He called the next day, they had dinner that night at a Thai place he loved; she was new to town so she couldn’t suggest she had a favorite place to go. She suspected Evan was the kind of man who would simultaneously pity her loneliness and admire her guts in moving to a city where she knew no one. They talked baseball, books, movies, and avoided their personal lives. She told him she was thinking of graduate school in English and was living off a trust fund, keeping her situation intentionally vague. She tried to pay for the dinner; he slid the check to his side of the table and smiled. ‘But you bought a ticket.’
She liked him. But over two more dates in the next five days, she hit a stone walclass="underline" he wouldn’t talk about what Jargo cared about, his future movies.
She’d watched his two finished films on DVD before she’d come to Houston to lay her snares. He only talked about those movies when she asked. He never mentioned his Oscar nomination for Ounce of Trouble, which impressed her far more than the honor itself.
Their fourth date, she saw Dezz watching them in the restaurant. He sat alone at the bar at the small Italian eatery, drinking a glass of red wine, pretending to read the paper. Jargo watched her, through him. He left halfway through their meal.
‘You’re upset,’ Evan said, not thirty seconds after Dezz had walked past their table.
This would be a whole world easier if he were one of those men lost in himself. But Evan, when he wasn’t immersed in his work, seemed to notice every small detail of her.
‘No. I saw a man who reminded me of someone I once knew. An unpleasant memory.’
‘Then let’s not dwell on it,’ he said.
Ten minutes later he asked her about her family. She decided to stick close to the truth. ‘They’re dead.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Burglary. They were both shot. A year ago.’
He went pale with shock. ‘Oh, Jesus, Carrie, how terrible. I’m so sorry.’
‘Now you know,’ she said, ‘but I’d like to talk about something else.’
‘Sure.’ He glided the conversation back onto safe ground, smoothing out the awkwardness. She saw a real tenderness in his gaze toward her and she thought, Oh, no, don’t do that, you make me feel as though I’m using their deaths and I wasn’t planning to tell you and I don’t know why I did. She was afraid that, having a storyteller’s curiosity, he’d visit the Chicago Tribune Web site, search on her name, look for an account of the murders. And she’d had a different surname then; there would be no Carrie Lindstrom whose parents had died in a burglary. She had made a mistake, but if he never looked it up, then that was okay.
They went back to his house to watch a movie and drink wine. She knew she should sleep with him; it was time to seal the deal, insert herself deeper into his life. He didn’t have a steady girl – there had been a woman last year, another film-maker named Kathleen, who had dumped him for another guy and moved to New York. He had mentioned Kathleen only once, which she considered healthy. Evan seemed a little lonely but not needy, she could keep a closer eye on him for Jargo, for whatever odd reason. But she hesitated.
Jargo had ordered her to sleep with a man once before, six months ago; a high-level Colombian police official, married, in his late forties. But she didn’t. Instead she let him pick her up in a Bogota bar, went back to his hideaway apartment, kissed him, and slipped a knockout drug into his beer. He passed out kissing her. She undressed the official, to let him think they’d consummated their evening and watched the man sleep. While he slept, Dezz broke into the man’s home office. Two weeks later she read about a number of police officers who were on the drug cartel payrolls being arrested. She figured Dezz had stolen financial records or payoff lists. Jargo never asked if she hadn’t slept with the official; he assumed she had, that she was willing to prostitute herself.
You never knew with Jargo on which side of the line between dark and light he would drop you.
But this. This she could not fake.
It’ll be all right, she told herself. He’s nice and good-looking and you like him. It would be easier, though, if she hated him, because it would only make her hate him more. She realized that with a shock as their lips met, his kisses tender and slow. She arched against him as he slid his hand over her breast, clutched his hair in her fingers.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said.
‘Nothing.’
He leaned back. ‘You’re not ready.’
‘You think too much.’ She kissed him hard again, willing him to just not care, willing herself not to respond to his touch, his tongue. He’s just a project.
He kissed her again but then broke it off. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’
Oh, God, if I could. But I never, never will. ‘Nothing’s wrong. Except that you haven’t carried me off to bed yet.’
The lie reassured him. He smiled and picked her up from the couch and they lay down on his bed and it was not like the police attache in Colombia. She had thought, in the long, dark days of the past year, that she would never feel happiness again without pretense. But instead of being a terrible betrayal of her own self, the night with Evan broke her heart.
He’s just a project, Carrie.
The next morning she called Jargo and told him that she and Evan were lovers. ‘I don’t have any competition,’ she said in a flat voice. ‘He’s giving me a lot of his time.’
‘Is he talking about his films?’
‘No. He says if he talks too much about a movie, he’s told the story, then, and he loses the passion for making it.’
‘Search his computer, his notebooks.’
‘He’s not much of a note taker.’ She paused. ‘It would be helpful to know what exactly I’m looking for.’
‘Just find out what film projects he’s considering. Fuck him enough and he’ll tell you. He’s a man like any other. He likes to fuck and talk about work. Men are boring that way,’ Jargo said. She tried to imagine Jargo performing either activity, and the picture would not come into focus.
She went back into Evan’s bed and focused on him with the same energy he’d poured into her, feeling guilty and sick all at once.
‘Why won’t you tell me about your next project?’ she asked one afternoon after pulling him away from his video-editing and into bed.
‘I’ve got to get Bluff edited, it’s a mess. I can’t even think about the next film.’
She ran a hand down his chest, his flat stomach. Nipped at his flesh below his navel with her fingertips. ‘No worries. I’m just interested in your ideas.’ She tapped his forehead, used the line that had become their tease between each other. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll buy a ticket.’
And gave him the warmest smile she could conjure.
She could see in his face the decision to change a well-worn habit. He leaned back. ‘Well. A guy at PBS talked to me about doing a bio on Jacques Cousteau. I could get that on PBS or Discovery Channel in five seconds flat. Good for the pocketbook. But I’m not sure it’s the right career move for me.’
‘So no idea, then.’
She saw him decide to trust her, saw the smile creep across his face. ‘It’s weird, China’s Communist but they have millionaires in Hong Kong still. I think there might be a story worth doing.’
‘China. Too far away. I’d miss you.’
He kissed her. ‘I’d miss you, too. You could come with me. Be my unpaid assistant.’
‘My dream job,’ she said. ‘So who’s the lucky subject in China?’ She thought this might be the seed of Jargo’s interest. Evan had zeroed in on a high-ranker in Beijing who lined Jargo’s pocket. But how would Jargo have known?
‘There’s a Hong Kong financier named Jameson Wong who might be an interesting character, he lost all his money in bad deals, and instead of rebuilding his business he’s become a leading activist against the Communist government. Businessman turned campaigner for freedom.’
She snuggled her face against his chest. Tomorrow she would betray his confidences, report his every word. China. This Jameson Wong guy. That was the interest point. ‘I’d buy a ticket. You’re my brilliant boy.’