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“I had a silk shirt on and we were under the meeting room table.”
&n
bsp; “Now it’s getting interesting.” Vera thumped on the bar top. “I need a drink.”
They got their sidecars and Mena told Vera about how recognizing Grip had turning her into a stumbling inarticulate schoolgirl who was virtually panting when their eyes met under the table.
“I thought about not washing my hand because he touched it when he passed my phone.” That last bit was made up to make Vera laugh but it wasn’t far from wrong. “I was never as uncool as I was when I realized MG Holdings wasn’t some second-generation family business rich guy. In my head I know it’s impossible that Grip would remember me, let alone recognize me, but my head wasn’t the entity in control and my libido isn’t likely to make good investment decisions. All I could think about was what if he knows it’s me, what if he remembers and I’m the one who blows it.”
“Better make sure he can only look down your top and not down your back.”
Mena closed her eyes. On the last day she’d spent with Grip fifteen years ago, he’d drawn on her hip with a marker. Before she’d even properly sobered up, she’d borrowed money from Vera and had that drawing turned into a tattoo. She’d never regretted it until now.
“The real problem is that I’m obviously conflicted,” she said.
“About whether to fuck him again? How is that even a question if you’re hot for each other.”
Mena sighed. In their groupie life, she and Vera had been proud of not caring what other people thought of them. Vera hadn’t changed. She’d conquered the lead guitarists on her fuck list and the fashion industry. If you googled Vera Ellen Chan, you could find photos of her at seventeen wearing her underwear and hanging out with some of the world’s greatest guitarists. Her disreputable past only served to enhance her star quality and boost her career.
If someone called Vera a slut, it was a badge Vera would wear proudly. It was different for Mena. To get to play with other people’s money you had to have a squeaky-clean reputation. If anyone even suggested Mena was once a skanky groupie, it could end her career.
The double standard wasn’t fair, but she’d always known that’s the way it would be and had protected herself with a different look and name. If you googled Mena Grady, the worst you’d find is that one theater production she’d done where she played Ophelia in Hamlet. Other than Vera, it was unlikely anyone would even remember a goth girl called Philly who was a favorite among groupies for her ability to recite famous album-liner notes. Faultlessly.
Her good memory was still an asset, she just used it to remember company fundamentals and market statistics now.
“It might be fine for models and photographers and whoever to have orgies in your industry, it’s not in mine. You can’t have an intimate relationship with a client, and you have to disclose any prior association that might affect the quality of your advice.”
“Holy fuck. You mean you have to tell your bosses that you once slept with Grip. That makes no sense. Especially if he doesn’t remember it.”
“I know, but the point is I remember it.” In full living, high-definition color, word perfect. “The ethical thing to do is to resign him as a client.”
“And then what?”
Then it would get awkward, because questions would get asked and Mena would need to be at least semi-truthful and Caroline would need to speak to Grip about the reason for changing his account leadership and then it would be stupidly embarrassing when Grip admitted he’d never met Mena before, let alone spent a week with her. The upshot of all that was her partnership inexplicably failing to happen after years of striving for it.
“He asked if we’d met before,” she said, with a shiver. “It spooked me big time.”
“Fuck me dead. He does remember you?”
Mena shook her head. “I don’t think so. I had an intense reaction to him, and I think it confused him as much as it did me. I think he was reacting to me trying not to react to him.”
“That sounds boringly sensible. What if he does remember you?”
“We were alone after we dropped Caroline at the hospital. He’s not shy. He would’ve said something.”
“Like, how about it for old time’s sake, babe.”
Mena rolled her eyes. “Exactly like that, because he was so turned on by the confused uptight frump vibe I was giving out.”
Vera snorted into her now empty glass. “What did you talk about? We didn’t target these guys for the quality of their conversation. We just wanted to party hard with them.”
It’d been all about the sexual thrills back then. The guys they’d targeted had been hot and talented, not necessarily making bank; some of them, like Grip, had been in up-and-coming bands working to break out and that struggle was heroic and romantic and they’d both thought of themselves as potential muses. The reality was that no one was looking for career advice from chicks they’d plucked from the audience, and conversation had been a bonus round.
Half the after-parties Mena and Vera had gone to were boring affairs where tired musicians drank too much, spent too long on the phone lying to their significant others, did drugs and fell asleep. They’d been both ignored and left to their own devices, and expected to entertain, by dancing or making people laugh, had their phones confiscated and had to sign scary sounding non-disclosure agreements, but the music was always excellent, the food free, the booze endless and the bragging rights supreme.
They’d been high on their own audacity and skill at the game before anyone ever asked them to strip or get on their knees.
Occasionally one of the musos on their list would be needy and sweet or just an excellent lay who knew how to give as much as they took in the bedroom. Some of those guys were married. Most had girlfriend. Some were egomaniac assholes. Some made you believe they really did care about you and stayed in touch.
