After the Interview

Husband: joint account. Felicity's smile faded. She hadn't told the new woman to use, or get, her own account. That had been sloppy of her, and sloppiness was something she couldn't afford. Had she gone over the line from confidence to smugness? It wouldn't take too many slips like that to bring everything crashing down around her. She promised the picture on her desktop that she would be much more careful, and take nothing for granted.

Jill had just gotten back from taking Deirdre to school and David was out of the house when she received the call from her ... boss, she guessed. That sounded nicer than pimp, anyway.

"Congratulations on your performance yesterday," Felicity began. "Mr. Smith said that once your motor got started, fucking you was like driving a fine sports car on a Grand Prix circuit. Which, by the way, he has done, so that's high praise indeed." She had inserted the crudity into the compliment deliberately: never let the employee forget what her job is.

"I imagine you had some trouble dealing with it afterward," Felicity went on. "It's normal, especially for someone with your history, who loves her husband as much as you do. I can assure you that will fade, and you'll come to enjoy your job every bit as much as the rest of my employees do. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Jill had to force the monosyllable past her lips.

"There are a couple of business details we need to take care of. You need a business name. I suggest Grace."

"No!"

"Why not? It fits you."

"It was my grandmother's name." A renewed sense of shame washed over Jill.

"Ah, I see. That's all right. What about Felicia?" This was accepted. Felicity smiled at the name so similar to the one she had chosen for herself.

"Very good, Felicia. You know that stands for happiness, correct? I'm sure you'll make many men very happy, most of all, your husband. Speaking of which, who handles the finances in your house, you or him?"

"He does."

"Then you'll need a cover story for the three hundred that showed up in your account yesterday. Let me think... you've taught school, haven't you? Excellent. I shall e-mail you a receipt for tutoring services in that amount. Meantime, you need to create an account for just yourself at a different bank and get the details to me. Your future earnings will be deposited into that account. I'll check in with you again after tomorrow, and if your husband has suspicions, we can talk about how to allay them, but you must create that account today, without fail."

"I will."

"Very well, then, about tomorrow. Mr. Brown prefers a hostess or cocktail dress. What do you have?"

"I have a black cocktail dress." It was the classic little black dress; she wore it when she was serious about knocking David's eyes out.

"Perfect. You'll..."

"At 10:00 AM?" Jill blurted out. "Even with a wrap over it, I'll look like..."

"You can change in the room when you get there. Wear a shirt and pants over the underwear and stockings you would normally wear with the dress, and carry the dress and heels in a backpack. No one will have a clue. I suggest about three-inch heels; he's not very tall.

"You will be there, dressed and ready to welcome him, at 10:00. Your role, if you want one, is club hostess with a valued patron. He will fuck you bare and come inside; he's younger than Mr. Smith, but is still quite skilled. You'll enjoy the time with him."

Jill shuddered.

"Listen to me, Felicia. We both know you love your husband, we know why you wanted this job, and we know that's why you'll not only go through with this, you will do it well." She was right, Jill thought, though not in the sense she meant. The reason she was doing this would get her through.

"I'll be fine," Jill said, new determination in her voice.

"I'm sure of it." Felicity almost chuckled as she ended the call.

Jill looked worriedly at her husband. He sat in their little computer nook, papers piled around him on the desk and on the floor. He had worked through dinner, with only a brief break to tuck Deirdre into bed. As Jill watched, he flung himself backward in his chair, slamming his pencil on the desk with a muttered curse. She crossed the room to him, and put a soft hand on his shoulder.

"David, love, you haven't eaten a bite. You can't go on like this."

"I must. You know why." His voice was tired but grim.

"David, I've already done it once. Would doing it a second time be that bad?"

"YES!" She flinched from his shouted response.

"I'm sorry, Jill, I didn't mean to shout, but don't you see? Every time you do it, you'll become more used to it. Acclimated. The shame and the guilt will fade, and you'll enjoy the sex and the money more and more."

"That's what she said, too," Jill mused. "We are similar in some ways, she and I, but I have one thing that she doesn't: I'm completely honest with you, and tell you everything. That won't change. When I think of yesterday, I remember that it was good sex and that I enjoyed it, but when I try to actually recall the feeling, there's nothing there. There's nothing arousing or even pleasant for me in the memory. Does that make sense?"

"I don't know. Nothing's making a lot of sense to me right now; you'll have to try me again later."

"David, when did you last eat?"

"Breakfast, I guess. No, it was last night."

"Poor David, no wonder nothing's making sense to you. The brain needs food. Come into the kitchen and I'll fix you some supper."

"No, Jill, I can't stop now. If I do, it's as though I'm accepting it. Tomorrow, I mean, and I can't do that."

"No, David, it doesn't mean that." Jill's voice was soft and kind, but firm. "Neither one of us accepts this, except as the only way to get the information we must have. All you're accepting is that even my man, mighty with a pencil or a sausage, is human and needs to stop and eat once in a while. What was with that sausage, anyway? It's the only thing you've never told me."

David managed a weak, sickly grin. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

"You always say that. All right then, promise me you'll tell me on my deathbed. Now come."

Jill watched lovingly as David locked the computer, then she tenderly lead him to the kitchen. They talked quietly of other things as she warmed up his supper and he ate.

"There's another thing about this that just eats at me," David said as he sat glumly on the edge of their bed. "None of this would have happened if I hadn't blown the whistle on those guys. You'd think they would want to know, wouldn't you? I mean, shouldn't they want to know that their money, and their clients' money, was being misspent? If I'd just kept my mouth shut, we'd have all been fine. But no, I had to go make my report, and name names, and now you have to..."

"David, don't think about it like that. You did the right thing. You always do, it's who you are. I love you all the more because of it."

"I thought you loved me for my looks."

"Don't flatter yourself, buster." They shared a small but genuine laugh, their first in days. "David Jones, I love you with all my heart." They clung hungrily to each other.

A different elevator in a different hotel bore her upward, just as steadily and silently as the one two days before. She approached another nameless door, and checked its number against the card that trembled in her hand. Silently, the large man approached her, slid a key card into the lock, and held the door for her as she entered. He remained in the hallway.

She changed her clothes, the shirt, pants, and tennis shoes going into the backpack. She checked herself in the mirror once, then again. Everything was perfect. She pictured what David's face looked like when he had seen her dressed like this, ready to go out for a special evening. The wistful smile was wiped off her face when she pictured what his face would look like if he could see her now.

She heard the sound of a key in the door and stood as it opened, plastering a smile onto her beautiful face.

"Welcome," she said. The smile became more real as she saw her client's slack-jawed admiration. She took his hand and led him into the room, closing the door behind them. The snick of the lock sounded unnaturally loud to her, as loud as the clang of prison bars might be. She forced the thought to the back of her mind.

"May I take your jacket?" She took it and hung it in the small closet, just as her client had done for her two days ago. Something else was stirring in her agile mind, and she wanted to think about it. Her client looked familiar. She turned to look at him.

"Drink?" He nodded, still tongue-tied; she went to the little bar and busied herself fixing what she had been told he would want. The man was maybe 35 or 40, there was nothing remarkable about his face, but she had seen it before. She was sure of it. She wasn't handy at fixing drinks, as neither she nor David drank much, and her nervous fumbling allowed her time to think. Suddenly she whirled to face him.

"SuperCorp! Derek Greenhough!" Her blue eyes flamed as she stared at him, daring him to deny it. Had her client been more literate, he would have been reminded of Boadicea. Instead, he merely gaped at her while the color drained from his face.

SuperCorp had been David's employer. He had taken Jill to their Christmas party against his better judgment, as the top executives usually turned it into a sexual hunting ground. Derek had hit on her especially relentlessly at that party, despite the presence of both their spouses.

"Wh... What do we do now?" he stammered out.

"We don't do anything," she informed him coldly. "You are going to sit at that table and write down everything about how you and the other SuperCorp executives arranged to have the company pay for your affairs."

"And if I don't?"

She stepped to the desk, flaunting herself in the black dress and heels, taunting him with what he would never have, whatever he had paid. SuperCorp had paid, she corrected herself. She opened a drawer and pulled out a telephone book.

"I call your wife. Now."

Derek's muscles tensed and he took a step toward her.

"Don't even think about it," she told him all too sweetly. "Remember that large gentleman in the hallway?" She walked away from the desk, still holding the phone book, and gestured invitingly toward the desk chair. "Now, get started. Please." It always paid to be polite, her mother had said. She was fairly sure she hadn't been thinking of blackmail.

"What do I write?" The face he turned to her still held an unhealthy pallor. Her smile was completely unsympathetic.

"You could put the date, then I, Derek Greenhough, of my own free will, attest the following. Then you write all about how you made the appointment with Felicity, and how it was paid for, and how many times you've done it, and who else at your place does the same thing. Be sure to tell all about the money."

It was hard, but she forced herself to stand quietly, out of his reach, and watch him write. She wanted to run around the room, dance, sing, even turn cartwheels, though she hadn't done that since she was nine. Besides, there wasn't room. She had done it! She would take his confession home to her David, they would go to their lawyer and start a wrongful termination suit, and all of this would be over. Best of all, she hadn't had sex with him!

Both occupants of the room jumped when the door opened. Felicity's large gentleman entered.

"I'm sorry, sir, there has been a problem with the arrangements, and I must ask you to leave."

Derek gave her a panicked look. She interpreted it correctly.

"No, I won't call her, this time," she said with a sneer. He left meekly.

"Miss, you are to change back into your ordinary clothes. You are to remain here for the next ninety minutes, after which you may do as you wish. You will receive further instructions later today." He silently closed the door and left.

Jill skipped to the writing desk to retrieve Derek's confession, and skipping isn't easy on carpet in high heels. He didn't implicate any others, but she thought there was enough to prove that David's allegations had been correct. Now, she had to somehow keep herself from bursting with joy for the hour and a half before she could go home and share the good news with her man. She discovered that the room had a Jacuzzi, and decided it would be a shame to waste it. She kissed the little black dress as she took it off. Maybe, she thought as she relaxed into the bubbles, maybe she would wear it for him tonight as they celebrated.

Felicity smiled. Her newest employee was, by now, personally receiving her first real client, into the ordinary hotel room and into her extraordinary body. Derek was a long-standing client, and she was as familiar with his assets as he was with hers. He was a horndog, a liar and a cheat, a nearly total waste of space as a human being, but he knew his way around a woman's body, and he could pay. Or rather, SuperCorp could. Felicity imagined him enjoying Felicia's beautiful body to the utmost, her scruples and the standards of behavior from her upbringing weakening as she enjoyed his enjoyment. Yes, she was perfect, she thought again.

Felicity's reverie was interrupted by a phone call from Jen. The other name on Felicia's joint account, apparently that of her husband, had seemed familiar somehow, so Jen had done some checking. It had taken a while, because there were so many David Joneses, but she finally identified him.

"He's an accountant, and by reputation a very good one. Honest, too."

"Are you hinting that I should hire him?" There was laughter in her voice as she responded to her long-time associate.

"You have an accountant already, remember?" Jen laughed back. "No, the reason I'd heard of him was that he was fired for blowing the whistle on some top-level executives using company money to pay for their own, ah, pleasure. They fudged it up to make it look like he was made redundant, but they made sure the other accountants knew what really happened, in case they got ideas."

Neither woman was laughing now. "Who received the money?" She believed she already knew.

"We did." This was serious.

"Who did he work for?"

"SuperCorp." Felicity's heart skipped a beat. "I don't think it's too bad," Jen went on. "He can't have traced the money all the way back to us; if he had, we'd be hearing police sirens by now, or at least questions from the bank. Still, I don't think I'd assign her to any SuperCorp clients. She might have met some of them."

Felicity thanked Jen and hung up. She thought a moment, made a call on another phone, and waited impatiently for the reply.

"They were both dressed, and neither was mussed," the husky male voice stated, without preamble. "She was standing near the door; he was sitting at the desk, writing something."

"Did you take what he was writing?"

"No ma'am, you didn't ask me to."

"That's all right, then. Thank you."

So: Felicia had recognized her client, connected him with the company that had fired her husband, and forced him to write some kind of confession.

More blunders, more mistakes. Not asking her security man to pick up any written papers from the room wasn't fatal. True, she should have thought of it, but that error was survivable. Had she erred by misjudging Felicia's character? No: her body hadn't lied, couldn't lie. She truly was a sexual submissive, a beautiful, untapped, whore in waiting. That was as true as the sun rising in the east, but there was obviously quite a lot more to her than that. She should have suspected it: it was as true of herself as it was of Felicia. She had said her husband had been made redundant, and Felicity had not pursued it, but left it at that. That was a major lapse in judgment. Had she been so eager to land her catch that she abandoned her usual caution? Or had she simply been overconfident?

Years ago, Felicity and Jen had put together a plan to demolish the business almost instantly, should they choose to do so. It was a largely automated process that would notify employees, empty and close all of the bank accounts in the correct order, deposit generous severance pay into each employee's account, and eliminate all employee records, while encrypting the client records and saving copies in several locations. Felicity had no qualms about exposing her clients, should the need arise, but she would protect her employees as far as she was able. The whole process could be done in about ninety minutes. Was it time?

Felicity looked at the faces of her husband and children, smiling at her from her desktop. They were safe and happy, trusting her to shield them from knowledge that would devastate them. Could she trust herself to keep that shield firmly in place? Could she still trust her husband's happiness to her own discretion and judgment? Her mistakes this week, whatever had caused them, told her she could not. It was time. With a deep sigh, staring at the picture of her beloved husband, she sent the text message that would start the process.

She slumped back in her chair. Should she tell her husband? It would be quite a while before the money she had already saved would run out, and she would receive half the value of the business when it closed. She felt reasonably safe there. If he did find out, though, it had to be from her: not from someone else, or heaven forbid, from the press. She would tell him that her work had given her some immediate time off, and suggest that they move their vacation up two weeks. They could leave for France the next day; she could follow the story from there, and tell him if it became necessary. She thought of ways she might do it, and imagined the look on his face as she told him what her business really had been. For the first time in years, Felicity wept. Then she dried her tears, fixed her makeup, and strode out the door to complete her part of the plan. She had a marriage to save, or try to save.

Jill had enjoyed her soak, and was lounging in one of the luxurious robes the hotel provided for its guests, when her phone rang.

"Felicity is closed, effective immediately," the recorded male voice stated. "All commissions have been paid as usual, and a severance bonus has been paid into the same account. Thank you for your part in making Felicity successful." The call ended.

Jill felt as though an immense load had been lifted from her shoulders. She would never have to do this again! Never, ever again! But what about David? How would they vindicate him, if Felicity didn't exist any longer? They had staked her fidelity for information that would prove David had been wrongfully fired; what if they didn't have enough? What more could they do? She reread Derek's partial confession. In her newly nervous state, it didn't seem as complete as it had when she first read it.

She dressed in her normal clothes, and the second her ninety minutes were over, she was out of the hotel room on her way home. Instead of her husband, she found a note: "Am downtown. Wait here for me. 'Felicity' = Thelma Louise Houghton."

"That can't be right," she said to herself. "I've never met anyone who was less a Thelma. And Thelma Louise? Who would do that to their daughter?" Then she remembered that her Dad had once told her about a couple whose last name was Barbera and named their daughter Hannah. I guess anything's possible, she mused, and settled in to wait for David, with whatever patience she could muster.

"I know." Of all the possible responses by Detective Polisi to his revelation of Felicity's true identity, that one never occurred to David. Inconceivable, he would have said. Perhaps that word did not mean what he thought it meant. Polisi permitted himself a slight smile.

"You obviously got there the long way," Polisi said, pointing to the bulging manila folder that lay on the table in front of David. "I found out thirty minutes ago when she waltzed in here, bold as brass, lawyer in one hand and guarantee of immunity from prosecution in the other, and started singing like a bird. She's probably still at it."