Could be just a rumor for all I know."
"You've dated her."
"Nope. A friend of a friend. She's on my list. I was just waiting for a confirmation. Give it a try. You don't like her, we'll find another bimbo."
"Can you make the call?"
"Sure, no problem. It's an easy call, now that you're Mr. Cover Boy, most eligible bachelor, the King of Torts. Wonder if they know what torts are over in Georgia?"
"Not if they're lucky. Just make the call."
They met for dinner at the restaurant of the month, a Japanese place frequented by the young and prosperous. Ridley looked even better in person than she did in print. Heads jerked and necks twisted as they were led to the center of the restaurant and placed at a very powerful table. Conversations halted in mid-sentence. Waiters swarmed around them. Her slightly accented English was perfect and just exotic enough to add even more sex to the package, as if she needed it.
Old hand-me-downs from a flea market would look great on Ridley. Her challenge was dressing down, so the clothes wouldn't compete with the blond hair and aqua eyes and high cheekbones and the rest of the perfect features.
Her real name was Ridal Petashnakol, which she had to spell twice before Clay got it. Fortunately, models, like soccer players, could survive with only one name, so she went just by Ridley. She drank no alcohol, but instead ordered a cranberry juice. Clay hoped she wouldn't order a plate of carrots for dinner.
She had the looks and he had the money, and since they could talk about neither they thrashed about in deep water for a few minutes looking for safe ground. She was Georgian, not Russian, and cared nothing about politics or terrorism or football. Ah, the movies! She saw everything and loved them all. Even dreadful stuff that no one else went to see. Box office disasters were much beloved by Ridley, and Clay was beginning to have doubts.
She's just a bimbo, he said to himself. Dinner now, Rebecca's wedding later, and she's history.
She spoke five languages, but since most were of the Eastern European variety they seemed pretty useless in the fast lane. Much to his relief, she ordered a first course, second course, and dessert. Conversation wasn't easy, but both worked hard at it. Their backgrounds were so different. The lawyer in him wanted a thorough examination of the witness; real name, age, blood type, father's occupation, salary, marital history, sexual history - is it true you're a switch-hitter? But he managed to throttle himself and not pry at all. He nibbled around the edges once or twice, got nothing, and went back to the movies. She knew every twenty-year-old B actor and who he happened to be dating at the moment - painfully boring stuff, but, then, probably not as boring as having a bunch of lawyers talk about their latest trial victories or toxic tort settlements.
Clay knocked back the wine and got himself loosened up. It was a red burgundy. Patton French would've been proud. If only his mass tort buddies could see him now, sitting across from this Barbie Doll.
The only negative was the nasty rumor. Surely she couldn't go for women. She was too perfect, too exquisite, too appealing to the opposite sex. She was destined to be a trophy wife! But there was something about her that kept him suspicious. Once the initial shock of her looks wore off, and that took at least two hours and one bottle of wine, Clay realized he wasn't getting past the surface. Either there wasn't much depth, or it was carefully protected.
Over dessert, a chocolate mousse that she toyed with but did not eat, he invited her to attend a wedding reception. He confessed that the bride was his former fiancee, but lied when he said that they were now on friendly terms. Ridley shrugged as if she preferred to go to the movies. "Why not?" she said.
As he turned into the drive of the Potomac Country Club, Clay was hit hard by the moment. His last visit to this wretched place had been more than seven months earlier, a torturous dinner with Rebecca's parents. Then he'd hidden his old Honda behind the tennis courts. Now, he was showing off a freshly detailed Porsche Carrera. Then, he'd avoided the valet parking to save money. Now he'd tip the kid extra. Then, he was alone and dreading the next few hours with the Van Horns. Now he was escorting the priceless Ridley, who held his elbow and crossed her legs in such a way that the slit in her skirt showed all the way to her waist; and wherever her parents happened to be at the moment they damned sure weren't involved in his life. Then, he'd felt like a vagrant on hallowed ground. Now the Potomac Country Club would approve his application tomorrow if he wrote the right check.
"Van Horn wedding reception," he said to the guard, who waved him through.
They were an hour late, which was perfect timing. The ballroom was packed and a rhythm and blues band played at one end.
"Stay close to me," Ridley whispered as they entered. "I won't know anyone here."
"Don't worry," Clay said. Staying close would not be a problem. And though he pretended otherwise, he wouldn't know anyone either.
Heads began turning immediately. Jaws dropped. With several drinks under their belts the men did not hesitate to gawk at Ridley as she and her date inched forward. "Hey, Clay!" someone yelled, and Clay turned to see the smiling face of Randy Spino, a law school classmate who worked in a megafirm and would never, under normal circumstances, have spoken to Clay in such surroundings. A chance meeting on the street, and maybe Spino would say, "How's it going?" without breaking stride. But never in a country club crowd, and especially one so dominated by big-firm types.
But there he was, thrusting a hand forward at Clay while showing Ridley every one of his teeth. A small mob followed. Spino took charge, introducing all of his good friends to his good friend Clay Carter and Ridley with no last name. She squeezed Clay's elbow even tighter. All the boys wanted to say hello.
To get close to Ridley they needed to chat with Clay, so it was only a few seconds before someone said, "Hey, Clay, congratulations on nailing Ackerman Labs." Clay had never seen the person who congratulated him. He assumed he was a lawyer, probably from a big firm, probably a big firm that represented big corporations like Ackerman Labs, and he knew before the sentence was finished that the false praise was driven by envy. And a desire to stare at Ridley.
"Thanks," Clay said, as if it was just another day at the office.
"A hundred million. Wow!" This face, too, belonged to a stranger, one who appeared to be drunk.
"Well, half goes for taxes," Clay said. Who could get by these days on just $50 million?
The mob exploded in laughter, as if Clay had just hit the funniest punch line ever. More people gathered around, all men, all inching toward this striking blonde who looked vaguely familiar. Perhaps they didn't recognize her in full color with her clothes on.
An intense, stuffy type said, "We got Philo. Boy, were we glad to get that Dyloft mess settled." It was an affliction suffered by most D.C. lawyers. Every corporation in the world had D.C. counsel, if in name only, and so every dispute or transaction had grave consequences among the city's lawyers. A refinery blows up in Thailand, and a lawyer will say, "Yeah, we got Exxon." A blockbuster flops - "We got Disney." An SUV flips and kills five - "We got Ford."
"We-Gots" was a game Clay had heard until he was sick of it.
I got Ridley, he wanted to say, so keep your hands off.
An announcement was being made onstage and the room became quieter. The bride and groom were about to dance, to be followed by the bride and her father, then the groom and his mother, and so on. The crowd gathered around to watch. The band began playing "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes."