Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [46]
—I know. But I’m not sure what to do yet.
—You’ll think of something.
—I just got a letter from Caesar’s. Shall we see what they’re up to now?
I take the envelope out of my robe pocket and tear the end off, pulling the letter out.
—Ah. They want to know how many bridesmaids I want. They recommend eight.
—Eight is a very harmonizing number.
—Right. They encourage the color lilac for the bridesmaids’ dresses.
—Encourage black.
—There’s an address in Boston where fittings will be held once I send them my list. Blah, blah, blah. They SAY the entire wedding will be shown by satellite television. Oh, you’ll love this. They’re going to cover the prewedding activities, including but not limited to, my dressing for the BIG EVENT with my closest girlfriends present.
—There’s no way you’re doing this.
—They suggest I buff up a little for the lingerie shots.
—Discreet cameras tucked artfully in your wedding suite? What the hell has happened to Caesar’s? Even Lloyd—loyal Lloyd, company man—complains about them all the time now.
—They say, once I launch my wedding plans, I will need a solid base of operations, so . . . so they’re prepared to help with that.
—And that would be what?
—Aka: our home. They can, once I sign on to marry Uber, restore our Brattle Street residence to our full and ongoing use with . . . six pages of stipulations.
—They’re trying to turn you into Lady Diana.
—Pre- or post-crash?
—Definitely post. Wow, helicopters, he says, and looks up to the skylights.
Two TV station choppers are visible in the panes of glass now, the noise crowding us. Suddenly Mark stands to his complete height, water streaming off his naked body. He has a beautiful body but I’m not looking until he gets a towel on. I can’t help wonder if they get a clear shot through the skylights. Mark comes over in his towel and sits down on the bench, radiating heat, steam rising off his arms and shoulders.
—Okay, so maybe I do have an idea. Are you ready for this? I’m thinking I might just petition Caesar’s so I can fight Uber.
—Are you crazy? he says, his mouth full of chocolate glaze.
—Look, they’re out for blood one way or another, I say.
—Try money and publicity.
—Exactly. Blood, money, and lots of publicity. And what better way to supply all three than to send the daughter of seven gladiators into the arena to win her freedom?
—So you’re suggesting you die in the arena because . . . ? he asks.
It’s not often I see Mark this rattled. He tends to go along, to find paths of least resistance. Maybe he gets that from working on computers. He likes to do twisted things with graphics and programming and that takes a lot of patience, as far as I’m concerned.
—Not die. I don’t want to die. Uber would go easy on me—he doesn’t want to fight me.
—I wouldn’t count on that.
—But I’m Tommy’s daughter and he revered Tommy—I told you that.
—All that reverence didn’t keep Tommy alive.
—He was under contract. If Lloyd was still fighting and they asked him to fight his mother, he’d do that.
—Well . . . Grandma’s dead. And that’s exactly what you’d be doing with Uber, fighting under contract. But this isn’t . . . oh, man, you like this guy, don’t you?
I can feel my skin warm. But I don’t think I should have to explain. The truth is, I feel kind of sorry for Uber. And Mark gets jealous sometimes, I know that. So I decide it’s best to circumnavigate.
—Maybe all I’d have to do is maim him enough to end the match, I say. —Or ask for one of those timed matches. Ten minutes, no more . . .
—Jesus, Lyn. I’ll marry you, I told you that.
—Thanks for the huge favor.
—I don’t mean it that way, he says, nudging closer to me, the glaze shining on his lips, his goatee still wet from the bath.
—I could lose something small. Like a toe. That might be enough for them. We’re just talking toes here. Not major commitments. Not death and dismemberment. No one sacrificing herself on the altar of marriage.
—Technically, that’s dismemberment.
—Okay, so he could collect on that. I’ve got ten. I can give