Hardly Working (18 page)

“We
what?
But it's already been organized. What am I supposed to do?”

“Ian has suggested that the YM-YWCA has reasonably-priced accommodations.”

“The Y…” I tried to picture it.

“Those are the directives,” she said dryly. “Your Villiers donor didn't work out, I see.”

She ought to have known better. The things that didn't work out for one of us were the things that didn't work out for the whole of Green World.

Wednesday

I was fifteen minutes early for my tango lesson. Los Tangueros was deserted. I stood on the small iron landing outside, banging, but nobody was there. Nobody answered. I sat down on the top step, deciding to give him five more minutes.

A blue Ford van pulled up and Victoria climbed out. She ran up the steps.

“I'm sorry,” she said, “Hector's not coming tonight. He's…”

“Indisposed?”

She looked back toward the van and raised her eyebrows.

Incredulous, I went down the steps and up to the van. There was no one in the front. I opened up the back. Slumped across the carpeted floor was Hector, snoring loudly and reeking of alcohol. I was on the verge of waking him up and yanking him out but Victoria called, “Don't! He'll just have to sleep it off. I'm sorry.”

“I came all the way down here for this lesson,” I protested. “And my teacher gets pissed. Great.”

“I can teach you if you want. And I'll make it half price for the inconvenience. We'll go over what he showed you if you like.”

I thought about it. Victoria sounded so apologetic. I was already there and primed and it was better than nothing. “Okay,” I nodded.

I was disappointed but in the long run, Victoria was a much easier male partner than Hector. Her teaching technique was the opposite of his. She told me right out that she believed we all have some talent and that the talent should be nurtured rather than bullied out into the open.

After the lesson, I said to Victoria, “Tell me something more about Hector.”

“What would you like to know?” By her response, I guessed that everyone wanted to know more about Hector.

“Well…where he was born. A little something about his
life… I mean, it can't be simple being from Argentina, with all that's happened in that country. I mean, Hector was a popular figure. He wrote ‘Scarlet Tango,' for crying out loud. It's famous in the tango repertoire. He's an artist. He must have been involved… I mean, I know that artists didn't have it easy during those years…”

She looked at me with suspicion. “Be careful.”

I hesitated then said, “Listen, Victoria, when I'm handing sixty dollars an hour over to a person, I like to know something about them.”

“Yes. But there are some things in his past he gets very upset about.”

“Rupert was about to tell me but he never got the chance.”

“I see.” But as she put her tango shoes into her bag, I could tell that her attitude toward me was changing. She was closing up as tight as a clam. “Perhaps you should ask him yourself if you're so interested.”

It sounded like a challenge. “I will,” I said. “And thanks for the lesson.”

Thursday

“Extension twenty-two, please.”

A man's voice answered. “Who did you want to speak to?”

“Moira Kelly.”

“Is this a business or personal call?” he asked, cattily.

“Business.”

“That's a surprise.”

“Why?”

“Moira's personal calls outnumbered her business calls. Which is why she doesn't work here anymore.”

My mouth went dry. I hung up.

Jake was there at my door. He raised his eyebrows and said, “Notte's. After work.”

 

At Notte's, I was definitely the center of attention.

Ida said, “You've got him in the perfect position, Dinah. You can help us all out. If you have to tie Ian Trutch to your bedposts and torture him to get the names of the redundancies, do it. I won't tell. I can lend you the whips.”

Cleo opened her eyes wide. “Whips, Ida? I never would have pegged you for the type.”

Ida plucked the maraschino off her cupcake and held it up. “Why is it you young people always think you're the ones who invented sex?”

Fran sighed. “'Cause when it's been so long you've forgotten what it's like, it
seems
like they invented it.”

Jake was impatient. “Can we get to the business at hand? Dinah?”

“If I can just find this Robertson guy, I'm sure I can get his donation. You know my track record.”

“Your methods are a little unorthodox…but you've hooked a few. No doubt about that.”

“She has,” said Lisa, “but this one's a real toughie.”

I'd organized an Egyptian theme event when the Tut exhibit was in town, a city-wide treasure hunt with prizes, a sponsored Polar Bear Swim-a-thon at Jericho Beach one December, an Artists' Ball, an International Food Fest, and a mud-wrestling gala where local politicians got into the ring with several pairs of the most preposterous breasts anybody had ever seen. I had sniffed out, staked out, and stalked my donors. Nobody was exempt.

“I'm sure I can get to him,” I said.

Jake sighed. “I've worked for GWI since the beginning. I hadn't really considered a career move.”

Fran, who'd been looking pretty depressed lately, said, “Career move. That sounds so much prettier than the ugly thing it is. I can't get fired. Who'll hire me in this sexist, ageist
society? I can't afford to get body work. And I've got my kid's braces to pay for, car payments, house payments, you name it, it never stops.”

“There've been rumblings that the province is looking for advisors on sewage outfall…” said Jake.

“Naw, Jake. You'd hate it.” Cleo shook her head. “But I guess it would be better than having to move to another town.”

Jake grimaced. “Don't forget, I've got those alimony payments.”

Fran patted Jake's shoulder. “You're one of the good guys, Jake. One who makes the payments. Not like somebody I know who's investing all his wages in silicon.”

“What about you, Ida?” asked Jake. “What'll you do if you're made redundant?”

“Ah, hell. I'll go on a cruise. I'll find a wealthy husband. If there's one thing I've learned, axe or no axe, you gotta live for the moment.”

“You, Lisa?” asked Jake.

She smiled. “I was thinking of maybe opening my own business.”

We all stared at her.

“What kind of business?” Fran wanted to know.

“Not sure yet, Fran.”

“You have the start-up capital?” asked Cleo.

Lisa was unfazed. “No. But I trust in the universe.”

“That makes exactly one of us,” muttered Fran.

Lisa went on, “But you know what, guys? I really don't want to quit the work we've been doing. I
love
the work we've been doing.”

Everybody sighed in agreement.

“I'm sure I can get to that donor,” I repeated.

Saturday

It was a wintry morning. I looked inside my closet; the moment of reckoning had arrived.

“Evil beast,” I shouted into the dark hole. But there was no putting it off. I reached in and grabbed it.

The vacuum cleaner.

No ordinary vacuum cleaner but a Christmas present from my mother, state-of-the-art German technology with an unpronounceable name. I pulled it out of its cubbyhole.

Have I mentioned that I hate housework?

It didn't help matters that using my vacuum was like wrestling a bull elephant. It had a life of its own and one hell of a powerful suck. Barely would I spot one of my long-lost earrings in a dark corner at three feet than it had gobbled it up, forcing me to rummage for ages through the bag of disgusting dust to find it.

But there was no going back now. I'd invited Ian to dinner at my place and now I had to clean up. It was going to take me all day. It meant getting into all those telltale corners, the grouting in the bathroom, that place way back behind and under the sink, the dust along the skirting boards, the tiny cobwebs in the far corners of the ceiling. And then I had to think about clean sheets on the bed, the best towels on display, and room scent that would cover the smell of curry. If he happened to snoop in my drawers and cupboards when I wasn't looking, I had to show him what a meticulous orderly woman I was. I had to have every base covered. I had to keep him sweet.

The beast whined and roared as I lugged it around the tight corners. Under the roaring I could hear the sound of a ringing telephone.

Great.

Saved by the bell.

I switched it off and ran to answer. Any excuse not to vacuum. I was infinitely grateful to my caller as I picked up the phone and said, “Whoever you are, you just saved me from a fate worse than death.”

“Your breasts are like two pert round mounds of spanakopita,” hissed the caller.

“Listen, you Mr. Telephone Pervert. Don't you have something better to do than get your jollies with me and Greek food? Don't you have something to do? A job? A life?”

“You. I want to do it with you,” he said.

“Listen. You could open one of those bakeries, a porn bakery maybe,” I said, feeling inspired, “where all the goods are obscene, baked in the shape of body parts…”

“I want
your
body parts…”

I hung up. I hadn't been able to bring myself to use the whistle, even if I could find it. I felt sorry for the poor slob and his obsession with me.

I switched the beast on again and went back to work. As I cursed and untangled the vacuum cord from around my feet, Joey appeared outside on the little balcony. He knocked on the glass.

I switched the vacuum off again and opened up to Joey, armed with his habitual cup of coffee and copy of
Variety.
He pushed his way past me and into the center of the living room. “Is that what I think it is?”

I nodded fatalistically and stared at the malevolent hunk of stainless steel.

“My God, Dinah Nichols is vacuuming. Cleaning up. Alert the media. Somebody call CNN. It's that Ian Trutch hunk o' man, isn't it? You're having him to your dump. Just you and him? Or an intimate gathering of fifty or so?”

“Joey…”

“I know, I know. Go and weave baskets, Joey, is that what you're telling me? You can just say it to my face. I won't be offended.”

But as he said it, I thought I'd never seen anyone look so hurt in all his life. Either that or he was a very good actor.

I whined, “Joeeeeey. It was supposed to be a two couple evening. Two
straight
couples.”

Joey waved at the air with one finger and called to an imaginary person, “Waiter? Double lobotomy on the rocks, please?”

I continued to glare at him.

“I'll be as quiet as a mouse,” he whispered. “You won't even know there's a faggot in the house.”

I sighed in resignation. “Dinner's at eight.”

“Now who's the other couple?”

“Cleo and Simon.”

“Ooohoo. She didn't tell me about this din-dins either, the conniving harlot. This is a conspiracy.”

“No, it's not. You have to bring wine then. Something white, chilled and fizzy that goes well with hors d'oeuvres. And you'll have to serve them because I'll be in the kitchen slaving, producing a masterpiece of a three-course dinner.”

“Dinah, you're only supposed to be test-driving this man, not parking him forever in your two-car garage.”

“But you never know in life, do you? You never know when man-eating might turn into that love thing. Call it practice. Anyway, I need an excuse to clean up my place.”

“Gawd, well I can tell you, you don't Ell Oh Vee Ee him, believe me,” Joey cringed as he spelled it out.

“Did you hear me say that? I didn't say that.”

“So you're cooking, too, Di? Not picking up the phone and calling the nearest caterers?” He seemed worried.

“I know how to cook perfectly well. I had Mike and Dawn over for goulash the other week.”

“Yes, well, Dinah sweetheart, we don't care if you poison
them.
”

“I know how to cook.”

“Of course you do, dear.”

“All right, if you're going to be such a pain in the ass all day, the ingredients are in the kitchen. Get to work.”

Joey looked gleeful. He put his coffee cup and copy of
Variety
on the dining room table, rolled up his sleeves and went to take inventory.

I'm not a bad cook. Really. But it just so happens that Joey is a better one. A first-class, almost gourmet chef. As he is
always explaining to people, being an actor often means being unemployed, or being a waiter, a dog-walker, a dishwasher, a telegram delivery boy, a phone sex voice, a male stripper, and many other things that an actor has to work in around his real acting gigs. Including chef's assistant.

So I let him take over. I'd have been crazy not to.

He took my stuffy boring old cut of roast beef and made it Mediterranean by rubbing the outside of it in rosemary, sage, garlic, salt and pepper. Then he seared it in olive oil in a big pan on the stovetop. The salad got tossed with blood orange sections and paper-thin purple onion slices, the potatoes got mashed with sour cream and parmesan, and we both got silly on the wine he was supposed to be cooking with.

By the time Ian, Cleo and Simon turned up, everything was feeling better than good.

I grabbed Simon right away and dragged him into my bedroom.

He grinned. “Hey babe, I was wondering when this would happen. Cool.”

I shook my head. “The same old Simon Larkin. It's nice to know some things never change. But that's not what I want you for.”

“That's cool, too…”

“We need to do another infiltration.”