Every Little Thing. Pamela Klaffke

that supposed to mean?”

      I lean over until my mouth is at her ear. “You smell like sex.”

      Janet gasps and clutches at her chest. She’s never been one for melodrama, so this makes her behavior especially hilarious. “I do not.”

      “You do.”

      “Shit. I’ll be right back.” She stands up and turns to go—to the bathroom, I expect—but I grab her arm and pull her back.

      “I’m kidding. You’re fine.”

      “Then how did you—”

      “Flushed, fidgety, cagey, nervous, Oakland—take your pick.” I know her too well, even if I have been away for eight years.

      “Okay, fine. You win.”

      “Who is he?”

      “Just a guy. You’d like him.”

      “Who is he?”

      “Actually, I think you may have met him—a long time ago.”

      “Name, please.”

      “Victor Durrell!” Seth says, startling both Janet and me. He’s standing behind us. “It’s Victor Durrell! What do I win?”

      “Sorry, wrong answer—better luck next time,” I say.

      “No, seriously, Mason. It’s Victor Durrell,” Seth says as he takes a seat.

      “You don’t even know what we’re talking about. Why don’t you go get us some drinks?”

      “Nuh-uh, no way. I wouldn’t miss this,” Seth says, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. I notice Janet biting her bottom lip. She’s looking down and she’s awfully quiet. Oh. Ew.

      “You’ve got to be kidding,” I say. “Victor Durrell? I’m sorry, Janet, but gross.”

      “He is not gross,” she says.

      “He is sorta sexy in a certain kind of way,” Seth says.

      “In what? A gross old man kind of way? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this.” I hit Seth on the arm.

      He shrugs and gestures to Janet. “She wanted to tell you herself.”

      “He is not old or gross,” Janet says. She sounds wounded and looks as if she might cry.

      “Okay, he’s not old or gross,” I say, even though he is. It was fifteen years ago when I first met him and I’m quite confident in my assumption that he has not reversed the aging process, nor has he somehow, miraculously, become less gross. He was friends with my mother, when she was married to David, the English painter, and Victor Durrell was one of David’s friends. We lived on the top floor of a giant warehouse. It was all exposed brick and concrete floors and David smoked a lot of pot. Victor would come by for drinks and to talk about art. “How old is Victor? He must be—”

      “He’s not sixty until January,” Janet snaps.

      Good God. Extra gross. Is his skin all loose and flappy? Can he still get it up? I guess that’s what Viagra is for. I shudder and hope Janet doesn’t notice. I rub the sleeves of my jacket in an attempt to cover, just in case. “It’s cold in here. Aren’t you cold?”

      “He’s very talented—and smart,” Janet says.

      “He is,” I say. He could be—I know he gets a lot of press. He’s a sculptor—or a painter.

      “His work has been chosen for the Venice Biennale next year.” Janet is doing the hard sell.

      “I’m sure it’s great, I’m sure he’s great, I’m just surprised. He doesn’t seem like your type,” I say.

      “And what do you know about my type, Mason?”

      “He just seems—”

      “Old? Gross?” Seth does nothing to ease the tension.

      “No—I meant short. Isn’t Victor shorter than you usually like?” I remember nothing about Victor’s height, but most men are shorter than Janet so I take the gamble—I want to make peace.

      “We’re the same height,” Janet says. She’s defiant. “And he doesn’t care one bit if I wear heels—he likes it. He’s past any superficial hang-ups. He’s mature.”

      Seth makes a face that Janet doesn’t catch and I try not to laugh. I’ll get the whole sordid story from him later.

      None of us wear a watch, but it must be past nine, maybe later and our conversation has devolved into small talk. I don’t dare bring up Victor again and after we’re all tired of walking down memory lane, Janet and Seth talk about work and I lose myself in another martini. I lost track of the number I had some time ago. Why do people want to talk about work when they’re out for drinks? I pop the last shrimp of my shrimp cocktail into my mouth. Isn’t the whole point of going drinking to forget about work?

      By the time they move on to real estate prices and Williams-Sonoma kitchenware I’m drunk and exhausted—but I don’t want to leave. I look around: the room is filled with new, anonymous faces—more shaggy bobs, less chignons. People dance and a live band plays trippy lounge classics. Janet has switched to water and keeps checking her phone as she describes a butter chicken recipe she calls “otherworldly.” She’s waiting for a message from old, gross Victor, I suppose. She goes on about the recipe and then Seth takes out a pen and starts writing it down. At first I think he’s joking, but when he starts asking questions about the best brand of garam masala, I know he’s not. Food is for eating, not making, and this is supposed to be a fun night out, our special reunion, not a recipe swap.

      I almost cheer when Seth starts making up fantastical stories about the people in the bar, imagining transsexual mobsters and hermaphrodite spies. It’s something he’s done as long as I’ve known him.

      Seth goes on and I notice that the maître d’ looks my way now and then, sneering. I smirk. I must be a terrible reflection of his abilities as Enforcer of the Dress Code. Janet keeps her eyes trained on her phone. She looks worried and is off in her head. I tell her she can go, that I’m fine here with Seth and his stories, but with Janet etiquette trumps lust and she stays.

      “Maybe we should take this back across the street,” Seth says, cutting his socialite-cum-secret-freak story-time short.

      “What?”

      “To your suite—it’s getting boring here. Janet?”

      “Huh?”

      “We should take this back to Mason’s suite,” Seth says.

      “I shouldn’t, really. I have an early morning,” Janet says. Seth and I exchange glances. I am dying to make a quip about Victor, but hold my tongue. Surprisingly, Seth does, too. “I have to work on the show.” She’s holding a fashion show at her studio on Thursday to showcase her latest collection.

      “I guess it’s just you and me, Mason.”

      “We should get the check,” Janet says.

      Check? Shit. I have no credit card and this is an emergency, precisely the things I have been racking up a tab to forget. “Um, I don’t suppose one of you could cover me? It’s just—I saw the lawyer today and he canceled the card I had and I can’t get my mother’s money and there’s taxes and everything’s frozen. Ron said he would … but I can’t and—”

      “No worries,” Janet says and puts her hand over mine. My heart is speeding and my breath is short. My eyes well up and for the first time since my mother’s death, I cry.

      NORTH BEACH

      Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that the key the estate lawyer gave me works, but I am. It would be just like my