Butterfly of Venus Page 3

  Now what? Elizabeth checked her purse. Declan’s card was in her wallet. She shouldn’t do this, but she was going to do it anyway. She dialled his number.

  A sleepy girl’s voice answered. “Hello?”

  Elizabeth made her voice as brusque and businesslike as possible. “This is Elizabeth Harding. I’m looking for Declan Thomas.”

  “Uh, sure. Babe?”

  Elizabeth waited a few seconds until Declan Thomas’s voice came on the line.

  “Yes?”

  He sounded gravelly and sleepy as well. My God, it was two in the afternoon. Was he, were they, still in bed?

  “Declan? Elizabeth Harding here.”

  “Oh, hi.”

  He sounded so casual and relaxed that Elizabeth was slightly annoyed. “When would it be convenient for you to come in and meet with us?”

  “Guess you liked the show, huh?”

  “Yes, I liked the show. You clearly have something going for you. I believe we can help.”

  “That’s cool.”

  She heard him yawn. Her voice turned icy. “I’m sorry if I woke you. Would two p.m. Wednesday suit you? Or perhaps three p.m.?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Which? I do have other appointments.”

  “Sure, yeah, two.”

  “First you’ll meet with Hunter Smith, head of talent development, to answer some basic questions. I’ll talk with you afterwards.”

  “Cool.”

  “Cool” was an overused musician word. Elizabeth would like to have it banned from speech.

  She could swear Declan put his hand over the receiver. She heard a muffled girl’s voice.

  “Declan?”

  “Hello? Yes, still here. I’m checking something. Yes, I’ll be at your office at two on Wednesday. I look forward to it, Elizabeth.”

  It was the first time he’d said her name. The four syllables rolled off his tongue like honey. She should have had him stick with “Ms. Harding.” Too late for that now.

  Elizabeth hung up and immediately dialled Effie. “Effie, I’m in serious need of a martini or three after work. Good. See you then.”

  * * *

  The Windsor was a small bar with leather banquettes and dim lighting. Antique rugs and brass fixtures lent it an opulent but welcoming feel. A small gas fire flickered away in one corner, adding to the relaxed ambience.

  Elizabeth arrived first. She slid into her favourite banquette and kicked off her high heels under the table. As the waiter delivered her vodka martini on the rocks with a twist, Effie arrived, a large camel hair cloak billowing around her shoulders. Effie La Chance always made an entrance. She was a large woman with big appetites and strong opinions. She greeted the waiters by name, inquiring after their families and children. They all adored her. It was part of Effie’s charm and success that she had an excellent memory for detail. She always managed to make people feel special.

  “How are you, sweetie?” inquired Effie, planting a kiss on Elizabeth’s cheek and signalling the waiter to bring her a martini as well.

  “Bit of a mess, actually.”

  “Now, let Auntie Effie guess. It’s that kid. The one you were mooning over.”

  “I was not mooning,” said Elizabeth indignantly. “I have not and will never moon.”

  “All right, then, it must be something else. Is it that bastard Sampson?”

  “No, although he did call the other day.”

  “What did he want?”

  “No idea. I haven’t spoken to him.”

  “So what is it? I know something’s bugging you.”

  “Well, it is Declan Thomas.”

  “Aha!” Effie took a triumphant swig of her martini.

  “But not in the way you think.”

  “I only think one way, sweetie, like a martini, and that’s dirty.”

  “I’m taking him on as a client.”

  “So?”

  “I went to see him play last Thursday.”

  “He was good?”

  “More than good, Eff. He was sensational. He blew me away.”

  “And?”

  “Well, I feel foolish around him. It’s absurd.”

  “He’s clearly struck a, pardon the pun, chord.”

  “Yes, but I need to get back on a professional footing.”

  “Why?”

  “You know I don’t mess around with clients. I never have. Besides, he’s way too young.”

  “Oh ho. So your head is saying one thing but your heart is saying another.”

  “No, it’s strictly business.” Even as she said it, Elizabeth didn’t feel convinced. She took a sip of her martini.

  Effie rolled her eyes. “As far as the young thing goes, I’ve seen him. He’s not that young. I mean, he is over eighteen.”

  “Presumably. I’ll know after he’s filled out our agreement on Wednesday.”

  “Big deal. What about Demi and Ashton? Or Madonna and whoever? If there’s attraction, there’s attraction. Don’t fight it. When was the last time you got laid?”

  “Sampson.”

  “That was a year or more ago!” exclaimed Effie in mock horror. “No wonder you’re getting cranky.”

  “I’m not cranky.”

  “Frustrated, then.”

  “I think Declan’s got a girlfriend.”

  “Why do you care if it’s just business?” teased Effie.

  “It’s better for us, for the company, if there are no strings attached.”

  Effie ignored the protest. “Young people hook up with each other these days as casually as sharing a latte. Besides, sweetie, we’re talking about getting you laid, not married.”

  “We’re not talking about getting me laid. A girlfriend complicates things, that’s all.”

  “Everything complicates everything. Don’t let that stop you. Take a risk. It all turns out the same in the end.”

  “I’m interested in him for business reasons. Same for him. I’m sure of that. Speaking of getting laid . . . did you?”

  Effie nodded and downed the martini. Her brown eyes sparkled behind oversized designer frames. “Uh-huh.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I’m not ready to reveal all yet. But it was divine.”

  “C’mon, give me a hint.”

  “Let’s just say a professional, a lawyer.”

  “Oh, wow, Effie, good for you. No wonder you’ve got a glow in your cheeks.”

  “And it’s about time you got a little glow in yours. Business be damned.”

  “No, Effie, I can’t go there. I won’t go there. Declan Thomas is going to be a client and nothing more.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  As far as Effie was concerned, her friend Elizabeth needed to loosen up. To start the process, Effie proposed a shopping trip. “You and I are going out to buy underwear. There is a fabulous new shop in Yorkville that has darling lingerie, see-through panties, lace G-strings — they have it all.”

  Stubbornly, Elizabeth said, “I don’t need underwear.”

  “Yes, you do. You’re not getting laid and you’re wearing white cotton virgin briefs with zero sex appeal.”

  “I am not! Besides, who cares what knickers I’ve got on?”

  “That’s the point. Wearing sexy lingerie renders you sexy, and that, in turn, attracts sex.”

  Effie signalled the waiter for two more martinis. It was going to be another long, boozy night.

  * * *

  Elizabeth took the next day off. Free time was one of the perks of being the boss, even if it made her feel guilty. Nothing pressing was coming up that her staff couldn’t handle. Besides, they could always call her cell.

  Affectionately, Elizabeth decided Effie was a bad influence. My God, she actually thought Elizabeth should have a fling with Declan Th
omas. Out of the question.

  Elizabeth stayed in bed most of the day, watching mindless junk on television, reality show after reality show that had absolutely nothing to do with reality. It was all carefully scripted, down to the last tear and outburst. Elizabeth understood that being on TV today was one of the greatest accomplishments a person could aspire to, an affirmation that your life and concerns were of paramount importance, if only for a few fleeting minutes. Afterwards, you were washed up on the shores of has-beens, never to be heard from again unless you were summoned as a dubious B-celebrity to be humiliated in a different scenario.

  Franco was still definitely an A-lister, although his days in that category were numbered. Flicking through channels, Elizabeth saw him on Big Break, judging a pimply-faced youth playing the bagpipes. Good. The show should keep him busy for a while. She’d also lined up a North American tour of casinos for him, high-paying gigs that regularly sold out and would cater to his colossal ego.

  Elizabeth sighed and cut herself a giant piece of carrot cake. She was always doing things for others, getting them gigs or recording deals, or arranging photo ops. That was her business. She realized it gave her a lot of wealth and security, but sometimes she wished there was someone in her life to take care of her, someone who would rub her feet or bring her a cup of tea in bed or stroke her hair when she was feeling stressed.

  Oh well, it was not to be. It wasn’t that men didn’t find her attractive. She could have had plenty of dates while she was getting a business degree, but she preferred textbooks to partying and spent long hours studying while her classmates were getting drunk. Consequently, she graduated at the head of her class. She received offers to join various companies, but the idea of working for someone else, with the risk of being let go or laid off, didn’t appeal to her. She’d seen the light dim in her father’s eyes when he was laid off from the railway. His pension was decent enough, but the days hung long. He contented himself with reading, listening to jazz and practising guitar, but it wasn’t enough. A blood vessel burst in his brain and he was dead. Elizabeth had concluded that the secret to a happy life was being in charge of your own destiny. She would work for no one but herself.

  With the income from a small insurance policy left by her father, she rented a cheap office on College Street and started ATM. She worked hard all day making connections, then went out at night to find musicians worthy of representation. Her first big break came when she signed Celia, a hippie with an oddly soothing, ethereal voice. Elizabeth negotiated a deal for her with Angel Records, a new age company. Celia was advanced money to produce a CD with no payback plus a royalty on further sales, and she went on to huge success with the granola and yoga crowd. Elizabeth deposited her first big cheque in the bank. She decided there was nothing as common as an unsuccessful person with talent. It gave her immense satisfaction to shepherd them towards success. She had definitely chosen the right path for herself.

  As ATM and her contacts grew, Elizabeth occasionally met men she found appealing, but they were either threatened by her ambition or else wanted to take over and give her advice. She slept with three or four but invariably couldn’t wait to get away. Quite frequently during sex she found herself impatiently thinking, “Just hurry up and get on with it.” No one had truly interested her until she met Sampson.

  When ATM was established, Elizabeth decided to purchase a small condo for herself. Sampson Wheeler was her agent. He was an older man with a thatch of silver hair atop a craggy, handsome face. Elizabeth found him intelligent and debonair. She was happy to accept his dinner invitation and, soon thereafter, an invitation into his bed. Sampson was a lover who prided himself on his sexual skills. He taught Elizabeth how to please him. She was an adept student, but when it came to an orgasm of her own, she was hopeless. Sampson was more than willing to spend time making love to her, but after a while she felt extremely guilty for taking so long to climax. Sampson worked long hours and, in his fifties, wasn’t exactly young. After he spent several minutes touching her, and using his tongue, she pulled him towards her, lifting her hips as a signal he should enter. She enjoyed his pleasure in her. She became adept at a cry of sexual release in order to please him. Fakery remained Elizabeth’s secret.

  After several months of dating, they moved in together. They even discussed having a baby. Elizabeth felt she was ready, but after years of unprotected sex, a baby had failed to materialize. Immersed in their respective careers, they simply gave up. She began finding notices in their mailbox of parking tickets from strange addresses at late hours. Sampson always had an excuse: he was out with a client or had a late showing. Elizabeth began to suspect he was cheating. Shalene’s vile email confirmed her suspicions. It was the end. Her first concern was disease. A subsequent checkup revealed she was negative for AIDS and other sexually transmitted diseases. She was clean. She was perfectly healthy. She hadn’t had sex since.

  * * *

  Elizabeth continued channel surfing, briefly stopping to watch housewives of this, that or the other city, all vain and shallow women who contented themselves with spending their husband’s money on extravagances and who, secretly or not so secretly, competed against and disliked each other. It was depressing. The next channel she turned to was showing porn. No sooner had the delivery guy shown up at the door than he was pumping away at some buxom woman or women. All those close-ups. Doubtless they’d had their anuses cosmetically lightened, and probably written the procedure off as a tax deduction. Elizabeth thought the endless shots of glistening, hairless sex organs were a complete turnoff. You didn’t have that kind of close-up view when you were having sex, so why, when penetration was isolated and as attractive as an earthworm, would it arouse anything but derision?

  She turned the television off and felt a familiar cramping. She was getting her period. It had been irregular of late. She welcomed its arrival like an old but annoying friend.

  * * *

  By the next day Elizabeth was feeling better. She’d taken a couple of Aspirin and gone to bed early, so she woke feeling refreshed and ready for business. Today she would be seeing Declan Thomas. Had she dreamed about him last night? She couldn’t be sure, but she was looking forward to taking charge of him today. She selected a form-fitting smart grey suit with a pair of red high heels. She pulled her thick hair back into a chignon and decided to accessorize the look with a pair of red-framed sunglasses. During her meeting with Declan, she would wear severe half-framed reading glasses. They added gravity to a look that would otherwise be distracting. Not that a part of her didn’t want Declan to be distracted, even discomfited, but she was determined to present herself as a polished professional woman, one who was firmly in control.

  The morning passed quickly. Elizabeth ordered a salad for lunch and ate at her desk. As two o’clock approached, she found herself checking her watch frequently. Was she nervous? Surely not.

  She had instructed Hunter to go over the preliminaries with Declan before they arrived in her office, an impressive corner suite where framed photos of Elizabeth with various celebrities hung on the wall, side by side with gold records. Her desk was a massive mahogany piece of art she’d picked up at an auction. Antique Persian rugs in muted colours set off a dark hardwood floor. Her dizzying view overlooked Bay Street, with its glittering towers of commerce. Everything about the surroundings suggested taste, power and authority.

  Elizabeth jumped as her intercom buzzed. She was indeed nervous. It was ridiculous. How many times had potential clients sat in front of her in this office? She’d never been nervous before.

  Hunter’s voice said, “We’ll be through in a couple of minutes.”

  Elizabeth busied herself with paperwork. She wanted to appear unconcerned, as if her heart were not doing a little tango beneath her tailored jacket. When she heard them enter her office, she waited a few seconds before she looked up.

  “Hi, Declan, nice to see you again. Please have a seat.”
>
  Declan was wearing ripped jeans with red Converse sneakers and an old denim jacket. A pair of retro sunglasses covered his eyes. Oh, how she wanted to see those eyes again. Elizabeth got up from behind her desk and shook Declan’s hand. Where skin met skin, she again felt a distinct low-level current. His handshake was firm. Did she imagine that his grasp lingered a second more than necessary? Nonsense. She let go and indicated a seat on the couch. Declan flopped down and casually placed one sneaker on top of his other knee. He leaned back and slid an arm along the couch. Through a tear in his jeans, she caught a glimpse of navy blue underwear. He appeared relaxed to the point of indifference. Hunter sat primly on another chair and shuffled papers.

  “So, Hunter has gone over things with you?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m sorry, Declan, but would you mind removing your glasses? I like to look people in the eye when I’m doing business.”

  Declan smiled a lazy grin and pushed his sunglasses back onto his thick mop of dark hair.

  “Oh God. What happened to your face?”

  His left eye was swollen shut, the skin around it turning purple. He laughed. “Kick-boxing. Didn’t duck fast enough.”

  “It looks painful.”

  “Nah. It’s okay. No big deal. I’ve had black eyes before.”

  “I’m afraid it is a big deal. We can’t have your face being damaged.”

  Declan cocked the dark eyebrow over his undamaged eye questioningly. “We?”

  “ATM.”

  “I haven’t agreed to sign anything yet.”

  Momentarily flustered, Elizabeth glanced at Hunter, who gave a little shrug.

  “Hunter has gone over terms and conditions with you?”

  “Yes. There’s a couple I don’t like and won’t agree to.”

  “Oh?”

  Declan took the contract from Hunter and skimmed through it. “This clause here, about it being ATM’s, your, discretion how my songs are used.”