The door opened behind me, and I heard Jonathan’s voice, but it wasn’t him.
“—my belt, loop it once, and slap it across those sweet white cheeks until you’re pink as a rose and your face is covered with tears. I’ll stop when I can stick two fingers in your cunt and feel how sopping wet you are.”
I froze. It was undoubtedly him, from the floral metaphor, to the word cunt, to the dominant voice. Three women came in and stopped dead in their tracks when they saw me. The young woman with the phone in her hand had her hair done up like Audrey Hepburn, right down to the tiara. The second was tall and matronly with a sweater, flat shoes, and lines of disappointment permanently etched on her face. They both wore silver pins.
The third woman was Geraldine Stark.
The recording continued.
“Then I’ll f**k you until you beg me to let you come, which I may or may not let you do. That going to work for you? Didn’t think so.”
“Do it.”
The voice was shrill and desperate and definitely Jessica’s. That must be it. The voice memo from her stolen phone.
Audrey Hepburn fumbled with the phone, shutting it.
“I want to hear it,” I said. “From the beginning, if you don’t mind.”
She hesitated.
“I was telling them,” Geraldine said, “he’s really like this, and it’s hot. Don’t you think?” She raised an eyebrow. I didn’t answer but stared down Audrey Hepburn. She was a nervous kitten, breakable and easily bossed.
“Do it,” I said, my voice the exact opposite of Jessica’s whine.
She shrugged as if she wasn’t giving in as much as bored by the prospect of not continuing. “It’s only really good when he starts this.”
“I’ll undo your jeans. I’ll pull them down to the middle of your thighs so it’s hard to walk. You’ll be uncomfortable, and that will please me. Then I’ll get behind you, and I’ll grab a handful of your hair at the back of your head and bend you over that table. I’ll take off my belt, loop it once, and slap it across those sweet white cheeks until you’re pink as a rose and your face is covered with tears. I’ll stop when I can stick two fingers in your cunt and feel how sopping wet you are. Then I’ll f**k you until you beg me to let you come, which I may or may not let you do. That going to work for you? Didn’t think so.”
“Do it.”
“Jess, really.”
“Do it! Start with the hair. Or the pants. Whatever.”
“No.”
“Do it!”
Audrey cut it off. I knew what the joke was. The desperation. The pitch. An actress couldn’t have reproduced something so raw. I pressed my lips between my teeth. We all knew who it was, and as it turned out, we all thought the idea of her desperately begging for a spanking was hilariously funny.
Geraldine snickered first. Then Audrey. Matronly looked as if she ate a lemon, and the crinkles in her brow sent me over the edge into laughter. Then we all broke up. Between peals of hilarity, someone would shout do it! in a shrill, pleading whine, and we’d laugh again.
“Do you want to hear the rest?” Audrey asked.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll have plenty of the real thing later. Without the do it!” I shrieked the last two words, and we laughed again.
I checked my face in the mirror, stood up straight, and arranged my lariat. “I’ll see you back in there.” I looked at each of them in the mirror. “Thanks for the entertainment.”
When I got back onto the patio, I stopped at the big wooden doors and turned around, stepping behind a partition. Despite the cool, collected person who had shown up in the bathroom, I was upset at hearing Jonathan promising sex to another woman. And I was upset that everyone knew. They wouldn’t see him as mine. They’d look at me and either feel sorry for poor cheated-on girl or assume I shared him with other women.
“Stop it, Monica,” I whispered to myself. “Stop caring.” I clenched my fists.
The three artists left the bathroom, giggling and commiserating. Matronly opened one of the big wooden doors, and they were gone. Were they laughing at me? Was Geraldine talking about her nights with Jonathan, taking bets on when he’d dump me?
My name is Monica. I sing like an angel and roar like a lion. I am the owner and ruler of my mind. I keep my own counsel. I decide how I feel. I answer to no one.
I didn’t realize my eyes were closed until I heard a sob and the scuffle of feet on carpet. Jessica ran out of the bathroom, crying. She stopped, and I ducked farther behind the partition. She fiddled with her phone, but she was upset and couldn’t seem to get it to do what she wanted. She tossed it in her bag and rooted around in the purse, pressing it to herself so she could dig in the bottom.
For the second time, I felt pity, but I was overwhelmed. I’d known exactly what I was doing in the bathroom. I knew she was behind a stall or a wall, yet I’d egged the girls on because I could. For what? To hurt her feelings? Wasn’t I better than that? I stepped out from behind the partition. “Jessica?”
She spun and saw me. “Get away from me.” She used her do it tone. I didn’t think she could even hear it.
“Are you ok?”
She ran, still clutching her open bag, heading for the stone steps. I went to the mezzanine railing and watched her go, feet shuffling. She lost her balance and the contents of her bag scattered. Papers and receipts fluttered down into the courtyard, lipsticks and pens clicked. A notebook opened like a butterfly three steps beneath her. She stopped and scooped up her things. Her sobs echoed off the granite walls, even as far away as she was.
“What happened to Eddie?” Jonathan stepped up behind me. “He was supposed to watch you.” I put my hand on his face. He was cold and damp.
Jessica looked up, and seeing us both looking down at her, she left half her bag’s contents and ran away them. She tripped, skidded, righted herself, and ran onto Wilshire without looking back.
“What happened?” he asked with short breaths.
“That recording.” I didn’t want to describe the bathroom scene. I didn’t care anymore. He looked like shit, and Mister Drazen never looked like shit. “Are you all right? Where were you?”
“Looking for someone.” He crunched his eyes shut.
“Who?”
“I haven’t been feeling...” He leaned on the railing. “My back hurts and...” His knees bent. I took him by the arms and looked in his green eyes. He wasn’t all right; he was panicking. No. That was wrong. I took out the handkerchief the man in the cashmere coat had given me and patted his face.