Roulette (11 page)

“Okay,” I say, fortified. “Let me have it. You left off at
rake
. I want a complete character assassination. Go!”

At first her insults are like lashes against sensitive skin, but I feel myself hardening as I accept the truth.

“He’s a horrible misogynist. He sleeps with every woman he lays eyes on. He’s filthy rich, and who knows how he
really
got all that money? He’s probably involved with the Russian Mob and arms dealers—”

“Now, now,” I interrupt. “He can’t be a paragon of Human Rights Watch and a duplicitous, money-grubbing arms dealer. I’m not giving you that one. Go back to the misogyny.”

We both feel the effects of two martinis too fast on an empty stomach, and we both warm to the task of discrediting de Villiers. By the end of lunch, I am too buzzed to drive and I decide to reschedule my afternoon meeting with one of my colleagues at USC. Vivian’s driver takes me home in my car, and I collapse into bed at four in the afternoon and sleep straight through until Tuesday morning.

I awake refreshed, rejuvenated, and entirely over the rat bastard Jérôme Michel de Villiers. I go in to work and try to mind my own business.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I
admit I’ve been a bit out of it at work. I was jet-lagged after Russia, then distra
cted by Landon and everything. Voyanovski
is
taking up a huge part of my time and energy, but when I get called into the department head’s office a week later and see the academic dean of the entire university also sitting there, I snap to attention.

“Bill. Sanjay.” I look at both men in turn, then sit down. I smile brightly as I speak. Neither returns my chipper tone, or even fakes it.

“Here’s the thing, Mikhaila.” No preamble, either. “You’re really good at what you do, and we were really close to offering you the tenure-track position. But, after much consideration, we finally decided to go with Andrew instead.”

Were really close
? Past tense?
Andrew
? Who the hell is Andrew? And what does Sanjay mean by
really close to offering
? Before I left for Russia—when I asked if it was
okay
for me to be away for two weeks this close to the final decision-making phase—Sanjay used the words
in the bag
.

In.

The.

Bag.

“Gentlemen,” I begin with genuine assurance, “I think there must be some mistake. I’m the most qualified person in this field, not just here at USC, but in the state of California. I have the most published papers—”

Bill, the department head, holds up his hand to silence me.

My voice peters out.

“Mikhaila. Not that we’re under any obligation to relay to any applicant the nature of our praise or misgivings, but I will do you the courtesy. You’re uninspired.”

I am dumbstruck.
Uninspire
d
? What does that have to do with anything? I
strive
to be uninspired. I am ambitiously uninspired! “Bill,” I say carefully, “the type of statistical analysis for which I’ve developed a keen understanding and excellent reputation does not benefit from inspiration. What are you even talking about?”

He stares down at his single manila folder. He is staring down at my rapidly telescoping future, I think lamely. Then he looks up. “You’ve just proven my point. Again, only because I truly believe you show great promise in this field, I’m telling you to take a few months or even a year off and rediscover what fires your creativity. Whatever it is, it will inform your academic performance. Until then, Sanjay supports my decision to keep you on salary as an associate professor. We will review your potential tenure status in one year’s time.”

I am beyond speech. I have spent months preparing a grant application for the upcoming five years and am awaiting only Sanjay’s signature to send it in. The bastard is probably stealing my entire thesis. I stand too quickly, and both men jerk up their heads to follow the unexpected movement. Everything seems so obvious all of a sudden. For so long, I have been clinging to all these ideas of what my life
should
look like, when the reality can be so much brighter than any idea. Voyanovski Industries is real! I don’t need to live in this shadowy world of academia, tamping myself down all the time. The real thing is right there for the taking, and I’ve spent enough time trying to shoehorn myself into this life. I want that other life! I want to go to my friend’s wedding in the South of France! I want to run my father’s company! I want Rome—

Well, I skip over that last part and toss my long blond ponytail over my right shoulder, take a deep breath, and then almost laugh as I say, “I quit.”

I’m not even doing it out of spite. It feels glorious! I’m not just quitting USC; I’m quitting my entire habit of living life on a Habitrail. These two men have unwittingly shone the light on this golden opportunity. I can actually
choose
to stop running away from my father’s company and admit that it’s what I really want to do.

“I’m moving to Russia to run Voyanovski Industries. Thank you, gentlemen.”

I watch both of their jaws drop before I turn and walk out of the office. I pack up my desk in under an hour. I make loose plans to meet up with three of my colleagues with whom I have developed real friendships. It is otherworldly how simple it is to wave and smile at the remaining fourteen people in the department, with whom I have never developed the slightest rapport whatsoever.

I throw my cardboard box in the backseat, then get behind the wheel and simply breathe.

Oddly, I want my mother.

I take out my cell phone and dial her number before I turn on the car. She picks up right away. “Simone,” she answers, identifying herself by her single name.

“Hi, Mom, it’s me.”

“Darling! Are you here in LA?”

“Yes. Where are you?”

“I’m here! Come to the house right this instant. I want to see you. Come!”

“Okay.”
I’m fine; thanks for asking.
“I’m just leaving USC.”
Forever.
“Let me drive over to your place, and I’ll see you soon. It’s probably going to take me a good hour at this point.”

“An hour? That’s too long.”

This is one of my mother’s favorite tactics: accuse the world of being round, then act affronted.

“Look, Mom, if the 10 is backed up, it could be longer. Do you want me to come or not?”

“Yes, yes. Of course I want you to come! I’ll see you when you get here.” I think I hear voices in the background just before she disconnects the call.

I slip my phone back into my purse and try to prepare myself for Friday-afternoon traffic. And my mother. And probably Jamie What’s-His-Name.

An hour and twenty minutes later, I pull into the vast courtyard that spreads out before the front door of The Monstrosity. Mom comes gliding out, dressed in something totally age-inappropriate. It is sheer and sexy, and she has a bikini on underneath. Maybe I am becoming a prude, but I’m sorry, I just don’t need to see my mother nearly naked. Luckily, Jamie is noticeably absent.

“Darling!” She holds my cheeks in her palms and stares into my eyes. Her blond hair is cut in her signature short style, and her near-black eyes are piercing. She always tells this silly tale about her gypsy ancestors and loves to pretend that her Romany blood gives her deep, accurate insights into the hearts and souls of others.

I shake her hands off. God forbid any of that insight stuff is true. The last thing I want is her looking into the present state of my discombobulated soul. I switch my computer bag to my other shoulder to put some additional distance between us. We walk up the wide front steps and cross into the marble foyer.

God, how I hate this house. It is worse than a mausoleum. Worse than a football stadium. And, as if the total lack of human scale weren’t bad enough, Simone has gone to the expense and inconvenience of covering every inch of the vast halls with loads of crap. Mementos. Awards. Black-and-white photographs of her in various states of undress.

As usual, my mother ignores it all and heads into her cramped study. I have attempted more than once to point out the fact that she spends all her waking hours in the smallest room in the house, so selling it might be a good idea.

“When are you going to sell this place?” I ask. As usual.

That does not go over well. At all. “This is a movie-star house, and I am a movie star.”

Whatever. I am in too good a mood to argue. “Why did you want me to come over so quickly?”

“Well . . .” She stops and stares at me. “Are you okay? You look different. What’s gotten into you?”

Damn her and her fake Romany blood. “Nothing. Well, I broke up with Landon. And I quit my job today, but other than that, nothing much has been going on.” I’m not about to tell her I’m moving to Russia to head up her despised baby-daddy’s company. And the crazy part of how ridiculous that sounds—about those things being nothing—is that they
are
nothing compared to the fact that I finally know what I want to be when I grow up, and I am pretty sure I fell in love with Rome de Villiers after spending a day and a night with him in Russia. And damn if she doesn’t see that—just glides right past all the abandoned boyfriends and tenure-track positions and right into emotional territory.

“What else?” she asks, more serious than I’ve seen her in years.

“Isn’t that enough?”

“There’s something else. You don’t sound upset about either of those supposed devastations. Your job?
Pffft.
” She practically hisses. “The bland decoration in your office alone would have made me quit. And I never liked Landon.”

I widen my eyes. “What? I thought you told me just a few weeks ago it was the life you always thought I wanted.”

“It certainly wasn’t the life
I
wanted for you! But”—she shrugs—“I thought you were in love.”

“Mom! You’re the worst. You’ve spent the past year telling me to settle down and . . . ugh. I don’t even know why we’re having this conversation. I should go.”

“Look, sweetheart, we both know you always do the opposite of what everyone says. Do you really think I would want that for you?” She brings her hand to her neck and reenacts a choking motion, eyes bulging, tongue lolling from her mouth. It is over a split second later and she is beaming her famous smile at me. “Kill me now!”

I laugh. I haven’t laughed with my mom in ages. Years, probably. She isn’t reliable at all. She might be all insightful and clever with me for the next few minutes or hours, or even days, but then she’ll be on to the next thing with no warning.

On the other hand, I am no longer an eight-year-old who’s been left at a movie theater. Maybe this is the little bit that she can give.

“I met someone else,” I say, looking down at my hands clasped in my lap. I am sitting across from her in the small office.

That gets her attention. She
loves
love stories. She collapses farther back into her big desk chair, a swiveling leather number from the 1960s. She got it at a yard sale in the late ’80s from some washed-up producer in Bel Air, and she loves every crack and tear in the leather. She says sitting in it makes her feel like Louis B. Mayer.

“I knew it!” She also loves being right, so I let her enjoy it. “You’ve fallen in love!”

“Yeah. Well, lust, at least. And don’t get too excited. Nothing will ever come of it.”

Simone sweeps the papers (probably important financial documents that needed her immediate attention four months ago) to one side of the large mahogany desk, puts her elbows down, and rests her chin in her hands. “Tell me all about him,” she beams. “Or her!” she adds with equal enthusiasm.

I can only imagine how much
more
thrilling it would be for my mother if I’d broken up with Landon for a woman. She will have to make do with an already-spoken-for French pirate.

My mother may not be the most dependable person in some respects, but she’s never betrayed a secret in her life, and when she’s actually able to pay attention for more than five minutes at a stretch, she’s got some pretty amazing life experience to share, especially when it comes to sordid love affairs. I decide to tell her all about Rome and my fling in Saint Petersburg.

I leave out the intimate details but tell her all about the Matisse, and the romantic dinner, and the kiss on the bridge, and how handsome he is, and how his voice kind of makes me weak just thinking about it.

“Oh. He sounds positively delicious . . . and he smokes? How horrible.” But she winks and probably adds that to her mental list of things to adore about Rome de Villiers. “So, when are you going to go after him?”

“What? Never.” Looking out the window behind Mom’s desk, I stare at the oversize pool in the backyard. The audacity of the man who built this place never ceases to amaze me. An Olympic pool? In the middle of Bel Air? I shake my head and meet her eyes. “He’s engaged. Didn’t you hear me?”

She shrugs her shoulders and purses her lips, just like Rome. Just like every arrogant Gaul since the beginning of time. “Engaged is not married. You were thinking of moving in with someone only last week, remember? And you’re not anymore. And married is not always unavailable, either.”