Suddenly, Michaela’s drink splashed onto her neck and down her dress. It was shockingly cold. An enormous man loomed over her, swaying slightly, and started to dab at her chest with his napkin.
“I…I am sooooo sorry. Here. Lemme—”
Michaela swatted his giant paw away and gasped as the icy liquid trickled lower. “Get off of me!” When she looked way up to meet his eyes, she recognized him at once. Dimitri Golikov—The Flying Russian—the new superstar left-winger for the Montreal Canadiens. In spite of herself she smiled back at him goofily. “It was an accident. It’s okay—I got it.”
He returned the smile—all his teeth amazingly intact and dazzling in their whiteness—and tilted dangerously backwards when a woman as tall as he steadied him with a firm arm. “Dima. Time to go.” He turned to Michaela and tried to wink. Then he put his arm around the tall woman’s shoulders and nuzzled her neck. She gave Michaela the once-over, hovering very briefly at her breasts as though assessing if they were real or not, and then looked down at her with very yellow-green wolf eyes.
“How old are you?”
Michaela was not expecting that. She folded the wet napkin and dropped it on the bar. “Older than you think.”
Wolf Eyes smiled without baring her teeth. Then she turned away and taking Dimitri Golikov by the hand like a little boy, steered him deftly through the throng and out of sight.
On her way to the bathroom to clean up her dress, Michaela was grinded on by two guys old enough to be her grandfather, smacked on the back of her head by the wayward hand of a woman dancing some weird sixties thing, and then accosted by a schlubby guy in a bow tie who kept insisting he was George R.R. Martin. She squirmed away from him and fled to what looked like a promising direction, but found herself in an enormous industrial kitchen, packed with frantic waiters who didn’t even notice she was there. As Michaela retreated from their brutal efficiency, she found herself wandering down a cavernous hallway lined with black and white photos of female movie stars, each in an old-fashioned glamour pose, each signed by the star herself. She didn’t really know who most of them were, but there were definitely a few she recognized and found mesmerizing. She peered closely at the inscription on one. It was from an ingénue Jane Fonda. “Dear Jean Luc, Here’s one of me from many lifetimes ago! Love, Jane.” Michaela only knew Jane Fonda from this show on Netflix she’d watched once or twice, about two old ladies whose elderly husbands fall in love with each other. She had no idea Jane Fonda had been a sex symbol.
“An inspiring woman.”
Michaela startled to a man standing right behind her.
“Oh, pardon mademoiselle. I am sorry. I thought you saw me.”
Michaela took a step away from him and hastened towards the door at the end of the hall. “I was just looking for the bathroom. I need to—” She gestured towards her dress. “Do you have any idea where it is?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he bowed his head as if to ask her permission, and gestured for her to follow, which after a moment’s hesitation, she did.
The bathroom was twice the size of Michaela’s parents’ living room, but did not contain a sofa covered in plastic, or little bowls of stale mixed nuts strategically placed. It had a huge sunken marble tub, with steps leading down into it like a Roman bath. There was a giant three-way mirror, so she could check herself out from every angle. There were hand towels monogrammed with J.L & M, as well as thoughtful little baskets containing everything a woman might need: hand wipes, individual tissue packs, cotton swabs, tampons, and condoms. It took Michaela a while to figure out how the faucets worked—but when the water came it fell into the wide shallow sink like a waterfall. She slipped off her high heels and nestled her toes in the thick, silky carpet that she felt like having a little nap on. It was the most gorgeous carpet she’d ever seen, and it was in a bathroom. Not the bathroom. Just a bathroom. She touched up her mascara and lipstick, and poofed her hair up a bit. She would give this party fifteen more minutes, then she was dragging Brittany out by her red hair if she had to.
As she stepped into the adjoining room, she was startled a second time by the man, who was sitting in an armchair swirling a bit of ice in his glass. She realized she was in some kind of office or study. One of the walls was just one enormous window. Through the snowstorm that raged mutely outside she could just make out the spire lights of Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours, the church made famous by Leonard Cohen, and beyond that, the lights along the St. Lawrence river. The remaining walls were covered in photographs and framed diplomas. She also noticed several trophies on a glass display table, and the man caught her eye doing so.
“Emmy Awards. Seven of them. That’s just this year.”
Michaela nodded and smiled, but she wasn’t stopping here. “I’ve got to go find my friend.”
“Don’t you want to know what I won them for?”
“No, thanks. I’m sure there’s no shortage of women here who’d love to, though.”
The man laughed so hard he sprayed the liquor in his mouth back into his glass, and all over his hands. He wiped them first before extending one. “Let me introduce myself. Jean Luc David. That was my bathroom you were admiring.”
Michaela tried not to smile. It came out as a smirk. She shook his dry, soft hand.
“It’s ostentatious. And a bit obscene. I did appreciate the carpet, though.”
“Everything tasteful and classy is my wife’s choice. Everything over the top and vulgar is mine. What can I say? I am nouveau riche boy from Terrebonne. What do I know?”
“You’re not really Jean Luc David—?”
“Yes. I am. I’m better looking in the flesh though, aren’t I?” He tilted his head into a pose. He had thick, salt-and- pepper hair, deeply blue eyes, and two long dimple lines down his cheeks that did in fact, make even an average face quite handsome. “What is your name?”
Michaela refused to smile but was dying to talk more to this man. When would she have the chance again?
“Oh, sorry! Michaela Cruz. And I am a huge fan of your show. I know, you must hear that from everyone—but I mean, you changed the entire playing field. Finally, you know, we have a story full of complex female characters who don’t have to be superheroes or, or morally righteous. Flawed women who sometimes make poor choices with little…redemption. No apologizing, no moralizing, just real fucking…authentic women. With Nasty Women? You are one of the great feminist producers, Mr. David.” Michaela tipped an imaginary hat in his direction. Chapeaux!
“Please call me Jean Luc. Mr. David was my father.”
“There will be a season two? And three? And four?”
Jean Luc David eased out of his chair and approached Michaela. He wasn’t much taller than she was, but he had an authority that made him seem so. He reached behind her and gently lifted the hair that had gotten tucked inside the back of her dress. “There.” Then he turned abruptly and announced he had to get back to the party. Michaela just stood there, still feeling where his hand had touched her neck.