Lying Bastards

By Roger Arsht

Read previous episodes here.

       “I don’t wish to be disturbed,” Brooke said to her assistant using the intercom function on her phone. Brooke thought she was agitated because she was impatient to hear what happened with Bertie and Annie, Brooke knew that wasn’t the real reason for her anxiety. She was on her feet as soon as she saw Annie’s silhouette through the glass window next to her door. She opened her door, pulled Annie into her office, and closed it quickly behind them. 

       “Sit down and spill. I want to hear everything."  

       “I need to stand,” Annie said, her discomfort showing. 

       “Why? What’s wrong?” 

       “Horseback riding calamity.” 

       “You fell off? Are you all right?” Brooke said, alarmed. 

       “I didn’t fall off. I broke my butt.” 

       “You didn’t?” 

       “I did. We went riding on Saturday morning. It was a beautiful day. The horses were wonderful. We were galloping through the surf. But it was too much. I limped around Secrets Kept for the rest of the weekend.” 

       “Did that ruin everything?” 

       Annie bit her lip. “Not exactly. He brought me ice packs and aloe. He helped me recover and things…you know?” 

       “Good?” 

       “Very good.” 

       “What happened Sunday?” 

       “It was a very relaxing day. I was sorer on Sunday than Saturday. It was romantic. He let me read some of his writing. I fell asleep on his chest after a few glasses of wine. I slept the whole way back to Annapolis.” 

       “What does he write about?” 

       “Loss. Recovery. The search for renewal after a tragedy. That sort of thing.” 

       “What a different experience from your first visit. Have you been invited again?” 

       “In two weeks. He will be in New York through the coming weekend.” Annie had a pensive look on her face. “Brooke, do you think Bertie hosts women in New York?” 

       “I suppose he could. Why?” 

       “I hope he can be honest with me. How would you feel if you were getting close to someone, and he was seeing other women?” 

       “I’d settle for someone…anyone…” Brooke said, despondently. 

       “Oh no. You thought the guy had potential.” 

       Brooke's eyes darkened, as everything she had been holding in erupted. “Frankly, Annie, I don’t want to hear a single complaint from you. Three weeks ago, you were bitching about a guy who is willing to bend over backward to satisfy your every need. Who the hell takes their dates on a private yacht, wine and dines them, has clean sheets and soft towels, goes horseback riding, jet skiing, and then massages their broken ass with aloe?” 

       Annie grimaced. “That bad?” 

       “Yes, and he’s married.” Brooke's voice broke. 

       “I’m so sorry. Why do guys think they can get away with that?” 

       “Because they’re selfish bastards who want to discover if they’re still relevant and attractive enough to get laid when they should be at home with their wives and kids.” 

       “You let him in your bed?” 

       “No. He took me to a flea-bitten hotel. He told me his place was being renovated. I should have bailed, but I didn’t.” 

       “You told me he was successful.” 

       “He said he was an analyst with Woodward & Burns. I now know why he paid for everything with cash. When we went to that motel, I realized that kind of place doesn’t require a credit card. They rent rooms by the hour.” 

       “And he doesn’t work for Woodward & Burns?” 

       “No, he doesn’t. I called there this morning. They’ve never heard of him.” Brooke was devastated. “Why don’t we check these guys out before we go on a date? I’m so mad at myself. I know better. We get fairy-dust in our eyes. We think every guy is the one who slipped through every other woman’s grasp, like he’s a fucking unicorn.” 

       “I’m so sorry," Annie said with sympathy. Her thoughts returned to Bertie. "I still don’t know much about Bertie. He could turn out to be…” 

       “Don’t you dare mention Bertie to me. I should have been on that yacht. I gave you my shot because I thought this guy was a winner. I can’t believe I couldn’t see that piece-of-shit for what he is?” 

       “What can I do?” 

       “Nothing. I’m going to bury myself in work for the rest of the day. I’m going to try and make a fortune for my clients, mostly men who probably think more about what I’m like in bed than respecting what I’ve accomplished and the money I’ve made for them.” 

       “I know you’re upset, but I need to ask you something,” Annie began. 

       “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”  

       “I’m thinking of going to New York.” 

       “To see Bertie? Why?” 

       “I was told I couldn’t visit Secrets Kept without an invitation. Nobody said anything about New York. I have clients I can visit in Manhattan.” 

       “You’re as bad as me. Now you’re acting like a petulant school girl. You haven’t learned a thing from my story.” 

       “What if Bertie isn’t what he seems?  

       Brooke gave Annie an ugly squint. “What does it matter? We’re two women in our early forties. The only men we’re getting are those who are on their second time around, impotent, still wrestling with their sexual orientation, or they need their egos and cocks stroked for hours so they can get hard.” 

       “That’s angry.” 

       “I mean it,” Brooke said with red in her eyes. “I’m done. No more dates.” 

       “What if Bertie is a fake like your guy?” 

       “He could be Harvey Weinstein and he’s still better than the bastard I spent Saturday night with.”  

       Annie watched as Brooke shivered uncontrollably. 

       “Are you cold?” Annie asked. 

       “No. Whenever I think of that guy and that motel room. I have an uncontrollable desire to go home and bathe.” Annie wanted to ask more questions, but Brooke had had enough. “You do what you want. If you want to search for problems, then you go ahead. You’re making a mistake.” 

       Annie started to open her mouth.  

       Brooke stopped her. “A mistake.” 

       Annie vacillated about going to New York for the next few days. Eventually, she convinced herself that she had justification for going. Better yet, she had convinced herself that she had a plausible alibi if he questioned her intentions or thought her too nosey. She made two appointments with clients for Thursday and another three for Friday. If she was lucky, and Bertie was free, she would invite him to a Broadway show or an opera at the Lincoln Center.  

       Just before she was about to leave her hotel on Thursday morning, she dialed Bertie’s office.  

       “Burton & Layton Publishing. May I help you?”   

       Annie realized that she didn’t know Bertie’s last name. “May I help you?” the operator asked again. 

       “Bertie,” she said haltingly. “Is Bertie available?” Her professional voice had thankfully returned. 

       “Please hold for Mr. Sandman’s assistant.” Annie thought she heard the woman giggle. 

       “Richard Sandman’s office. This is Jenny. How can I help you?” said a new voice. 

       “Is Mr. Sandman available?” Annie asked and then hesitated. “Did you say Richard Sandman’s office? The author.” 

       “Yes, Richard Sandman. May I ask who is calling?”  

       “Annie Peterson. I’m a friend.” 

       “I’m afraid he’s not here, Ms. Peterson.” 

       “I was under the impression he would be in Manhattan this week.” 

       “He was. He has returned to his remote office.” 

       “In Annapolis.” 

       “I’m not at liberty to disclose that information. If you’d like to leave a message for Mr. Sandman, I will make sure he receives it when he calls in.” 

       “No, no, please don’t leave him a message.” The idiocy of her foolish idea had quickly caught up to her. “Please don’t tell him I called. If possible, could you completely forget about this call? I’m terribly sorry.” 

       “No problem. You have a good day.” 

       Annie disconnected the call. “I can’t believe I did that,” she said to herself while hitting her palm on her forehead. 

       With a little bit of luck, Bertie, or Richard or whoever he is, would never know. Maybe Brooke was right, Annie thought to herself. Maybe all guys were lying bastards.