motel, Honey’s flaws had fallen away one by one and now she stood high above his head on a marble pedestal. Honey was perfect. Who else in this world had loved him like she had? Who could kiss him with such tenderness and such heat? What woman had ever responded to him in bed as passionately as Honey had? There was no one else. She was his mate. They were meant to be. Jack put his head back down on the pillow and slept.

  19

  Honey

  Honey called in sick and kept Kimmy home from school for an entire week. She’d told Gus she had a bad cough, terrible intestinal problems plus a very bad yeast infection. He’d gone away and hadn’t bothered to check up on her. Kimmy was, at first, thrilled to stay home with her mother and watch TV. Soda, chips and cartoons. What could be better? But after four days, even Kimmy started to go a little crazy. Honey realized she couldn’t really make a plan for the next step if she didn’t first face her situation and deal with it. She needed to go to work. She needed to talk to Gus. She needed some time to plan out the escape. And so on Monday morning Honey got Kimmy ready and walked her the three blocks to the Happy Helpers Preschool.

  Angela hadn’t called since that night. Surely she was disgusted and Honey half expected to be turned away when they got to the school. On the walk, she had to stop several times, her body cringed and revolted every time a memory from that night slipped out.

  “What’s wrong, Mommy.” Kimmy tugged on her arm.

  “Suddenly you’re in a hurry?” Honey smiled at Kimmy. “I thought you didn’t like it there.”

  “I like snack time.” Kimmy grabbed her hand and they started walking a little faster. “And Jell-O the Bunny. I miss Jell-O.”

  The red door was open and most of the children were already busy putting away stuff in their cubbies or playing in the sandbox. Honey took a deep breath, forced all thoughts from her head, and walked into the play yard with Kimmy. There, over by the lady-bug-themed swing set, stood Angela talking to one of the mothers.

  Look who’s doing the walk of shame? Poor Honey. I never would have suspected that dull little Mormon had so much fire in her. But now she’s mortified. You should have been there. Talk about the dam breaking, fucking Niagara Falls. She was all over me. Kept saying she’d never done anything like that before but once I got her started, there was no stopping. Got to admit, it was pretty fun. We were at it for what seemed like hours until poor Honey started throwing up—that pretty much put an end to it. I’d almost consider a revisit, but it’s too much work.

  I definitely got what I needed from her, little thing has a memory like an elephant. Still, you never know when I might want to go back, check the Wentworth status.

  Honey focused closely on getting Kimmy’s sweater and lunch box stowed neatly in the cubby. If she didn’t make eye contact with Angela, maybe Angela wouldn’t notice her. She escorted Kimmy into the art room and got her busy with some crayons then headed for the back exit.

  “Honey.” Angela rushed over, grabbed her and pulled her into a tight hug and kissed her on the cheek. She whispered in her ear, “I’ve missed you.”

  Honey stepped back. She worked her face into what she hoped was a smile.

  “I’m so glad Kimmy’s back.” Angela seemed so happy, like nothing bad had happened. “Cold again? The flu’s been going around.”

  “The flu,” Honey said. There were a couple of mothers, women Honey had never spoken to, headed in their direction. Honey prayed they needed Angela’s attention and sure enough they came up with an apparently urgent message.

  “Miss Angela,” the tall dark-haired woman said. “Julian Speaks is telling a group of children that people can have ‘sax’ with dogs and his father is out there laughing.”

  Angela took off for the play yard and the two concerned mothers followed. Honey let herself out the back exit and headed for home.

  20

  Norman Getting to Know Angela

  I’ve come to her house. Well, it’s not actually a house. It’s a duplex. Angela Simms lives in a duplex. Angela Duplex. Sounds French, doesn’t it? Originally this was a single-family dwelling, a tract house, beige, probably built in the mid-seventies, and there’s a straight path that leads from the sidewalk up to the house. It splits into a “Y” at the last possible moment and if you turn left you’ll be at her front door. I don’t know who lives on the right side. I rang the bell but no one answered. Then I put my ear to the door and thought I heard a parrot or Macaw screeching inside, but I can’t be sure of that. There is no name on the mailbox.

  Angela lives in 1304 “A”. Nice how that works—A for Angela. Do you think the “A” had anything to do with her choice of dwellings? Perhaps subconsciously. There is no “B” in her name. Unless her middle name is Babette or Bijou or Blanch. (I’ll make a note to check that.) She has a red front door. It’s the exact same glossy red of the door at the preschool. From that tiny detail I ascertain that Miss Angela Duplex is a thrifty person, someone who watches her pennies and makes excellent use of a gallon of paint. (I have tremendous natural ability in this area, you know. I could have been a private investigator. I still might, plenty of time.)

  The narrow walkway along the side of the house is where Angela keeps her trashcans but unfortunately yesterday was the pick-up so the cans are empty and there’s no evidence to examine. A strong smell in this area is an indication of carelessness, messy spills and whatnot. Angela’s obviously not vigilant about her garbage—or not vigilant enough. I’d scrub the whole walkway with bleach, wash the cans, and start over. Maybe I’ll help her with that once we’re friends.

  It’s a small backyard and she’s got her side screened off with a solid, unpainted, redwood fence. There are little sharp pickets at the top of each board and the gate is locked from the inside. No, of course it didn’t stop me. I climbed over but now I’ve got a nasty redwood splinter in the palm of my right hand. I’m torn between digging it out and leaving it alone. Redwood tends to get infected. On the other hand, the body does protect itself in amazing ways—at least my body does.

  Look, Angela’s got a Jacuzzi, a little four-seater. I’ve seen ones just like this advertised when I drive down the freeway around Carson and El Segundo. The tub is mounted impossibly high on a revolving pole; the whole thing spins in the sky so you’ll be sure to notice. You’ve seen them too, at places like Spa World or Whirlpool Emporium. This Jacuzzi looks like one of the less expensive models, kind of flimsy. But as we’ve learned, Angela Duplex watches her pennies. Look, it’s called the “X-Spa-Dition.” I’ll bet she’s had plenty of adventures here.

  As luck would have it, the sliding glass door is unlocked. Actually, I don’t believe in luck. Things happen for a reason; at least they do in my world. The door is not secured because I was meant to enter this home. And even if it had been locked, I have a fair amount of experience with breaking and entering. Let’s step inside, shall we? Smells good. See it there over in the corner? A Glade PlugIns. I’m guessing Rainshower or maybe Hawaiian Breeze. At least she had the good sense to stay away from the vanilla family—nothing worse.

  Angela’s living room is an over-crowded ode to mediocrity. Cheap white coffee tables and matching bookshelves, woven throw-rugs and bright cotton pillows. A striped armchair almost clashes with the floral pattern of the two-seater sofas but somehow manages to pull the whole room together. Pottery Barn, Pier 1, IKEA, or maybe, maybe Restoration Hardware. Give me fifteen minutes and a computer and I’ll hand you a
definitive answer. At least she hasn’t filled the place with embarrassing family heirlooms and bad antiques. My guess is that Miss Angela didn’t keep many relics from her past.

  Oh look, she’s been to the County Museum gift shop and bought posters from several of the big shows. A nice bowl of pears—Cezanne before things got too crazy. Monet, of course. Manet. Seurat. Oh, she’s going out on a limb here with this thin-faced Modigliani woman. Maybe Angela sees a resemblance? This is good news. She and I can talk about art, gush about water lilies and quality of light. It will be our common ground, a starting point.

  Don’t panic. Someone just unlocked her front door. Quickly, slide the glass door shut and follow me out the gate. She doesn’t usually leave work until five but admittedly I’ve only had her under surveillance for forty-eight hours. Hurry. Don’t make any noise. Now duck down as you go past the kitchen window. Yep, that’s her car parked in front. Next time we’ll visit in the morning when she’s definitely at school. We won’t make this mistake again.

  21

  Knock, Knock

  Gus was a couple of minutes early and instead of using his key, he knocked. That was a surprise. Gus had never knocked before. Honey opened the door and saw him standing there with flowers. Flowers? Most of the gifts that Gus supplied were functional: Tempurpedic pillows for his neck, high count cotton sheets for his skin, the occasional bottle of vodka or bourbon that only he drank—Honey couldn’t stand the stuff. But here, today, he was presenting her with a real gift. What the heck was going on?