Madeline Carter - 01 - Mad Money (7 page)

“Completely. Jennifer said just to let her
know when. And I have virtually nothing scheduled in my life right
now,” which was amazingly true, “and, as far as I know, Jennifer
has no essential business meetings in the evening, so you can
pretty much name a day and time.”

“Cool. I was thinking Thursday night. That
new space movie is playing at Mann’s. Since you’re the new kid in
town, I thought you might appreciate the chance to play
tourist.”

Mann’s Chinese Theater! I was dismayed to
discover I actually felt somewhat thrilled at the thought. “That
sounds like a lot of fun.”

“You guys want to go for dinner first? There
are about a million options right in that area. Well, half a
million, since the kid is underage.”

“Sure. Name the spot.”

We agreed to meet the following Thursday at
seven o’clock at a restaurant walking distance from Mann’s that
Emily felt sure Jennifer would know.

I found myself looking forward to Thursday,
a shot at playing tourist and the opportunity to deepen my
relationship with my first California friends. It felt as though,
since I’d lost Jack, I’d been looking in the wrong end of a
kaleidoscope and, despite the fact that I was doing everything I
could to turn it around, I had seen my world protracted in a way
that was out of my control.

And now? Well, I couldn’t quite see all of
the bright colors I’d once seen, but with the rough sketch of a
career plan and an upcoming outing with friends, I felt a little
bit closer. Something in my heart opened slightly. It eased.

Chapter Five

By Thursday morning I was five days into a
new routine. I woke each day at five-forty-five, put on the coffee
and went for a run. Invariably, Tycho — an earlier riser than his
family — joined me as we pounded up and down the canyons, the fresh
sea air putting a lie to the dirty metropolis just a few miles down
the coast.

By six-fifteen, Tycho and I were back at my
place. He had started spending so much time there, I had food and
water out for him so, after a run, I’d replenish his water. While
he drank noisily I poured my coffee. By six-twenty we were in
position: me at my computer, after a while so focused on my screen
I barely noticed the beautiful drama unfolding outside my window;
Tycho stretched out flat-sided in the middle of the living room,
the occasional snore the only thing reminding me of his
presence.

I wasn’t trading yet. Not really. I was
preparing. And preparations were going well. I’d established what I
was now calling my “pretend portfolio,” tracking an increasing
number of securities, marking purchases in as buys and sells on a
special program I’d installed for the purpose, calculating in
brokerage fees and all fluctuations just as though I were actually
trading: only I wasn’t. There was no money behind these trades. So
far. That, I’d told myself, would change the following Monday,
which would coincide with the activation of my online trading
account. The trading I was doing at present was a trial run. And,
if the trial was any indicator, my plan for solvency was going to
go pretty well. I was delighted to note that, based on what I’d
done so far, it would be a piece of cake to exceed my expectations.
I mentally splashed cold water on my face, though: the best laid
plans were likely to go to hell where the stock market was
concerned.

Just before the closing bell I “sold” a
couple of securities that netted me what would amount to a half
year’s wages in my new world. Or, rather, would have had the trades
been real. I knew that, once I started trading with real money, I
was likely to be a little more conservative than I was being with
my pretend portfolio. But I also knew that I was ready: I’d spend
Friday at my computer for good measure, but Monday was D day. I was
going live.

One of the things I’d been doing during
market hours this week — aside from continuously refreshing my
quotes to see how the stocks I was watching were doing — was to
evaluate various news sources of information in order to keep my
finger on the market’s pulse.

It’s not enough to track your own securities
or those that catch your interest. You also have to keep a close
eye on what’s happening in the world at large. Especially financial
news: what the Federal reserve is up to, what’s happening with
consumer spending and so on. Even things that might seem unrelated
to the stock market can affect it quite deeply. Keeping up with it
all means a lot of reading.

So I’d been scouting for sources of reliable
newsfeeds: some of which I then set up to come to me directly in
e-mail. Others were at websites I’d determined deserved various
degrees of watching. I knew from experience that how much of this
stuff I actually read on a daily basis would depend on how hectic
the rest of my day was and how much I needed new blood in the form
of securities I hadn’t looked closely at before. But having the
source of it all in place was important.

By the closing bell I felt like I’d done a
good day’s work and I looked forward to unwinding with Emily and
Jennifer. This, I told myself, was going to be a whole new chapter
for me. A lifestyle, not just a life. Like millions of disenchanted
Americans before me, I’d come to California to find myself... and —
though it was early to say — I was perhaps was on the path to
succeeding.

After the bell, I showered in preparation
for my evening out and was just pulling on black pants, a light
sweater with a deeply v’d neck and black boots when the phone
rang.

“Hey Madeline,” Jennifer’s voice. “I’m in
Santa Monica: I hooked up with friends this afternoon and ended up
going shopping. Can I meet you guys for dinner?” The plan had been
for the two of us to drive in together, but I told her I’d find my
way and — with a few basic instructions — I was set.

Dinner was fun. For me it was a little like
coming home: having grown up with two sisters, the company of women
is easy and welcoming for me. The banter that erupted very
naturally between the three of us reminded me of being with Miranda
and Meagan: we always had a lot to say to each other, even if it
wasn’t about anything that anyone else would find remotely
interesting. We had a lot to say, and all three of us seemed to
find the other two vastly amusing.

Emily said she had chosen a place she felt
would appeal to all three of us, and she was right. The restaurant
was cheerful without being chipper and colorful without the strain
of irritating that can go with that. And the company was good.
Emily told a lot of amusing stories about the almost famous people
she’d worked with on the fairly low rent movies she’d worked on. I
could see that Emily’s stories enchanted Jennifer, the would-be
actress, because the girl seemed to hang on Emily’s every word.

I found myself watching Jennifer as she
raptly listened to Emily’s stories. The teenager was a pile of
contradictions. Not that this was especially surprising: it’s a
condition that seems to arrive with puberty and not disappear
altogether until around the time you get your first apartment. But
it was interesting seeing it this way: from an intimate
distance.

Over the course of the last week I’d seen
Jennifer speak rudely to her father and deliberately walk away from
him while he was in mid-sentence. I’d seen her ignore Tasya
altogether. Yet to me she was unfailingly sweet and polite and she
always seemed to have time to give Tycho a tummy scratch, even when
she was running off to be with her friends. It was obvious she had
issues with her father and stepmother though, from what I could
see, they weren’t overlapping into the rest of her life.

Tonight she was enjoying the company of
unrelated adult women as equals rather than from the position of a
child we were watching, something that a girl who’d had a governess
and other adult caretakers throughout her life would have been used
to. She seemed to glow in our presence and I liked the way that
felt: the big sister in me stretching to accommodate this newest
sibling. And I loved the food.

“This is just so
good,
” I enthused
over my veggie burger and sweet potato fries.

Emily commented, “Don’t they feed you up at
your beach?”

But I was hungry. During this last week of
being back in the market I’d fallen into old habits. Between
following newsfeeds and watching securities rise and fall, there’s
never enough time left over to eat. Tycho had watched me down a lot
of coffee and the occasional rice cake or piece of toast, but food
preparation? Forget it. And the markets drain you. After a day of
trading — even pretend trading — I just don’t feel up to cooking.
I’d been ready for a night out. And I’d been ready for some real
food.

The movie was banal, predictable and
completely enjoyable. The plot flew out of my head the moment we
left the theater, but the joy at actually sitting in a building
that was practically a national landmark, rubbernecking in case I
saw anyone famous — though Emily and Jennifer assured me I wouldn’t
— and just enjoyment at being in the uncomplicated company of my
own gender — and not a stock in sight — was enough to put me in a
great mood. Afterwards Emily suggested we go for coffee and I
enthusiastically agreed.

“Not me. I’ve got school in the morning,”
Jennifer said wrinkling her nose distastefully. “I think I’d better
head home. Madeline you stay and have fun. Great evening, you guys!
Thanks.”

“You still want to do coffee?” I said to
Emily after Jennifer had left us.

“Are you kidding? Coffee can wait: age is no
longer a consideration. I’ll show you the town.”

Los Angeles has clubs and bars the way other
towns have gas stations and fast food restaurants. L.A. has those
as well, but clubbing is a serious Angeleno activity and, that
evening, Emily seemed determined to show me a lot of them.

The first three places we went to reminded
me that Southern California is the center of the musical universe.
No matter where we went, if there was live music, it was
awe-inspiring, regardless of what was being played. The result,
Emily told me, of the area being a Mecca for bands from all over
the world. And while those bands waited to be discovered, they
still had to pay rent. LA nightlife is the richer for it.

There was no live band at the fourth and
final club we went to. Club Zanzibar had an air of caution about
it. Hesitation. And exclusivity. You practically had to know
someone — or, at least, know someone who knows someone — to get in.
Emily knew someone, and so we went.

Of the stops we made that night, Club
Zanzibar was my least favorite, though that might just be because
of the later association. The only part of Club Z I really liked
was the ladies room. The attendant was warm and helpful, not
judgmental or threatening. And the bathroom was beautiful, with a
sort of museum-like quality to it — antiques and marble everything
— plus linen hand towels and a big vase of lilies — stargazers — on
the counter next to the sink. The scent was wonderful. Inviting. I
think it quite likely that heaven smells just like the stargazer
lilies at Club Z. The rest of the club was just as posh, just not
as much fun. And if smelling lilies and drying your hands on linen
is as good a time as it gets, you have to rethink your attendance
at that particular club.

Emily liked it a lot —
adored
was the
word she used the moment we walked in. She said she loved the
leather banquettes, and the attractive, well-dressed waiters, and
the music — a bit like dance with a touch of jazz. Ambient. Tonal.
I agreed about the music, but found the atmosphere edgy enough to
slice you.

We had barely found seats and ordered drinks
when Emily hooked up with a guy she’d worked with on a recent film.
He was tall but stout and wore his good suit badly, though the fact
that I was already feeling out of sorts with the place probably
didn’t help with my assessment of him. It wasn’t that I minded
Emily dancing, but I did feel suddenly and oddly alien and alone.
And uncomfortable. Like a flashback to high school, waiting
apprehensively to be asked to dance.

I tried not to look self-conscious. And it
wasn’t simple nonchalance. I hoped my look of bored disinterest
really came across that way and didn’t just make me look like I was
smelling something bad.

The hands on my shoulders startled me. And
the voice. Deep and male. Too close and disturbingly familiar.

“Madeline,” the voice said. I would have
bolted from my seat at his touch, but he squeezed my shoulders —
gently but firmly — and held me in place before he swung into the
chair opposite me. His face held wonder but no real surprise.
“Madeline Carter,” he repeated. “In LA. With me. How did this
happen?”

I couldn’t say anything. I was surprised to
see him, sure. But also — and maybe more — I was surprised at my
reaction to him. I wanted to feel
anything
but what I felt.
I wanted to feel revulsion, annoyance, even fear. Fear can be a
healthy emotion. Fear keeps us safe. But I felt none of the
predictable things I might have hoped for.

There had always been something compelling
about Ernest Carmichael Billings. A charisma, even when he was
still in the process of shedding his callow youth. I had too often
been a rabbit to his snake: mesmerized to submission. Exposing my
throat when it would have been far safer to flee.

I hadn’t seen him since our senior year at
Harvard, almost 12 years before. There were changes to note now. He
seemed larger. And sleek, like an eel. He owned the well-fed look
that men in their mid-30s can acquire if their lives have gone
pretty much as planned. His features were more clearly drawn,
though his eyes hadn’t changed: they were still as cold and flat as
stones.

College Ernie might have been an early
sketch: today I was looking at the finished product. That finished
product reminded me of what I’d run from: his presence now
compelled and revolted me at once. While he dropped into the vacant
seat opposite me, I touched my wrist surreptitiously under the
table. I could feel the galloping of my pulse and a faint glow of
perspiration. I hoped it didn’t show in my face.