She was so pleased that on the way home she joined the Auto Club and applied for a library card.
She let a week pass before she placed an ad in the
She had made the change now, and it was time to think about the future. She needed to keep working at building her savings. Her goal was that someday she would be rich, and she knew that even though she was only at the beginning of the process, her progress was going to consist of hundreds of small decisions. For now, she had to keep her expenses under control and devote most of her time to finding the next man.
It had always seemed to her that the best kind of man wanted the sort of woman who went to plays and concerts and art exhibits, so she began to read the Datebook section of the paper and then buy tickets to events. While she was there she scanned the crowds for men who did not already have women attached to them. She liked being out, but even when she saw the right sort of man in the lobby before a play or a concert—or, more often, caught one looking at her—the event would be imminent, they both would have to find their way to widely separated seats, and the lights would go out. A few times, when she had seen a promising prospect, she had even stayed in the lobby afterward and given him a chance to find her. He never did.
Sometimes, late at night, she would go to the girl in the mirror and help her become Rachel Sturbridge. For her expeditions into high culture she had developed a rapt expression to indicate artistic appreciation. If she listened to a piece of classical music it might include a satisfied nod or a slightly troubled look around the eyes, as though she were comparing the performance with an invisible score. But her best new look was a serene, smooth- faced expression that was at once benevolent and superior, the habitual demeanor of a just queen.
She decided to try expensive restaurants in the Union Square district. One evening she sat in the bar at Postrio having a martini before dinner, her coat on the stool beside her. She liked the bar because it served as a long, narrow anteroom, where every customer had to pass by on the way to the staircase leading down into the restaurant. There was a grill at the far end of the bar, where three chefs dodged flames under a big copper hood, and there were a few booths along the wall, where patrons ate informal versions of the food served downstairs. The French doors across from the bar opened into the lobby of the Prescott Hotel, and new people entered every few minutes. She watched for unaccompanied men, dismissed several, and then saw one who looked right.
Rachel smiled to herself as she sipped her martini, feeling the icy glass on her lips and then the fire of the vodka warming her as it moved down her throat. She pretended not to see him. He stood for a moment talking with the maitre d’, then stepped into the bar.
She turned her head and looked up, her face assuming its new regal expression. The man was tall, wearing a navy blue sport jacket and a pair of gray pants. It was one of the uniforms all men wore when they weren’t actually working, and it would have been difficult for most women to evaluate him, but Rachel Sturbridge had become a shrewd appraiser. The coat was a good cut, the fabric was finely woven wool, and the tie was tasteful and expensive. He had come in through the French doors, not the street entrance, so he was undoubtedly staying at the hotel. Shoes and watches were the best indicators, but she could not see either just yet in this light. He surveyed the bar, looking for a seat.
She caught his eye. “Nobody is sitting here.” She indicated the bar stool next to hers. She took the coat onto her lap.
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“No,” she said. “It’s all yours.”
He grinned, sat down, and said, “Thank you. If you’re waiting for someone to meet you or something, I’ll be happy to give it up when he comes.”
“No need,” said Rachel Sturbridge. “I’m alone.”
He ordered a Macallan single-malt scotch, which showed he had some standards, but he wanted the twelve- year-old instead of the eighteen, which meant he wasn’t showing off. He turned to her. “Can I get you another martini?”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I just started this one.”
She decided he was probably the sort of man Rachel Sturbridge would like. He was tall and manly looking, and he was friendly in his manner but polite, and he hadn’t leaned over her to talk, the way some men did when they met an attractive woman.
He sipped his drink and looked straight ahead. She sensed that if she wanted to talk to a gentleman like him, she would have to give him a signal she was willing. “I like this place, don’t you?”
He appeared mildly surprised, as though he wasn’t quite sure that she had intended her question for him. When he turned and she met his eyes, he seemed pleased. “So far, I like it very much. I haven’t been here before, but I’ve heard good things.” He glanced at his watch, and the gesture gave Rachel Sturbridge two competing sensations. The indication that he might be bored made her stomach feel hollow, but her heart’s tempo picked up when she recognized the watch, a Patek Philippe that sold for around six thousand dollars. She was relieved when he added, “It’s pretty crowded. I didn’t have a reservation, but they said they’d try to fit me in. It’s nine now. I have to hope somebody cancels.”
The young maitre d’ appeared beside Rachel and said, “Miss Sturbridge, we can seat you now.”
Rachel smiled. She had favors to dispense. “Come along. You can share my table.”
The man was delighted. “Well, thank you.” The maitre d’ returned to his podium and the hostess arrived just as they were going about the awkward business of getting down from adjacent bar stools. Rachel noted that he quickly slipped off his, stood back, and held her hand to keep her from falling. They both left their barely touched drinks, but the hostess gave an invisible signal to a passing waiter, who snatched them up and followed.
The dining room at the bottom of the stairs was bright, lit by large bowl-shaped ceiling fixtures, and the light was reflected up from bright linen tablecloths. In the light, Rachel’s companion looked a bit more attractive but a bit older, and she revised her estimate from forty to fifty. While they were getting settled at a table near the far side of the room, she held her compact in her palm to see what the lighting was doing to her, but quickly verified that her makeup had kept her from losing her color, and the new brown hair shone exactly as she had intended. She slipped the compact back into her purse.
He said, “I’m David Larson, and I thank you for your gracious invitation. I was kicking myself for coming without a reservation, and I find that it worked out better this way. I may never call for a reservation again.” She detected a faint accent, but couldn’t quite place it—the South?
She liked it that he was confident enough to give an exaggerated compliment, and she liked the way his blue eyes transmitted sincerity without awkwardness. She decided to encourage him. “My name is Rachel Sturbridge, and it’s a pleasure to have your company.” She delivered her words with a condescending ease, like an actress stopping on the red carpet outside a movie premiere to speak to a camera.
Larson said, “Usually I have my assistant make all my reservations from home, but this time I didn’t have much notice. It was one of those times to throw some clothes in a bag and head for the airport.”
“Where is ‘home’?”
“Austin,” he said. “How about you?”
“At the moment, I’m living in San Francisco,” she said. “I’ve only been here a short time.” If he was from Austin, the safe place to be from was the Northeast. “Originally I’m a Connecticut girl.”
They had to devote some attention to the menu, because the waiter had begun to hover nearby. Larson ordered salmon, and Rachel decided her first compliment to him would be to order the same entree, the same salad.
He ordered a good bottle of wine without any consultation that would have forced her to acknowledge his extravagance, and she liked that. When the waiter had departed again, he said, “What brought you to San Francisco?”
“Business,” she said.
“What sort of business are you in?”
She devoted a half second to the thought that she should have said it was a vacation. He was obviously a businessman, and now she was going to have to talk about a subject he knew. All she could do was try to sound sensible. “I’m trying to start a magazine. This is a good place to do that. There are plenty of artistic people who will work cheap on the speculation that when the magazine takes off, so will they. There are almost too many good
