Chapter Twenty-Five
Violet lets herself into Billy Barton’s apartment with her key. She finds him standing at a desk scrolling through a large monitor filled with digital Gruff page mockups.
“Jesus! What the hell are you doing here?” Billy gasps like she’s an armed intruder. She supposes that in some ways, she is just that.
“It’s four in the afternoon. Our standing weekly appointment,” she says calmly, as if his reaction is confusing to her.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Did you leave me a message to cancel?”
“Actually Violet, no, I did not. I thought calling to cancel would be redundant, given the fact that you’re blackmailing me.”
“Don’t be melodramatic,” Violet says, shrugging off her coat. “It’s just a simple business negotiation. And frankly, I thought you’d show a little more appreciation. I’m handing you a great opportunity. What are you going to do—publish that stupid rag forever? Magazines are so 1997.”
Billy takes a breath, as if counting to ten before scolding a child. He starts to say something, stops, and then, in a measured tone, says, “Fine. But give me my apartment keys.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I accept our new business relationship. But that means our old one is over. So give me the keys.”
Without breaking eye contact, she hands over the keys.
“My lawyer spoke to Agnes,” he says. “It’s all being negotiated anonymously, as you stipulated.”
Violet sits, uninvited, on a leather ottoman.
“So don’t keep me in suspense. What did the old bat say?”
“She’s considering it.”
“Considering it? You’re not dicking around with some lowball offer, are you?”
“Of course not.”
She can tell by his rapid blinking that he’s lying.
“Then why didn’t she agree on the spot?”
“Clearly, you don’t understand human nature, Violet. At least, most humans’ nature. I can’t speak for whatever system you’re operating on.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. So go on: enlighten me.”
“Agnes has been running that club for decades. If she doesn’t have her own reason for selling, no amount of money will budge her. She’s not in it for the money.”
“Okay, Freud. So what does the lawyer say? What’s the next move?”
“She said she’s thinking about it.”
“Tell her she has a week to decide and then you pull the offer. You’ll go to her competitor and infuse them with a cash flow that will help them become the only club worthwhile in the city. She might not sell for money, but she’d sell not to see her business die a slow death.”
Billy considers this. “I’ll put some pressure on the situation.”
“Good. Because while you give Agnes a week, I’m giving you a week. Close the deal, or I’m releasing a bombshell pictorial.” She stands up. “I’ll see myself out … partner.”
Poppy pours soy sauce, olive oil, lemon juice, and Worcestershire sauce into a blender. She double-checks the recipe for the steak marinade. It says thirty seconds. She hits the on button, confident that the way to her girlfriend’s heart is through her stomach.
That day at the farmer’s market, she was dismissive when Patricia said she wanted to stay home and cook.
But she should have been more supportive.
Patricia grew up watching old Julia Child television episodes and has her biography and complete set of cookbooks.
But with her work schedule, she just doesn’t have time to cook.
So Poppy has decided she’ll learn. It’s the least she can do considering how badly she’s behaved, how terribly she’s treated Patricia, and what awful disregard she’s had for the beautiful life they have together.
With the whir of the blender, she doesn’t hear her phone ring. But when she pours the marinade into a bowl, she realizes she has a new voicemail from Patricia. She dials in to listen.
“Hi babe, listen—don’t wait up for me. We just got a last-minute curveball in the Erikson case. Love you. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Poppy feels crushed with disappointment. It’s not just that she’ll be alone for dinner, but that Patricia’s absence is delaying her intense need to do something nice for her.
Then she gets angry. Fine, she’s the one who owes Patricia an apology. But what if she didn’t? After all, Patricia doesn’t know about Poppy’s guilt. And yet Poppy shopped and prepped all day to make a romantic dinner for the two of them.
Yes, she’s been at fault. Badly. But even if she starts behaving, the problem in their relationship won’t be solved. Is this what the rest of her twenties will look like? The rest of her life? Trying to figure out a way to get the spark back?
Okay, don’t spiral, she tells herself. She’ll change plans.
Maybe they need to go on a trip, someplace where they can just laze around and fuck all day by the beach.
But there’s no way Patricia would agree to that.
Poppy can’t remember the last time she took a vacation, and maybe that’s part of the problem.
Poppy feels like a rejected housewife, then scolds herself for being ridiculous. If Patricia can tolerate the quirks of the Blue Angel job and those odd hours, the least she can do is be an adult about Patricia’s occasional late nights during the week.
Her phone rings again. Maybe she got all worked up for no reason: Patricia will be home after all.
But the call isn’t from Patricia. It’s from Violet. Poppy lets it go to voicemail. This thing with her is madness, and it has to stop.
The thing is, she’s not sure she can resist.
For the first time, Poppy gives credence to the notion of sex addiction; she used to scoff when she read about the cheating male celebrities who had to go to rehab for it.
But now she knows how it feels to have such an affliction.
What else is this thing with Violet if not some kind of sick addiction?
The truth is, Poppy finds herself craving Violet’s touch exactly like a drug.
There’s something about walking into a room, having no idea what will happen or how, except the certainty that it will result in a rush of pleasure so intense and complete it will leave her body vibrating like a single nerve of ecstasy.
Poppy feels she will never get enough of watching Violet’s perfect body swathed in leather, the coldness of her wide green eyes, and the cruelty of her fingers that wield pain and pleasure in equal, complementary parts.
After experiencing it, how can she be satisfied with Patricia’s plain face and soft body, her eager-to-please lovemaking that’s as predictable as her own period?
But that’s not fair. The problem is not Patricia, it’s Poppy: Why does she enjoy being yelled at in bed, called a stupid whore, smacked, deprived of sensation, told she doesn’t deserve to be fucked?
What is it about her psychological makeup that makes this appealing? That’s the issue. That’s the problem.
She should delete the message. She should toss her phone in the garbage.
Instead, hands shaking, she dials into her voicemail.