Authors: Margo Candela
Underneath It All (7 page)
18
Vivian
A
s soon as we pull up to the curb, Vivian yanks open my door. She ushers me to the sidelines where generally we spend most of our time when working. From the corner of my eye I see Danny hunch down in his seat and drive away as soon as the last car door is closed.
s soon as we pull up to the curb, Vivian yanks open my door. She ushers me to the sidelines where generally we spend most of our time when working. From the corner of my eye I see Danny hunch down in his seat and drive away as soon as the last car door is closed.
“Jacqs, how could you let this happen?” she hisses in my ear through her toothy smile. Her green eyes sweep the perimeter, scouting for rogue reporters and their pesky ears.
“Hello to you, too, Vivian.” I smile back. We can have complete conversations without actually moving our mouths, like two ventriloquists playing the dummies.
We both stand back and watch the Mayors go through the motions. The bright TV lights shine in their faces and flashbulbs pop like crazy. Both are all smiles and Mr. Mayor sort of has his arm sort of around her waist. It’s times like these that I realize how gullible people want to be, myself included.
“How bad is it?” Vivian nods assuredly to a couple of reporters.
Vivian has a tougher job than I do since she’s accountable to the People, City and County of San Francisco. Vivian has to deal with an aggressive press, irate citizens, and sleazy lobbyists and other politicos. Not that handling fawning celeb journalists, overenthusiastic fans and temperamental manicurists isn’t hard, but it’s not quite in the same league.
“On a scale of one to ten? I’d give this one about a billion.” I don’t know how much I should share with Vivian out on the sidewalk while we are surrounded by reporters and society gossips.
“Oh, Christ. What is it this time?” Her cat eyes flicker off to her right and left, as if she’s watching a tennis match and not her boss and mine pantomiming a happy marriage.
“Listen, have you, uh, noticed Mr. Mayor, um ...” What can I say? ... Vivian, have you noticed Mr. Mayor banging someone other than his wife during his lunch hour? “Has he seemed
distracted
to you?”
distracted
to you?”
“No more than usual. Despite what your boss thinks, being mayor of San Francisco is a full-time job and then some.” Vivian tilts her head toward mine and we both smile as a photographer points his camera at us.
“Yeah, but she feels he’s a little too
preoccupied
.” I lean in to her so that she gets the importance of what I’m saying. Vivian works with politicians and nosy journalists; you’d think she’d be a little more astute.
preoccupied
.” I lean in to her so that she gets the importance of what I’m saying. Vivian works with politicians and nosy journalists; you’d think she’d be a little more astute.
“He’s a busy man, she should know that,” Vivian says dismissively.
Her own husband is a busy man and, from what she’s confided in me, a tad inattentive.
“It’s just, you know, I think she may think he’s a little too
busy
.”
busy
.”
“You tell her she has nothing to worry about.” Her mouth is set in a tight line.
Oh. My. God. Vivian is having an affair with the Mayor. It’s so obvious! She’s sexy. He’s sexy. They spend hours and hours together. Vivian has known him longer than Mrs. Mayor has. Vivian can finish his sentences. She is the yin to his yang. How could they not eventually have sex?
“Let’s go. They’re finally moving inside.” Vivian grabs my elbow and leads me like a dairy cow inside.
After some more handshaking (him) and air kisses (her), the Mayors finally make their way inside and take seats in front of an impromptu stage. We’ve held up the performance, and the press will have a field day with that. At some point, Vivian and I need to coordinate our stories so they don’t find out the real reason we were late.
Dancers in traditional
folclórico
costumes assume poses onstage and wait for the mariachis to begin playing. I feel butterflies in my stomach, watching the familiar dances and listening to the music of my youth. Who would have thought I’d be watching this at a $1,000-a-plate benefit in San Francisco? Not me, that’s for sure.
folclórico
costumes assume poses onstage and wait for the mariachis to begin playing. I feel butterflies in my stomach, watching the familiar dances and listening to the music of my youth. Who would have thought I’d be watching this at a $1,000-a-plate benefit in San Francisco? Not me, that’s for sure.
Vivian taps me on the shoulder and I know that’s as much of the performance as I’m going to get to see. We make our way to the one sure place we’re not going to run into anyone: the maintenance closet.
“OK. This is what I think we should say.” Vivian pulls out a notepad. “You guys were late because Mr. Mayor got held up on a conference call.”
“To who?”
“Um, how about with Cortez?”
“No dice. Remember Cortez said he wouldn’t talk to the Mayor unless it was in an open forum? And he’s here and could easily blow a hole in that story.”
“Damn him. Where does he get off being so freaking ethical? Just makes my job harder.” Vivian looks tired. More tired than I’ve ever seen her. She needs this weekend off more than I do.
“How about we hint that they got tied up having a quiet dinner at home?” I suggest. I listen through the door as the music ends and the crowd applauds enthusiastically.
“Together?”
“Of course together! Give it a little Camelot spin. They’ll eat that up.” Hopefully.
“Thanks, Jacqs. Listen, I’ll take care of this and why don’t you catch some of the performance. I know you’ve been looking forward to it.”
19
Emilio
W
e slip out of the closet and I watch as Vivian makes her way over to the bar where a couple of reporters just happen to be hanging out. Reporters always congregate around the food and drinks, especially when it’s free. Reminds me of my dot-com salad days. I make my way outside to get some fresh air.
e slip out of the closet and I watch as Vivian makes her way over to the bar where a couple of reporters just happen to be hanging out. Reporters always congregate around the food and drinks, especially when it’s free. Reminds me of my dot-com salad days. I make my way outside to get some fresh air.
“Señorita Sanchez, buenas noches.”
“Cortez.” My heart thumps in my chest, and not just because he startled me. Emilio Cortez is exactly the kind of man my mother warned me about. The kind who will show you a good time, keep life interesting and ultimately break your heart. That’s why I’ve made the choice to go with the total opposite: the safe guy, the unavailable guy. My ex-husband, Mr. Mayor, George. Gee, thanks,
Mamá
.
Mamá
.
“Call me Emilio. Or call me whatever else you want.” Cortez is more Mr. Mayor than Mr. Mayor is—more vocal, more liberal, taller, darker and, if possible, even more handsome.
“Call me Jacquelyn.” When he’s not upsetting Mr. Mayor’s political applecart, he’s romancing most of the eligible women in the Bay Area. Black, white, Asian, Latina, you name it, he’s banged it, or at least rumored to have. He’s definitely not a one-woman man, but if I was ever to have a
ménage à trois
I wouldn’t mind him being on one side of a me sandwich. With Mr. Mayor bringing up the rear.
ménage à trois
I wouldn’t mind him being on one side of a me sandwich. With Mr. Mayor bringing up the rear.
“Jacquelyn,
bueno
. How is the lovely Katherine tonight?” Emilio leans against the railing with his arms crossed over his chest.
bueno
. How is the lovely Katherine tonight?” Emilio leans against the railing with his arms crossed over his chest.
His focus is completely on me, but I can’t help but notice the growing buzz from the actual guests who don’t appreciate my monopolizing his time.
“Fine.” Each time I’ve spoken to Cortez I’ve needed a fresh pair of undies. The extra laundry and loyalty to my boss and Mr. Mayor are why I avoid him at parties, functions and events. Both the Mayors are really paranoid about him, with good reason. “
Muchas gracias
for asking.”
Muchas gracias
for asking.”
“Truce, Jacquelyn. I’m not working. I’m here as a lover of art. Just like your boss. I’m sure the two of you can spend hours talking about the merits of Mexican art. You can offer her so many ... insights.”
“What did you say?”
“I wonder how a woman as smart as you could end up working for her.” (Oh, and he has the annoying habit of probing questions. I already pay someone to poke around in my psyche so I don’t appreciate it from him.)
“What do you mean?” I play dumb. Something I’m sure he can understand. It’s much easier to get the advantage when the people you work with (and for) underestimate you.
“I hear that you did well, very well, at Berkeley.” Emilio leans into me, and I’m tempted to push him away with my finger, knowing it will drive him crazy. He likes the chase, or so I’ve heard. “You can’t tell me it’s your life’s ambition to run errands for the queen of San Francisco’s consumer class?”
“Consumer class?”
“She consumes therefore she thinks she has class. The
chisme
is you got accepted to law school but got ... distracted.” He smiles at me.
chisme
is you got accepted to law school but got ... distracted.” He smiles at me.
Distracted? Me? Yes, I did get distracted but I don’t know if he means by the easy dot-com money or my ex-husband’s all-American penis. I stare at him blankly like I do when I’m facing a particularly thorny question from Dr. N.
“Law school is still there, Cortez. I’m exploring my options.”
“Your boss will be supportive of whatever you choose to do. Just like with Mrs. Mayor’s other assistant. Myra? The rumor is little Myra had an attack of the nerves and is now resting comfortably in a group home in Humboldt. All paid for by your boss and her husband, of course. You can tell me, Jacquelyn, I promise I won’t tell anyone,” he prods, but not the way I want him to.
“Gossip is gossip. You of all people should know not to take it to heart. Or print it. But, then again, you wouldn’t have much of a job, would you?” I wonder what Cortez will do when Mr. Mayor leaves for Sacramento? They’re a political Cain and Abel. I doubt they could exist without each other. I wonder what I’ll do? “And I do a lot more than run errands. But thank you for your concern.”
“You may find this surprising, but my humble goal is to speak for the common people of San Francisco.”
“And the common people of San Francisco really need to know how much my boss spends at Neiman Marcus every month?”
“She’s an outsider, worse, she’s from Los Angeles. You can’t blame people for being a little suspicious, Jacquelyn.”
“It just makes my job all the more difficult,” I mutter underneath my breath.
“The job market is tight, but you could have done better, Jacquelyn.” He leans forward and looks serious. Too serious. “Things are changing in San Francisco, Jacquelyn, but slowly. Look around. You and I are the only Latinos here not carrying a tray or playing a guitar. You could do better for yourself and your community.”
“Are you offering me a job, Emilio? Does your
esposa
need someone to pick up her dry cleaning? Oh, wait, you’re not married.” People have started to press in on us, trying to get his attention. Relieved, I take a step away from him. I’m not ready to deal with the implications of being an underachieving Latina. Not tonight, at least, when I had sort of convinced myself I was doing pretty well for myself.
esposa
need someone to pick up her dry cleaning? Oh, wait, you’re not married.” People have started to press in on us, trying to get his attention. Relieved, I take a step away from him. I’m not ready to deal with the implications of being an underachieving Latina. Not tonight, at least, when I had sort of convinced myself I was doing pretty well for myself.
“Don’t get mad at me, Jacquelyn. I’m just trying to give you some advice.”
“Fine, thanks.” We stare at each other, neither of us angry, just resigned to our respective roles. “Lay off Katherine for a while. Find someone else to pick on.”
“I’ll try, but she makes it so difficult. Time to feed the sharks,” he sighs. He pulls out a card from his shirt pocket and hands it to me. “We should have coffee sometime and talk when you’re ready to do some good and help
la raza
.”
la raza
.”
“I think
la raza
can do fine without me, Cortez, but thanks for thinking of me in a bilingual way.” I blush at my audacity (twice in one day!) but he merely smiles and turns around.
la raza
can do fine without me, Cortez, but thanks for thinking of me in a bilingual way.” I blush at my audacity (twice in one day!) but he merely smiles and turns around.
20
George
I
back away, watching him work his magic with the money people, and bump into someone. “Pardon me!”
back away, watching him work his magic with the money people, and bump into someone. “Pardon me!”
“Not a problem.” She’s well preserved and ageless, like most rich women tend to be. She could be in her late thirties, or older, I can’t tell because of all the work she’s had done. It’s not very obvious, expensively so, but normal people aren’t as smooth and lineless.
“Sorry again!” I say when I realize I’ve been staring.
“I’m waiting for my husband.” She coils a very expensive-looking strand of pearls around her finger like it was one of those candy necklaces I used to buy from the ice-cream truck when I was a kid. “He forgot something in the car and has been gone forever.”
“I can get someone to check if you want.” I’m in at-your-service mode. Mrs. Mayor thinks nothing of asking me to march into the men’s room to retrieve Mr. Mayor when she thinks he’s been gone too long.
“Oh, no thanks! I just hate waiting here. Makes me feel like people are thinking I’ve been stood up or something,” she says with a smile as she starts to twist around the very-impressive, emerald-cut diamond ring on her finger.
From the way she talks she has to be under forty. Maybe thirty-five? No, older, but not by much.
“Nice night, huh?” I ask, trying to make conversation.
“Hey, sorry. I don’t want to keep you!” She puts a hand on my arm and then pulls it away quickly.
“Nah, don’t worry about it. I’m actually here for work.” I wait for her to ask me who I work for when a familiar figure strides up the steps.
“George!” we both call out in unison. She turns to look at me and I pretend to sneeze.
“Pardon me.” I dig through my bag for nonexistent tissue. She hands me one from her own bag. I make a big show of blowing my nose while George, my married boyfriend, looks stunned for a moment and then slides over to his wife. His estranged wife, or so I thought.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, darling.” He plants a perfunctory kiss on her cheek.
“We missed the dancers, George. Thank you. I have to visit the ladies’ room. Wait here.” All of a sudden she seems older and very sophisticated—a woman who would never maltreat her jewelry in nervousness. She turns expertly on one heel and calls over her shoulder to me, “You have a good night.”
I nod and nod, my eyes close to bursting out of my skull as if she just caught me with my hand in her husband’s cookie jar.
“You look ravishing, Jacquelyn, as usual,” he says after the door swings shut on his wife.
“What are you doing here, George?” What are you doing here with your wife is what I really want to ask.
“She loves this kind of shindig. It’s the least I could do, that and write a huge check for the new building.” The least he could do is stop taking me out and buying me gifts. Gifts that I really, really like. I’m sure if his wife knew about that she’d less than love it. “I left a message on your machine. I guess this is why you didn’t pick up your phone.”
“Obviously! I was out here having a pleasant conversation with a woman who turns out to be your wife.” This is so wrong. I was never supposed to meet her. Not that George and I have technically done anything wrong. Sharing long, expensive meals, some innocent flirting and one-sided gift-giving aren’t grounds for me to be sent to hell as an adulterer. Are they? “I have to get back to my seat.”
“Jacquelyn, don’t be angry. I’m sure you go out with other men and it’s totally innocent.”
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.” Truth is George is the closest I’ve come to getting any in a while. And, yeah, I know he’s not divorced, but I didn’t want to know that he and his wife still do married-people things. Now I wonder what other kind of things they do together. Do they go to the supermarket and squeeze produce? Shop for toilet paper and hand soap? Do they have sex?
Now that would be a kick in the ass. My married boyfriend is having sex with his wife and I haven’t gotten laid since ... a really long time.
“So, George, are you and your wife on the mend?” I can’t help but feel a little peeved. I mean, all he’s ever said is how cold she is and how they have nothing in common, blah, blah, blah. “Or do you really love art this much?”
“Lunch next week?” he asks with a smile.
You have to hand it to George. His wife (third wife) is pulling up her pantyhose not 20 feet away and he still has the balls to make a date with me. From the corner of my eye I watch Emilio shake hands and smile at the people who hold his political future in their hands.
“Lunch? You can’t be serious,” I say, trying to resist temptation.
“Just lunch, Jacquelyn.”
“I’m sure that’s what you tell all the girls.”
George leans in for a chaste kiss on my cheek and I let him.
Other books
Silent Deceit by Kallie Lane
Wartime Brides by Lizzie Lane
Into His Keeping by Faulkner, Gail
8 Ways to Make Her Come Orally by Sonia Borg
The Silver Ring by Swartwood, Robert
Shadow World by A. C. Crispin, Jannean Elliot
Jane Goodger by A Christmas Waltz
Lest Darkness Fall by L. Sprague de Camp
Meeting the Step by Adams, Ash
Stay At Home Dead by Allen, Jeffrey
