Chapter Three: Lady of the House

MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,

a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,

 a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence

 and the woman important to each 

3

      Helen’s clogs rapped bare wood and echoed in the denuded condo as she moved out of the way of two men in knee pads carrying old carpet. “New carpet after lunch,” one hollered.  She waved and closed the door behind them. Going to the window, she looked over the panoramic view of Los Angeles. There was nothing to eat and no place to sit, but she was earning three times the money; Lola had been right about that. All her fears about Stephen Slade’s manipulation had come to nothing.
     At the interview, phrases rang out: remodel the condo -- entertain investors -- maintain the bank account. And then after the remodel, her time freed up. Once-a-week investor parties were the only time commitment other than ensuring the condo was stocked and money deposited. She pinched herself; the arrangement was so good. Opportunity was the reason for moving to California, but this was unreal. Her boyfriend Kelly chafed working at a bank and admired her prospect of freedom, which she promised to make good use of to chase auditions.

      In college, she acted and studied theatre, which gave her the confidence for the remodel. Everything on stage had purpose and created atmosphere. She drew up plans, made purchases and removed everything old in advance of delivery. The off-white carpet was the last to go and the succeeding stormy gray the first piece in the new setting.

     While the men worked, she caught them regarding her with amazement, as if asking how one so young could own a luxury condo. She encouraged them to suspend their disbelief, stepping into the role of lady of the house.

     In two months the concrete matched the concept. Stephen had said capital flowed like a river and swirled like a whirlpool, overwhelming obstacles, always starting fresh; therefore everything had to go.

     The new white-and-black color scheme reflected the investor decision: Yes or No. Two plush leather armchairs in contrary colors sat in opposition. Beside each was a banquette for ladies to perch and bar stools so hangers-on could overhear principals talk. On the wall, a seascape depicted a gathering wave over a peaceful beach, and against another stood an aquarium in which delicate angelfish swam.

     Throughout she was exacting to her vision, while Stephen was generous and kept his distance. The separation encouraged and confounded her: though free to use her judgment, that same freedom sowed anxiety for his approval. When everything was ready, she was still fussing over minute details: the edges of the zebra stripe bedspread had to hang equidistant from the floor in the same room where a slender split of table served as desk on which a flat screen monitor and wireless keyboard sat. She aligned them again, though why anything in the bedroom mattered, she didn’t know. Realizing she was pursuing useless alteration, she called him to inspect. 

     Helen balanced on high heels in a figure-hugging dress to watch Stephen sweep in as he always did, with thoughts seeming elsewhere, but then he staggered, backed into the window and glanced outside. He took a seat in the black armchair from where his eyes traced the track-lighting overhead and fell onto the bar. His lips curled at the seascape and smirked at the angelfish whose tendril fins waved in the water.  When his attention finally settled on her, she moved aside to reveal the white armchair. His eyes narrowed and a grin etched itself on his face.

     He rose to take her hand. “Yes!”  he said, twirling her as her feet shifted to complement the gesture. The room swirled like a chocolate-and-vanilla sundae, and he transformed too: his parted lips revealing shiny teeth and a levity she hadn’t seen. His eyes, though, maintained their intensity.  She laughed, dizzy with delight. “Thursday night,” he said, “I’m bringing an investor by.”

     He took her by the shoulders. “You look good too. The investors will be men, mid-forties and older, with failing bodies but muscular balance sheets. Don’t intimidate them by looking too chic, or challenge their manhood by being too seductive. Dress like a girl on her first night out. Hit their weak spot. Remind them of their daughters.”

     She tingled and felt a surge of power: if she could alter the condo and the CEO, what else could she do? 

                                                                    -ii-       

     Three loud raps brought her to the door, where beside Stephen stood an older man with hair silvered at the temples and balding on top. His tired eyes blinked wide and he clutched at his tie to tighten the knot. After smoothing his suit, he beamed a practiced smile. “Helen, this is Pietro Mancusi.”

     “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Mancusi. Come in.”

     “Call me Pietro, please Miss Helen.”

     They played at who-goes-first before she ceded to his wishes to lead them inside, followed by Stephen and two young men. With pink chiffon rustling and ankles buckling in high heels, she steered the investor to an armchair, his hand pushing her elbow. When he sat he pulled her down too.

     His face dominating her vision forced her focus on him; looking past would have been impolite. Ice tinkled as Stephen got the drinks, and he soon appeared with vodka rocks for Mancusi and white wine for her. The others poured their own whiskey and cast sullen looks their way. Crowded knee-to-knee, the investor was clearly pleased. “Do you stay here?”

     “At times.”

     “A beautiful place for a beautiful woman. Stephen said we’re stopping for drinks. He didn’t say anything about you. How could that be?”

     “Ask him.” Helen nodded toward the hovering CEO and enjoyed the absurdity of talking about Stephen while he listened.

     “He’s too much about business, I think.”

     “Not you?”

     “When there’s beauty---”

     “Doubling your money is beauty,” Stephen interjected, as she went to the bar under pretense of replenishing their drinks. He sat on the banquette, leaning toward the other man. “Invest now and when we go public you’ll double the investment.”

     Behind the bar, Helen scooped ice into fresh glasses under the silent watch of the young men. The tall, thin one had red hair gelled to look windswept; the stout one had black hair. Mancusi craned his neck looking for her, while Stephen repeated key words like a mantra: investment blocks – going public – doubling your money. “Yes, yes. I will invest. We’ll talk later.”

     Stephen slapped his cell phone to his ear, as Helen resumed her place in the armchair. Mancusi’s eyes twinkled. “Money can’t buy everything, no?” She smiled and sipped her drink when there was a knock at the door. Seeing Bill the chauffeur, he asked, “You’re coming to the club, too?”

     "She stays here.”

     He looked to Stephen, at Helen and then back to him, as if to understand their relationship. “You want to come, no?” She shook her head silently and he took up her hand. “Maybe, we’ll see each other again.”

     They left in reverse order: the two men, Stephen and then Mancusi. She collected the glasses to put in the dishwasher, wiped surfaces, and tossed the cloth in the hamper. Even though the cleaner was coming the next day, she couldn’t stand disorder in her masterpiece. Her car was sitting in the garage ready for the drive to her boyfriend and their apartment, but she found herself reluctant to leave the scene of her triumph. Stephen must have been pleased with the impression she made on the investor whose sadness showed, knowing that where he was going there’d be no Helen. 

The next chapter will be posted by February 2. Already posted. Navigate to Chapter Four.

The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.