Once A Liar. A.F. Brady

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СКАЧАТЬ out—I knew just where to take her and just how to behave. While a deep hate for Harrison Doyle and the feeling of humiliation still festered inside of me, I was able to distract myself with Juliette.

      Juliette had just launched the Rhodes Foundation, a charitable organization she put together with the society and old-money connections she had through her parents and their friends. Juliette would personally research the plight of various unfortunate peoples, figure out their individual needs and throw massive fund-raisers benefiting the cause du jour. She was able to gracefully straddle the line between privileged child of high society and salt of the earth humanitarian.

      I took her to Restaurant Daniel one night, excited to show off the new connections I had made. It didn’t occur to me that she would know the staff at the restaurant better than I did.

      “Mademoiselle Rhodes,” the manager greeted her, “welcome back. How lovely to see you again.” He shook my hand with a sly smile on his face, and I was reminded that I was the new blood around here.

      “Is that a new suit?” she asked me as I helped her into her chair.

      “Yes.” I stood back so she could see it before taking my seat. “Your father took me to a tailor to have it made.”

      “Looks very familiar. I think he has one just like it,” she said with disappointment coloring her tone. Before she allowed herself to recede into displeasure about her father, she changed gears and I spent the evening listening to her regale me with stories about her work with the foundation.

      “I went to Florida after Hurricane Andrew hit,” she began. “I remember before I went, I had always felt like hurricanes were just intensely bad weather, and the devastation was exaggerated for the sake of television ratings.”

      I smiled, having had the same thoughts myself.

      “But my God. When I got there, I was completely overcome. Everything was flattened, and all the street signs and landmarks were destroyed, so there was no way to figure out where you were or where you were going. There was nothing recognizable, and everyone wandered like zombies, lost, desperate and terrified.”

      “What took you down there?”

      “I wanted to see firsthand what had happened, so when I presented to the board the idea of having a fund-raising gala, I would be able to speak from experience.”

      “But why bother putting yourself through that? Couldn’t you have sent someone on your behalf?”

      “If I sent someone else, I never would have known what it was really like.” She sipped her champagne and smiled at me. “I can’t begin to describe to you the landscape. Everything was rubble. It was like standing on top of a landfill, nothing but anonymous, unidentifiable rubble. And people were desperately trying to salvage pieces of themselves, pieces of their lives, but nothing was left.” She was becoming choked up at the memories.

      What struck me was that she really cared. She would agonize over the well-being of struggling families she met during goodwill trips to places like Sarajevo after the war, sub-Saharan Africa during the AIDS epidemic or a gypsy camp in northern Greece. She told me about a time she doubled over in physical pain when she heard news that a beloved shelter dog had been euthanized.

      “I’m going to stop before I bawl right here at the table,” she said, elegantly blotting the corners of her lips. “Tell me about you. How is it going with the law firm?”

      “It’s going fantastically well,” I lied, remembering to always radiate an air of success. “Marcus hired a new attorney to join us, a Turkish guy called Sinan Khan. Great guy, real character. He’s been in the business a long time, recently left a big firm, looking for something a little more boutique. He’s got an impressive record, and he scares people, so Marcus snapped him up as quickly as he could.”

      “Sounds just like my father.”

      “Sinan’s been working some of the bigger cases for me. I decided to take on a little less work than I normally would.” I lied again to make it look like I was the one who made the decision to pull away. I didn’t want her worrying that her father was taking control of me.

      “Oh? Are you busy with other things?”

      “Well, I hope so, Juliette. I’d like to be busy with you.” I kissed her knuckles and hoped she would allow me to spend more time with her.

      “Would you?” she teased as she leaned in to kiss me.

      From that moment forward, we were inseparable. I went to the office most days of the week, but spent my time there planning dates and thinking of ways to impress Juliette. Professionally, I was becoming indifferent to the nature of my cases, the plight of my clients and their accusers, disengaged from the emotional aspects, but with Juliette, I was infatuated.

       NOW

      Claire has been living in my house for eight years, but I still can’t fully acclimate to cohabitating with another human being with her own will and own needs. The last person I lived with was Juliette, and I got used to my solitude in the interim. Claire didn’t need to move in with me. She had made plenty of money on her own, working for a prestigious interior design firm. She wanted to live with me. Yet I still stumble over her things, crash into her when she stands between me and my destination and I can never remember how she takes her coffee.

      When we prepare and dress ourselves for an evening out, we holler between rooms; Claire in her boudoir between the master bedroom and the master bath, and me fixated on my own image in my dressing room mirror. Just as we are doing this evening.

      “He’s never been to a benefit with his father,” I remind her, “and you’re constantly saying that I need to develop a relationship with him, so why not let him go in your place? It’s not like you enjoy these things.” I tie and untie my silk bow tie, never satisfied with its position.

      Claire is already in a full face of makeup, hair held in place with clips and pins while she tools around with a curling iron. She wears a flesh-colored slimming leotard, intended to smooth out any undesirable bulges even though she has none, unless protruding hip bones and delineated vertebrae are no longer in style.

      “It’s his first week with us—he hasn’t even unpacked yet. You think he wants to go to a formal affair?” Claire calls across the rooms.

      “Why not? He’d love it, famous faces galore.”

      “So, I got all dolled up for nothing?” Claire leans out the door to look at me, probes her hair and pouts.

      “I didn’t ask you to put all that on.” I walk into her boudoir and position myself behind her as she leans over the vanity and puts on lipstick, teasing me with her ass in the air.

      “You never ask me to put things on,” she coos, smiling at me in the mirror.

      I hold her waist with my left hand and lean back to look for a way to remove her leotard. There are no clasps, no zippers or buttons for me to undo, so I slip a finger under the elastic on her hip and slide it between her legs. Bending her down farther with my other hand, I glide her legs apart with my knee and pull the crotch of her leotard to the side. I control her movements while I unzip my tuxedo pants.

      I СКАЧАТЬ