The Top of the Mark is one of San Francisco’s Great Rooms, with its polished wood, Art Deco vibe and a view of the city so breathtaking I question how I could have left this place for a lazy Canadian mountain town where everyone thinks I’m a witch. Then I remember: my mother made me do it. Suddenly, I miss Canmore and my boring job at the bookstore, but mostly I miss the quiet. There is no silence for me here.
Seth is chatting up two ladies with matching chignons. I don’t see Janet, so I plant myself at a table in the corner, and read the extensive list of extravagant cocktails I can no longer afford. I read it two, three times. Seth is still chatting with the chignons. I read the menu once more, wave the waitress over and order myself a drink and the Mediterranean appetizer platter on Seth’s tab.
“Mason, hi, I’m so sorry I’m late. I was in Oakland and got held up and it took forever to get across the Bay Bridge.” Janet is breathless and harried; her forehead is damp. She dots her face with a pad of fine pressed powder. She takes a white elastic from her bag and twists her long hair back and up, securing it in a high, messy bun that is more high-end fashion model than rat’s nest. Everything is so easy for her—it’s like her life is effortless, with only momentary blips like getting stuck in traffic trying to make it back from Oakland during rush hour. She collapses into the seat beside me.
“Wait a minute.” Now I’m confused. I narrow my eyes and push my face closer to hers.
“What?”
“Since when do you go to Oakland?” I wrinkle my nose and sniff at her shoulder.
Janet ignores this and takes the glass from my hand and finishes what was left of my martini. She laughs and raises her hand to smooth her hair, but it’s already up and just-so. “Oakland’s changed, Mason. All the artists who were driven out of the city during the dot-com boom have all set up there. It’s great—like Brooklyn, but ten years ago.”
“So you go to Oakland a lot?” I move closer again and sniff at her, and again she fusses nervously with her hair.
“A bit, yeah. There are some great little places—I have some clients. A couple of shops are carrying my line. It does really well there.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Why are you acting so weird? Can we please get a drink?”
“Are you sure you don’t want to freshen up first?”
“What’s 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
