Every once in awhile, Angie wondered what would have happened if she'd been gutsier - or sluttier, or more opportunistic. If she'd been just as tough as Roger's wife - what was her name again? You'd think she'd remember, after all, the woman had signed at least a dozen checks to her. It had only been a year since her affair with Roger had ended, but Angie replayed bits and pieces of it over and over again in her mind. It all began when she'd eavesdropped on a well-dressed, older blonde woman whispering to her husband in a Westwood diner.
"You see that woman over there? She's not really a woman, is she? More like a child-woman- Isn't that what they used to call Marilyn Monroe? But I'm sure she doesn't have the emotional baggage and she's completely honest. That's what I would want for you, not some trollop that would cause trouble for both of us later. Why don't you go over and talk to her?" the woman kissed him. "I have to go now. I'll see you in a few weeks and I'll call you as soon as the plane lands."
Sure enough, the man walked over to her after his wife had left. He sat down next to her, his faint but musky cologne as intoxicating as sex. He said he couldn't believe that such a beautiful young woman was eating lunch alone. She blushed, and they exchanged small talk for a few minutes. He said his name was Roger, but revealed nothing else about himself.
"Where do you work?" he asked her
"No where steady - I'm an artist."
"You don't seem like an artist. You seem too sensible."
She smiled. "Well, I have to take that as a compliment. So I'm not a stereotype -- is that what you mean?"
"Exactly. I've always appreciated originality."
She didn't see him again for a few weeks, but one afternoon, his wife came into the diner again, by herself.
She looked like an art dealer - she had that same icy, vaguely European countenance, coupled with the assured, Armani-suited stride of a negotiator. Angie calmly lifted up her portfolio from underneath the table and wedged it on the seat next to her, like an inanimate dinnermate.
"Hello. My name is Sadie Christensen. I couldn't help but notice you sketching there. May I see it? Hope you don't mind my snooping."
"Oh, not at all."
"You know, this is very good. Are you a commercial artist?"
" I do some commercial work, yes, just to pay the rent." She picked up her portfolio and put it on top of the table. "But my main focus is fine art - painting and sculpture. "I have a portfolio. Would you like to see it?"
"I don't have time to look at your whole portfolio, dear. I'm on my way to a business meeting - here's my card. Meet me at my office say at four-o clock today and we'll talk, all right? I may have a job for you.",
*****
The offices of Christensen & Christensen Holdings LLC were located in a prominent high-rise in downtown L.A. The receptionist, an attractive but prim Miss Moneypenny clone, brought Angie a Diet Coke - in a glass, with a wedge of lemon, and rang Sadie on the intercom.
"You won't be working for me. You'll be working for my husband... he doesn't know that I have talked to you. Don't tell him. He wouldn't believe you anyhow."
"What is it you want me to do?"
"Seduce him. Hurt him, break his heart."
"But why would you ask another woman to do that to your husband?" Angie was shocked but intrigued.
"To keep him in check - you see, I get the feeling he wants to stray. He's going to do it even if I try to stop him. So I might as well have him do it on my terms - even though he won't know that - only you and I will. Do you want the money or not? I know you need it."
She remembered him -- not too bad looking, nice body, kind of a freckly face for an older guy, Nothing distinctive. She looked at the money and thought of her ill-fitting shoes. Standing in line at the dental clinic with welfare cases to get her teeth cleaned. The super ringing the doorbell for rent while she cowered quietly in the bathroom.
"I'll do it."
The next afternoon Angie sat in her customary booth at the diner. Her usual waitress, Diandra, a tall, outspoken Brooklyn transplant, complimented Angie on her new, low-cut blouse. "You got it, you should flaunt it, honey,"
Roger sat at the lunch counter reading the Wall Street Journal. Angie caught his eye when he looked up to flag the waitress for a refill. She channeled all her unmet lusts into that one stare, and a few seconds later, Roger was sitting next to her, buying her a steak dinner and staring down her ivory chiffon blouse. Angie dropped every pretense of being a good girl. She brushed her hand against his side and felt his body relax. That's when she knew she was in for some easy money.
"You're so subtle. You know instinctively how to transmit your feelings without being obvious or coy."
"And what feelings am I telegraphing?"
He leaned over and whispered in my ear. "Look at the way you're sliding your finger down my shirt. I bet you didn't realize you were doing that."
I...oh - I didn't mean.. you're right."
"That's giving me the same message as if you'd gotten on your knees and unzipped me -- only its much more creative."
"We have to do it on my terms, you know."
"Do what? What are you talking about?'
"I don't need art lessons, love. If you want to be with me, we can start tomorrow, as soon as I arrange a meeting place. Otherwise, just say no, and I'll buy you dessert and say good-bye."
