Resist (Songs of Submission #6)(48)

A man walked toward me with intention. He was tall, maybe six-four, and wore a black cashmere coat and scarf. He was in his sixties but well-worn, taut in the neck and jaw. He had sparkling turquoise eyes and white hair. “Have they gone in?”

“Yeah. The ladies in the red jackets give you your seat. You get one of these pins.” I indicated my rhinestone, and he looked at it appreciatively.

“God forbid we should walk around without a status symbol,” he said.

“Yeah. It’s like a nametag but not as personal.”

“Like you’re only as good as the money you spend.”

His voice sounded eerily like Jonathan’s but wasn’t. I must have looked worried because he put his hand on my shoulder. It wasn’t an uncomfortable touch, just comforting. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

He took his hand off me and straightened, pulling a silk handkerchief from his pocket. “You should wipe your eyes, then.”

“I wasn’t crying,” I said, more in surprise than denial. I put my fingers to my face, but he put out his hand before I touched it. He pressed the handkerchief under my eyes. I let him. I didn’t know why. He seemed nice enough.

“You’re smudged, nonetheless. It wouldn’t be right to have such a lovely woman look like a raccoon.”

I put my hands on his and pressed the hankie down. He brought his hand away.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You look familiar,” he said. “Did you come to this circus last year?”

“No.”

“My God. You should have seen the place. It was a Damien Hirst homage with decapitated heads for centerpieces.”

“Sounds awful.”

“The forks had these hands already attached to them. With veins and nerves. I almost didn’t come tonight. I was afraid they were going to try to top themselves.” He wrinkled his nose, and I smiled. “Well, I’m glad you weren’t here. Maybe I know you from somewhere else.”

I looked up at him as if for the first time, trying to see if I could place his features. There was something about the shape of his eyes, the angle of his jaw, the way he tilted his head when he spoke.

Jessica burst out the big doors, on the phone. I angled myself behind the man in the cashmere coat. “Deny it,” she said into the phone in clipped syllables. “It’s not my voice. Just say no comment.”

She stopped in the middle of the patio, still on her call, and stared at her shoes, then out over the mezzanine onto Wilshire Boulevard. The flights of stone steps on each side framed her perfectly, yet she still looked lost. If I felt sorry for her for half a second, the image of Jonathan getting put into a police car at Santa Monica Airport dismissed my compassion and replaced it with something much fiercer.

Jessica glanced at the wood doors then turned on her heel and went down a hall. Once she was far enough away, I handed the man his handkerchief. His back had been to her, and he didn’t look around.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Keep it.” He smiled and went toward the wooden doors. I saw inside when he opened them. The room was crowded, and everyone was sitting. I checked my phone. Nothing from Jonathan. If he was sitting at our table, getting pissed, he would have texted me.

I went down the hall. I’d come to look for Jonathan, but I thought I might hear another snippet of phone call. I was sure he was fine. Just being mysterious, as usual. I followed Jessica into the ladies room. It was a standard museum bathroom. Clean, white and blue, with midlevel fixtures and flat, warm, white lighting. My shoes echoed on the tile. If she’d been on the call in the bathroom, she either stopped talking when I entered or she’d cut the call already.

The door opened behind me, and I heard Jonathan’s voice, but it wasn’t him.

“—my belt, loop it once, and slap it across those sweet white cheeks until you’re pink as a rose and your face is covered with tears. I’ll stop when I can stick two fingers in your cunt and feel how sopping wet you are.”

I froze. It was undoubtedly him, from the floral metaphor, to the word cunt, to the dominant voice. Three women came in and stopped dead in their tracks when they saw me. The young woman with the phone in her hand had her hair done up like Audrey Hepburn, right down to the tiara. The second was tall and matronly with a sweater, flat shoes, and lines of disappointment permanently etched on her face. They both wore silver pins.

The third woman was Geraldine Stark.

The recording continued.

“Then I’ll f**k you until you beg me to let you come, which I may or may not let you do. That going to work for you? Didn’t think so.”

“Do it.”

The voice was shrill and desperate and definitely Jessica’s. That must be it. The voice memo from her stolen phone.

Audrey Hepburn fumbled with the phone, shutting it.

“I want to hear it,” I said. “From the beginning, if you don’t mind.”

She hesitated.

“I was telling them,” Geraldine said, “he’s really like this, and it’s hot. Don’t you think?” She raised an eyebrow. I didn’t answer but stared down Audrey Hepburn. She was a nervous kitten, breakable and easily bossed.

“Do it,” I said, my voice the exact opposite of Jessica’s whine.

She shrugged as if she wasn’t giving in as much as bored by the prospect of not continuing. “It’s only really good when he starts this.”