Knitting Under the Influence (3 page)

III

K
athleen's phone calls were so productive that she was able to land an appointment with the real estate guy early that very evening. At her request, Sari helped her pick out some “responsible” clothes—a pair of dark brown pants and a cream-colored silk shirt. Kathleen even put her hair up in a twist. “Wow,” Sari said. “You look almost like an adult.”

Sari insisted on driving her back to the twins’ house to pick up her car. Kathleen had intended to leave the car behind as a grand gesture to her newfound independence—the twins’ production company was leasing it for her. But Sari pointed out that Kathleen would have no way of getting around town without it.

“I could drop you off at work every day and use your car the rest of the time,” Kathleen said. “Play chauffeur.”

“No, you couldn't,” Sari said. “We're getting your car.”

They drove up to the house, and Kathleen jumped out of Sari's car and into her own without anyone even coming out of the house. And she was relieved, really—she loved her car. It was a turquoise-colored convertible Mini Cooper that had originally been leased for Kelly—Christa had the same car in red—but the twins had moved on to electric cars at the suggestion of Junie Peterson, who said that people liked their celebrities to be environmentally conscientious. So this one was now Kathleen's baby.

Kathleen was very good at changing her mind when it was expedient to do so, and by the time she had arrived at her destination, she had already decided that there was nothing morally compromising about her using the car, that she had earned it by working for her sisters as long as she had.

She parked the Mini Cooper in front of the address she'd been given, which turned out to belong to one of the high-rise buildings that line Wilshire Boulevard near Westwood Avenue. She entered off the street, through the building's big glass front doors.

Kathleen gave her contact's name—Sam Kaplan—to both the doorman and the security guard at the front desk. The elevator man, who wore a red suit and an air of frosty boredom, took her up to the penthouse floor, gestured toward the only door in the foyer, and closed the elevator doors behind her as soon as she stepped out.

Kathleen wondered if this meant that the penthouse apartment was available, and that Sam Kaplan might offer it to her. It would have to be at a hugely reduced rate, of course. She hadn't saved much while working for the twins—she liked to buy clothes and go out to clubs and bars. So there was no way she could afford a penthouse, except by special arrangement.

The door was slightly open. She knocked on it, didn't hear a response, and went on in, calling “Hello?” as she entered.

The living room was completely—and expensively and beautifully—furnished, and there were current newspapers on the coffee table. Which meant that someone was already living there, so she could forget about moving in.

A man's voice called out, “Come back here, to the kitchen,” in reply to her shouts.

Kathleen followed the sound of his voice out of the living room into a wide hallway hung with enormous framed paintings—all of them very modern and graphic—and then on into the kitchen. The owner of the voice stood at a six-burner Wolf range, his back to her.

“I assume you're Kathleen,” he said with a quick glance over his shoulder. “You're late. Sit down. Are you hungry? I’m making eggs.”

“I’m always hungry,” Kathleen said and sat down at the half-round dark green marble table that was attached to a higher and extremely long island made out of the same marble.

Sam Kaplan—she assumed—went back to his cooking. Kathleen craned her neck to see his face again. He was thin in a wiry way, with thick black hair that was graying at the sides and a hawkish face, pursed in concentration at the moment.

“You want toast?” he said after a little while.

“Why not?” she said. “I’m easy.”

He made no reply to that, just scraped the eggs onto a couple of plates, pulled some bread out of a toaster-oven, and tossed a slice on each plate, then brought the dishes over to the table. “I’ve got beer, if you want it and you're old enough. If not, there's orange juice.” He foraged through a drawer and transferred a couple of forks to the table.

Kathleen said, “Do you need to see some ID? Or will you take my word for it?”

He glanced at her briefly. “You're old enough.”

“Then I’ll take the beer.”

He nodded at that and extracted two beers from one of two Sub-Zero refrigerators. He also got two crystal highball glasses out of a glass-front cabinet.

“I’m fine with the bottle,” Kathleen said. In college, she had left a trail of beer bottles wherever she went. Her roommates once got so sick of her leaving her empties around their dorm room that they built a pyramid of them right in front of her bedroom door when she was asleep, so she had to dismantle it before she could go anywhere. Made her late for class that day.

No, wait—not late—she had just skipped class completely and gone back to bed.

Sam Kaplan said, “In my house, we use glasses.”

“Yes, sir,” Kathleen said, snapping him a salute.

He raised his eyebrows without saying anything, then flicked the beer caps off with a bottle opener, threw them both in the trash, and poured the drinks. The empty beer bottles went into a recycling bin under the sink. He put one filled glass in front of her and one in front of his own plate, then squinted at the whole presentation. “Have I forgotten anything?”

“Looks good to me,” Kathleen said. The plates were large and white without a single scratch, and the flatware was real silver and very heavy.

“Napkins,” he said, raising a finger, and turned around to slip two out of a drawer. They were linen and impeccably starched and ironed.

“It goes in your lap,” he said, handing one to her.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that.” She spread it across her legs.

“All right,” he said. “Now we eat.” He sat down at the table, and, for a moment, they ate in silence.

Kathleen looked up to find Sam Kaplan studying her face.

“What?” she said. “Do I have egg on my chin?”

He shook his head. His eyebrows were heavy and dark and his eyes were even darker. “So you need a place to stay?”

“Yeah.”

“How much can you afford?”

“Not much. I’m momentarily unemployed.”

“Why?”

“I had a falling-out with my … employers.”

“Whose fault?”

“Mine,” she said with a shrug. “I was what you might call indiscreet.”

“Meaning what?”

She gave him a big smile. “If I told you, then I’d be even more indiscreet, wouldn't I?”

He didn't seem amused, but he let it go. “Who were you employed by?”

“A small production company.” Well, it was true, wasn't it? “I did PR, mostly.”

“I assume you finished college?”

She nodded.

“Any graduate school?”

“No.” She hadn't considered that for a second, having spent her entire academic career counting the days until she'd be done with school forever. Sitting in a dark classroom on a beautiful day was her idea of torture.

“What did you major in?”

“Economics. And I had a B minus average, if that's what you were going to ask me next. Do you always ask this many questions when you're helping someone out with an apartment?”

“I don't usually ‘help people out’ with apartments,” he said. “I’m in the business of buying, selling, and leasing real estate.”

“Well, you should know right now, I can't afford to buy or even rent an apartment.”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m aware of that. Which is why I’m trying to figure out whether you're responsible enough to house-sit.”

“I am.” She was glad she had worn her responsible clothes.

“We'll see. So what kind of job are you going to be looking for now? Something else in entertainment?”

“Probably not. I never really wanted to go into it in the first place—”

“Then why did you?”

“I just kind of fell into the job.”

“Ah,” he said. “So what's next?”

“I don't know. I don't want to jump at the first thing that comes along. I want to figure out what's right for me long term.”

“And what have you figured out so far?” He dotted his mouth carefully with his linen napkin, then set it back across his lap. His fastidiousness was more suited to a fancy dinner party than to a couple of people sitting around a breakfast table on a Sunday evening eating eggs and drinking beer.

“I don't know,” she said again. “The only thing I liked in college was playing sports.”

“Sports? Well, have you thought about coaching kids? Maybe teach PE at a local school?”

“I’d hate that.”

“How about professional sports?”

“I’m not in that kind of shape anymore. I run, but I don't do much else.”

Sam Kaplan had finished his eggs. He leaned back in his chair. Up close, his face was craggier than it had looked from a distance. He said, “I think I can help you out.”

Turned out, there was an empty apartment on the floor right below him, and, for complicated legal reasons, they couldn't put it on the market. “It's all tied up,” was all Sam Kaplan would say about it. “And since we've got plenty of other vacancies right now, I’m not even going to show it until things are settled. You could live there for a while, but I can't make any promises for how long, and you might have to vacate very suddenly. You have family around, right? I mean, other than your father? You wouldn't end up on the street?”

“No, it's fine,” she said.

“All right, then. The apartment's yours if you want it. We can go see it now if you like.”

“I want it,” Kathleen said. “I don't even need to see it to know I want it.” She pushed her empty plate away, leaned far back in her chair, and stretched. “So,” she said. “Now that I’ve got a place to live, I need a job. Got any ideas?”

“You know,” he said, “I just might.”

IV

W
hile Kathleen was getting herself an apartment, Lucy was getting herself laid.

Right there, on the lab table, just feet away from the stinky paper-lined cages where the rats chattered and squeaked and ate and shat constantly.

She wasn't planning on having sex when she first headed into work late that afternoon. She was working on a grant proposal, and a lot of the information she needed was in the lab, so she figured she'd just take her laptop and write there. She had left a message for James letting him know that's where she'd be, and he called her back just as she was walking into the building to say, “I’ll meet you there with a bottle of wine in an hour—what goes well with rat, red or white?” and so she was smiling as she flipped her phone shut and didn't even hear David coming up the steps behind her until he said, “Hey, world, Lucy Cameron's smiling. This has got to be a first.”

She spun around.

“Jesus,” she said. “You scared me.”

“Imagine how I felt. Seeing you smile. Must be awfully cold in hell right about now.”

“You're so funny,” Lucy said. “You're just so incredibly funny, David. Has anyone ever told you how funny you are?”

“Frequently,” he said. “But I never get tired of hearing it.”

“Just too funny for words,” she said. They had reached the front door of their building. She waited, and he reached forward and opened the door for her, then gestured her through with an exaggeratedly gallant arm sweep. She walked through and kept going.

“But you
were
smiling,” David said, scuttling to catch up with her. He was a small guy and his legs were shorter than hers.

“Was I?” Lucy said. “I must have been thinking about how nice it was going to be to have the lab all to myself. Have you noticed the smile's gone since you showed up?”

“Yeah, I noticed.” He hunched into himself as they walked down the hallway, and she wondered if she had genuinely hurt his feelings. Not that she cared. She was annoyed at him for being there. As lab partners went, he was a decent one and she didn't really have anything against him, but just by showing up he was going to ruin her romantic evening with James.

“Why are you here, anyway?” Lucy said as he unlocked the door to their lab and held it open for her. “It's Sunday.”

“Picking up my laptop—I left it here last night.”

“You were here last night?”

“Yeah.” He shut the door behind them. “I had some writing to do and it's quieter here than anywhere else. My roommate had some kind of stomach bug and kept barfing in our toilet. I had to get out.”

“Still,” she said. “Saturday night, David? No parties? No nightclubs? You're ruining my image of you as a wild party animal.”

“Shut up,” he said. “What were you doing that was so wild and crazy?”

“Knitting and watching TV.”

“Woo-hoo,” he said. “Your life is just as exciting as mine. So where was our friend James that you were at home alone on a Saturday night?”

“Our friend James leads his own life. We're not joined at the hip.”

“That's not what I’ve heard.” He made his eyebrows go up and down.

“Oh, now that one's clever,” she said. “You should write that one down.”

He went to his desk. “Good. The laptop's still here. My entire identity is on that hard drive. Without it, I’m nothing.”

“Glad you found it then,” Lucy said, pulling out her own chair and sitting down. “Don't let the door hit you on the way out.”

“Oh, am I leaving?”

“You don't have to on my account,” she said. “But it's a beautiful day. You should be taking advantage of the sunlight before it's all gone.”

He squinted at her. “Why do I get the feeling you want me out of here? What are you planning, Lucy?”

“Nothing.” Lucy shrugged and opened a book. “Stay or go. I don't care.”

“Don't worry.” He thrust his computer into its carrying case. “I’m leaving. I can't stand the way the rats are looking at me tonight—like they know their hours are numbered.”

“Oh, right,” Lucy said. “Tomorrow's Monday.”

“If it's Monday, it must be rat-killing day. And they say there are no good jobs left in America.” He turned to the cages. “Goodbye, my friends. Enjoy your last meal in peace. Have sex, get drunk, say goodbye to the kids—do whatever needs to be done, knowing that tomorrow morning you will be sacrificing your lives for the greater good.”

“That would be
our
greater good, not theirs,” Lucy said.

“Shh,” David said. “Don't tell them that. I had them feeling all good and martyr-y about things. They'll be dreaming of little rat virgins in heaven tonight.”

“Just say goodbye to the rats and go, will you?”

“I’m gone. I’ll see you bright and early maÑana, Luce.”

“Bye.” He left, and she breathed a sigh of relief. So she and James would have the lab to themselves after all.

James was later than he said. He was always later than he said, but he always arrived with such a flurry of noise and energy that it was impossible to stay angry at him. He had also forgotten the wine, but when Lucy pointed that out, he said he figured instead of having wine there, they'd go out for a nice dinner as soon as—

“As soon as what?” she said when he paused, and he got that grin on his face, like he had heard a joke no one else had heard, and it was the wickedest joke anyone had ever told. And then he was on her like they hadn't had sex in days—which they hadn't, because he had been out of town at a conference where he was lecturing on adrenal insufficiency in rats with the JRL mutation and its implications for humans with Addison's disease—and she was resisting a little, laughing, and only a little and only because resisting made it more fun, meant he had to work a little harder to get her where he wanted her, which, as it turned out, was down on her back on her own desk, books and papers and computer shoved aside, just a couple of pencils left digging into her shoulders, her legs dangling off the desk, James standing between her thighs, busily working on the snap to her jeans and—

“Wait,” she said, pushing herself up on her elbows. “Lock the door.”

“Why?” he said. “You expecting company? It's Sunday.”

“David was here earlier. You never know.”

“The more the merrier,” he said, but he moved away and locked the door and by the time he was back she had not only unsnapped her snap for him but also unzipped her zipper, and it was clear that the resistance she had put up had been entirely for show, and that she was completely and entirely willing. The grin returned to James's face. His pants came down even more quickly than hers and he was nudging her thighs apart with his own before she had even settled back down in place.

“Go ahead,” James whispered in her ear at one point. “Make noise. You know you want to.”

She was able to gasp out the words, “Don't. Tell me. What I want.” But he was right—James was always right—and soon after that she had reached a place where even the fact that she could be overheard by someone walking down the hallway wasn't a sobering enough thought to control the moan of pleasure escaping from her lips.

As if in response, there was a sudden loud squeal from the other side of the room, which was soon followed by a chorus of squeaks and chatters.

“What the hell—?” James said. He had collapsed on top of her, but he raised his head a few inches off her chest to look around.

“It's the rats,” Lucy said hoarsely. “I think they approve.”

“Of course they approve. It's your basic biological drive at its best.” He kissed her shoulder. “And I do mean at its best.” He pushed himself up on his arms and gently pulled out of her. “We've got to stop meeting like this,” he added as he reached down for his pants, which were around his ankles. “The rodents are beginning to talk.”

Lucy quickly slithered down off the desk and pulled on her own jeans. The lights were on in the lab, and she wasn't comfortable having him see her naked. Residual self-consciousness from her older, fatter days. Of course, in her older, fatter days there were no gorgeous postdocs diving between her legs in the workplace.

“So … dinner?” said James before they had even finished adjusting their clothing. Lucy sometimes wondered if James might have a mild case of ADHD, since he always seemed to be moving on to the next thing and lost interest in subjects and activities with frightening speed. Things were always interesting when he was around. They were just never calm or quiet.

As they walked out onto the street together, she looked around, hoping people would see her with him. In college, she would have killed to have gone out with someone who looked like James—sleek and long-haired and thin-hipped … None of which she herself had been back then, come to think of it.

Actually, back then she would have killed to have gone out with James himself—she knew who he was because, even though he was also an undergraduate, just two years ahead of her, he was already famous in the department for having co-authored an article with a tenured professor. Someone pointed James out to Lucy at a party soon after, and she was shocked at how young and cute he was. She had assumed the famous James Shields would be your basic science nerd. But the guy was hot.

Unfortunately, Lucy was not. Not back then. She was a junior in college and weighed a good forty pounds more than she should have. The freshman ten had come and stayed for a nice long visit and invited its friend, the sophomore fifteen, to come join the party. And she hadn't exactly been svelte back in high school. So she went around in overalls and sweatshirts and figured she'd be the kind of girl who got by on brilliance instead of looks. Besides, she was still one of only a few females in her advanced bio classes, and guys were interested in her simply because she had breasts and a vagina. A few extra pounds didn't matter to most of them—just added to the mouthfeel.

Of course, the guys who were interested in her back then— fat butt, overalls, glasses, and all—were guys who themselves were … well, like David, her current lab partner. That is, perfectly decent guys without an ounce of flair or sexuality. Seeing James Shields in the midst of them all that night was like seeing a shining-coated yellow Labrador in a room full of gray and white mutts.

He was so far out of her league that Lucy hadn't given him another thought until they both ended up on the same research project years later—he was supervising it, and she and David worked under him. She had reinvented herself in the intervening six years, had lost over forty pounds, swapped the glasses for contacts, and learned to dress like an adult. James was no longer out of her league, a fact that he realized almost immediately but which took
her
a little longer to absorb. Even after dating him for a few months, she was still sort of amazed to find herself walking around arm in arm with someone like him.

“Oh, fuck it all to hell!” he said suddenly and dropped her arm.

“What?” Then she saw what he was looking at. “Oh,
shit”
she said.

Someone had thrown a pail of dark red paint over the top of James's Ridgeline pickup. Red had dripped down off the roof and onto all the windows. Scrawled in black spray paint across the doors and hood were the words “Killer,” “Murderer,” and, “Animals are people, too.”

“Jesus fuck it all!” James said, circling the car like an angry animal. “I was inside for less than half an hour. They must have been following me. God
damn
it! Now I’ll have to spend all night filling out reports at the police station and trying to get this clean. Those fucking, fucking, cocksucking assholes.”

“I’m so sorry,” Lucy said. “I can't believe they did it again.”

“I should have parked in the garage,” he said. “I’m an idiot. I figured I was safe on a Sunday afternoon for twenty fucking minutes.”

“I’m sorry. If I hadn't asked you to come—”

He wasn't even listening. “This is the third time this year and the police still haven't caught them. They haven't even
tried
to catch them.”

“It's awful,” she said.

“We're talking hate crime here,” he said. “Punishable by law.” He thumped the truck with his fist. “Man, I’d like to see these fuckers locked up for years! Let them take it up the ass in prison for a while before they go around dumping paint on people's cars again.”

“Whoa there,” Lucy said. “Let's keep it in perspective—these guys aren't skinheads or anything like that.”

He turned on her with a pounce. “Are you
defending
this?”

Lucy put her hands up. “God, no! This paint thing sucks. But you have to admit it's not like they're racists or murderers or anything like that. They want to keep animals from being tortured and killed. They're
wrong,
but they're not totally evil.”

“Being this stupid is totally evil,” he said. “It's worse than evil. Jesus, Lucy, I can't believe you would defend them.”

“I’m not
defending
them,” she said. “They're stupid assholes for targeting scientists doing valid experiments. But sometimes it takes stupid asshole extremists to get people to really think about what they're doing. When we sac rats it's legitimate, but I don't think cosmetics companies should just go and—”

“Oh, please,” he said. “Don't waste my time with that shit.”