On Monday a week later, Arthur took four alarms to arise but was refreshed and primed to face the legal world once more. He'd had a lovely, relaxing weekend.
Neither he nor Portia had managed to get laid, but they'd both managed to get gigglingly drunk twice. Early on, Portia had felt the need, of course, to note that Arthur did a double-take at every tall, blond male they'd run across, and had done triple-takes if they'd been wearing glasses. Arthur had avenged his honor by pointing out that Portia glared at every Asian man they saw, and, it being California, there had been plenty of those.
So they'd consoled each other over loves that hadn't yet happened, and instead of men they'd both found several vintages they'd adored and had bought cases to be shipped home.
It had been sunny and mild and expensive and just what Arthur had needed. He carried a box with new crystal stemware into the office; two glasses for display and two as a gift for Andersen. He left wine-filled chocolate bottle bonbons in the breakroom for everyone else.
After he'd unloaded those he came back to his office to see Monaca inside, opening the blinds.
"Good morning, Mr. Kirkland," she said with a bright smile, and then "Oh my gosh! You're so tan."
"Am I?" Arthur craned his neck to see into the mirror behind his glass shelf; he hadn't noticed before, but he did have more color. Good. Perhaps it would cover his perpetual flush. "I suppose I am."
"Totally. I want to go somewhere sunny," she said as the blinds opened onto a grey day. "Maybe I can drag my girlfriends to Florida for a week."
"No, because I can't practice law without you," he teased.
Monaca whipped around to look at him. At his smile, she laughed. "Of course, Mr. Kirkland."
She returned to her desk. He heard her talk to someone just before she shut his door, saying "gosh, he's in such a good mood."
Arthur supposed he was. He had a busy week ahead but his Monday schedule was clear and just waiting for catch-up work. He had hardly thought about Alfred Jones all day Sunday, having been too happily exhausted to worry over something that might or might not have happened, or to let himself yearn for it. He powered up his computer.
He had a great many e-mails to go through; perhaps some day he should have Monaca or Bella program his phone to receive office e-mail and also show him how to access it. He was relieved that he hadn't had to deal with those over the weekend, but the technology-free honeymoon had to end sometime.
One e-mail was from Ludwig Beilschmidt, Mariel Jones's counsel. He was requesting a conference call with assembled counsel for the case. Arthur replied that two on Tuesday would suit him, and did Mr. Beilschmidt want talking points for a meeting agenda?
He chatted with Andersen and presented the stemware, and Lars was impressed and grateful. At ten-thirty Arthur went back to his desk and prepared to check his voice mail.
Before he could do so, his phone rang.
"Mr. Kirkland? Mr. Jones is calling," Monaca told him in a sing-song voice.
If Arthur's heart skipped, it was too brief to properly notice. "Put him through, please," he sighed.
There was the customary click. "Arthur? Oh, God," came Alfred Jones's voice, sounding breathless.
"Good morning. How can I-" Arthur began, then winced at himself, because he was already worried, and had already realized that he would show it. "Is something the matter?"
"Yes." Jones - Al - took an audibly deep breath. "Mariel is pregnant."
"Dear heavens," Arthur said, as his stomach plummeted and sat there.
"Totally. I-" Al's reply hung there, uncompleted.
Arthur took a deep breath of his own. This was not a situation he'd never encountered, legally. He knew what to do: verify the information, ask precise questions. "Did she tell you this herself?"
"Yeah. She called me this morning. She was crying."
Arthur was not surprised to hear that. He also suspected that she hadn't just found out; this explained a bit of her hurry to divorce. "Did she indicate that there were steps she wanted you to take?"
"No, just ... First time I've talked to her in weeks, and she hits me with this. I mean, of course I was nice to her, but ..." Arthur heard the sounds of traffic in the background of the call, and coupled with Al's breathlessness, it appeared he was walking down the street. "Are you free? Can I come to your office to find out what I need to- to discuss this?"
Arthur closed his eyes. There was no question that it needed to be discussed. He didn't even bother pretending to check a schedule. "Yes. Are you- when will you be available to meet?"
"God, right now. I'm just sort of - I'm about five minutes from your office."
"Very well," Arthur said. He started brushing nonexistent dust from his desk. "I am here. And calm down. There are straightforward legal procedures to deal with this. I did tell you I've handled all sorts of issues, did I not?"
"Yeah, you did, haha," Al said. It seemed that he was more comforted than annoyed at Arthur's statement of this fact than he had been the previous week. "Okay. I won't go get drunk, then."
"A wise choice. I will see you soon," Arthur told him.
There was no bad outcome for Alfred Jones in this situation. Yet another difficulty with being a homosexual man; the inability to conceive one's own children. You still needed women for that, miracle creatures that they were, never mind that Arthur didn't want to sleep with them.
He'd kissed a girl once when he was a boy, just because he'd been told it was the thing to do. He hadn't hated it but he also hadn't seen what all the fuss was about.
A few minutes later, Monica buzzed him and Alfred Jones breezed in, his face nearly red from his brisk walk in the February wind. His tie, printed with tiny stars-and-stripes, was loosened and messy.
"Thanks for being he- available," Al said as Arthur shook his cold hand. Had the idiot gone out without gloves? Whatever the case, the chill of his hand offset the vertigo Arthur experienced at being in his presence, touching him. A little.
"Of course. And you may have one glass of wine if you really need it," Arthur joked. Why, he felt almost big brotherly. It was odd, that this time Al had the stammer and Arthur was the one who could be direct and in control.
"Nah. At least not yet, depending on your - whatever you have to say."
Arthur smiled and gestured Al into the chair. He noticed that Al's socks today were mismatched, one blue and one red. Or perhaps that had been on purpose; Al did seem to like being patriotic. "Indeed, you may change your mind, after you hear the questions I have for you."
"Personal question time again, huh? I'm ready for it this time, never fear." Al's chest-puffing looked out of place when he was sitting down.
"Very well. First, we have established that you have talked to her personally, and that your information is not hearsay. Now, I must ask: did she indicate that she thinks that you are the father?"
Al released his chest-filling breath. "I don't know. No," he said. "She said she's not sure. I think that's part of why she's so upset. She was with- and was there someone else?"
Arthur waved him gently to silence. "Well, I will explain the legal questions you should have. You are still married to her, and thus you are the presumed father until shown otherwise. A judge will want to have the issue settled before the dissolution can proceed. Because even once you are not married to her, if you are the father, you will be responsible for support and will wish to be a part of the child's life. So the next question is: is it possible that you are the father?"
Arthur's no-nonsense statements seemed to have calmed Al down. His voice was much more composed as he answered. "Based on what she said, yes."
"And what did she say?"
"That her doctor thinks she is about four months' pregnant. That puts it..."
"Very near to the time of your separation."
Al took off his glasses, which had fogged up in the warm air of Arthur's office. He enfolded them in his tie and wiped at them, and Arthur melted a little in his chair at Al's unfocused but lovely gaze. "I just realized. She's known about this for a while, hasn't she?"
"I'm afraid so."
Al replaced his glasses. "Phewie. Well, now I know what was up with. Hmm. What do I do?"
Arthur laced his fingers together and leaned forward. He realized he was looking at Al's ankles and remembering their first meeting, hearing about Al's sexual escapades. What would Al's ankles look like without socks? He lifted his gaze to Al's face and surprised himself with his own equanimity by continuing with nary a blush. "We will want to request a court-ordered paternity test. She will probably want that as well, to clarify or strengthen her own position. Results are usually available within two or three days of sampling. There are new tests that can be performed with no risk to the pregnancy."
Al's eyes widened, likely as he considered that there had been tests that were risky. "That's good."
Arthur gestured at his computer, out of habit. "I've had an e-mail from her attorney; I offered to meet with him tomorrow, but I can call him this morning to see if she is amenable to starting immediately. Would you like me to do that?"
"Yes."
"You will need to have your blood drawn by a disinterested and court-approved third party. Probably tomorrow at the latest, this afternoon by the earliest. Is that agreeable to you?"
"Needles! Maybe not agreeable, but I'll do it." Al shuddered a little. Then he uncrossed his legs and placed his feet flat on the floor. He looked straight at Arthur. "I gotta say, Arthur. You make me feel so much better about this. I mean, it's a huge thing. But I think with you on my side, I can handle it."
Arthur did feel a flush come on at that. He couldn't say he wasn't pleased to hear it, though he briefly wondered where Al's family and friends were; did he have no support system other than that provided by his lawyers? Even if his family and friends were unavailable, he had shareholders and business associates, not to mention legions of coworkers, employees, cooks ... Not for the first time, Arthur wondered about Al's private life, the parts of it he hadn't blurted out during legal conversations, anyway.
"I'm glad to be of assistance," Arthur said, eventually.
Al stood. He shook his hands at his sides, like the feeling had just returned to them. "Hey. You have a tan," he said, an eye-narrowed non-sequitur.
Arthur held out his hand and looked at it as if for the first time. "So I do. My efforts to avoid the sun this weekend appear to have been unsuccessful."
"Unsuccessful avoidance. Hah," Al said, again - unconsciously?- mimicking Arthur's accent. "Anyway, it looks good on you."
Lord, he made Arthur's insides all twisty and hot and left them begging for more. Arthur stood slowly, and blinked slowly, to keep his eyes or gestures from betraying a thing. "Thank you. I will e-mail you later with instructions. Shall I have Monaca call a cab for you?"
"Nah. I'll walk. Preemptively work off the booze I'm gonna have right after I get stuck with a needle. Whenever that happens." Jones was grinning, his smug flirting - for that was what it indeed was, Arthur now knew - unsuppressed by Arthur's measured responses. "Maybe I'll have to call you to hold my hand while it happens. The needle part, not the booze part. Or maybe both. Can I have your cell phone number, just in case?"
Arthur sighed. Al was rambling, and obviously unsettled and frightened. And he, Arthur, had withstood much sexual and romantic disappointment in his life; a little flirting wouldn't harm him in the long run, and seemed to make Al feel better. In a client-like way. Or even a brotherly way. Arthur remembered Bonnefoy's strange call, but shook that off. Bonnefoy was just nosy and Arthur could shoot Al down politely whenever it became necessary.
He dug his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and handed it over. "I confess I don't know my newest number. Use my phone to call yours; I've been told it's a perfectly rational method of exchanging numbers."
"God, you're funny," Al said. He took the phone and his long fingers went slide-plink-plink-plink-plink-slide. His pocket buzzed, and he handed back Arthur's phone with a boyish grin. "Got it."
"You will hear from me later, then," Arthur promised.
Though it had been established that it was not in the least necessary, Al stepped around the desk to shake Arthur's hand once more, giving it an extra, happy-feeling squeeze, and then he strode out. That time Arthur deliberately and unashamedly watched Al's ass as he did so.
Arthur pulled up Ludwig Beilschmidt's e-mail to get his phone number and dialed it. He was connected to him within a minute.
"Mr. Kirkland." Beilschmidt's voice was precise and civil.
"Good morning, Beilschmidt."
"How may I help you?"
Ass. Like he didn't know. Arthur wouldn't beat around the bush, then. "My client Mr. Jones has informed me that your client, Mrs. Jones, is pregnant."
"Hmm," Beilschmidt said. "She told him, I see."
That explained her hurry to divorce, anyway. "Well, it's necessary information, given that they've begun dissolution proceedings."
"I've only recently learnt this myself. I had planned to communicate this information for her." Beilschmidt's words were clipped; he was annoyed.
"What, were you planning to drop this particular bomb during our conference call?" Arthur said. It was unprofessionally done, but then he and Beilschmidt had History. There was representing the interests of your client, and then there was overreaching for your clients and doing it rudely. Beilschmidt's modus operandi often fell into the latter category, in Arthur's opinion.
If possible, Bonnefoy liked Beilschmidt even less, for reasons Arthur had not yet discovered.
Beilschmidt did not deny the accusation. The man was unsupportable. "I have advised my client to undergo immediate testing to establish paternity. I trust you will do the same. I think we can handle this without a court order. And. Erm. Kirkland, I also requested the conference because your client has offered surprisingly generous settlements."
"Yes, I am aware." Arthur couldn't help the dryness of his tone.
"My client is inclined to accept them."
"As she should be."
"If the child she carries is not your client's, of course."
"Of course."
"Though she is disappointed about terminating her management of 636 Grant Entertainment, LLC."
If it was a threat, it was a weak one. "It would seem your client has other worries, and I believe an unshakeable case can be made for my client on that matter," Arthur said with some satisfaction.
"Hmm. Yes." Beilschmidt cleared his throat. "I have directed my client to the university medical center. I can e-mail you the laboratory information, and trust that your client will have his blood drawn as soon as possible."
"He can be ready today," Arthur said.
"Very well. We should know by the end of this week how to proceed. I will contact you."
"Or I you," Arthur pointed out. Maybe he would request that Al get him the results the second they came out, so he could have the jump on Beilschmidt twice in one week. It was petty, but there it was.
"Yes. Goodbye." Click.
Arthur waited for Beilschmidt's e-mail, then forwarded it to Al, adding that Al should call the medical center as soon as possible to schedule a blood draw.
Heavens, what a mess. Arthur buried himself in his work to take his mind off what he had no control over.
***xxxXXXxxx***
He got a call from Al when he was driving home that evening, listening to some music loudly and cathartically. Love is all right, tonight!, sang Rick. No, it isn't, Arthur thought: love is a terrible mistake and his work reinforced that belief every day. When he saw his cell light up he turned down the music and hit the button for speakerphone. "Hello?"
"Hey. Its done, my blood's drained," Al said. He sounded resigned. Arthur heard the tapping of fingers on a computer keyboard in the background. "God, Arthur. I'm scared to death. I mean, if it's not my kid I won't be mad but if it is I won't be upset, either, because, you know, my flesh and blood and all that and Mariel and I were ... well, once we were. We always said we didn't want any kids, but things changed so much the last year and I just don't know her anymore ..."
"Hmm," Arthur said, sympathetically if not encouragingly. He didn't want to examine his own feelings about Mariel Jones's pregnancy; it was only his affair as far as it was his client's. "If it helps, I have further good news." He told Al about the probable acceptance of the terms of their cross-petition.
"That's great. Thanks," Al said. "Sorry to ramble. Shit, I have so much work to do. I had to put several deals on hold when this all started. Frannie and I had to get all hardcore on this one guy, thought he could tell me when I was going to buy his store ... I want it but not if he's gonna be an asshole. I gotta like people to work with them, I think I told you that."
"You did. And if things resolve themselves uncomplicatedly, you will soon be able to get back to rebuilding your business. You're young, and there's plenty of time to take over the world," Arthur teased, surprised at himself for it. Alfred Jones brought out some personality traits Arthur hadn't known he'd possessed.
"You talk like my dad used to. I turn thirty in a few weeks, you know."
"Yes, I know. I've been buried up to my ears in your CV."
Tap tap tap. "And I've seen yours. Is Medicare as awesome as they say?"
"Very funny," Arthur said. He pictured Al typing, leaning his head to the side, the phone caught between his chin and his shoulder. It was an intimate picture. What are you wearing, Arthur could have asked. Except he already knew: a navy-blue suit with red and blue socks and white shirt and a strip of skin just above a crooked tie... And hey, that person was driving the wrong way on a one-way street, and they were heading straight for him and no matter how he honked they just kept coming—Arthur swerved. "Motherfucker," he cursed aloud.
"It wasn't that bad a joke," Al said. "Wait, you're driving. Sorry."
"It's all right," Arthur said, then cleared his throat. "The lab will have instructions on how to register online to be notified when results are available, and how to access them. You can contact me after you hear. Very soon, if you like."
"Will do. I'll plan a celebration for either eventuality. Thanks again, Arthur. Cheerio."
"Goodbye," Arthur said, sounding much too fond, and plinked the button to hang up. He paid very close attention to his driving.
.
***xxxXXXxxx***
.
The next few days were a blur for Arthur. He worked all day but refused to take a single file home, preferring to spend his evenings trying to unwind.
Al called his cell a few times, just to fret or flirt, it seemed. Arthur took pride in the fact that during these calls he maintained a friendly and equable demeanor. He kept his fantasies confined to his brain and his home.
Once Al called him in the evening, on Thursday, when Portia was over. She had stopped by unexpectedly herself, buzzing Arthur from downstairs just as he'd decided to have a good wank on his living room sofa. He'd managed to zip up his jeans and throw on a tee-shirt and hide his towel – the one to keep the sofa clean, of course - and magazines just in time to open the door for her.
"God, sorry I didn't call first, Arthur. You looked so relaxed," she moaned when she opened the door and saw him. "I just need to be around someone besides myself for a few minutes."
"You're always welcome, you know," he told her, and stood back to let her in. He sent up a silent thank God that his erection had waned as he'd cleaned in a panic, and that he could thus stand before her with equanimity.
She was dressed casually as well, as he rarely saw her, in a track suit, a ponytail and no makeup.
"I went to the gym. You never go anymore."
"I go somewhere else. Somewhere more private. That place you like is nothing but a meat market."
"Yeah, well, the meat there is more up your alley than mine." She sat at his antique desk. "Hello there, my pretty," she told it, sliding her fingers across its uncluttered surfaces.
Arthur crossed his arms and leaned against the couch. "If you'd like to make love to my Louis Quinze, I can leave the room. Allow you some privacy."
"I'm not ashamed of our love," Portia said, making a mwah gesture at the desk. "So how are you ? I haven't heard from you in a couple of days."
Arthur took that opportunity to flop onto the couch. "Tired. No, I'm not trying to make you feel guilty for coming by. I've just had nonstop days and at night I can do little more than collapse. I haven't even been to the private gym since last Thursday." Speaking of, his trainer had called and Arthur hadn't answered ...
"Big new case?"
"No, the same old ones, catching up. I do have a couple of new clients, but their situations are routine. Support modification, that sort of thing. Would you like a glass of wine? I would."
Portia stood. "I'll get 'em. What do you have open?"
"The zin on the counter." Ah, a glass of wine and thou ... that was the way to relax.
Portia went the few steps into the kitchen, then called back. "Have you heard from Mister Americana?"
"Yes. More than is good for me."
"Aww. That much?"
"Wrinkle in the case. And I think ..." Arthur leaned back against the couch and laid his arm over his face, embarrassed to say it aloud, let alone to someone else. "I think he likes me."
He heard Portia's gasp. "Likes likes?"
"Yes. Like fancies."
"Told you so."
"You did," Arthur admitted.
"Rebounds are tough."
"Rebounds are excruciating."
There was the sound of a cork being re-pulled from a bottle. It was one of the best sounds in the world, as far as Arthur was concerned. Better than Rick Springfield, and he liked Rick Springfield a lot.
The next thing Arthur heard was the buzzing of his phone as it rang on vibrate. He scrabbled to grab it off the end table before it buzzed itself off and onto the floor.
It was - speak of the devil. Arthur wondered if he should answer it. He realized that he was totally going to answer it.
"Hello?" He tried to make his voice sound distracted.
"Arthur? I'm sorry to call so late."
"No, no, I'm just fiddling about at home. What can I do for you?"
Portia yelled out from the kitchen again. "Arthur? Can I just bring the whole bottle?"
Arthur covered the mouthpiece on his phone, or at least what he thought was the mouthpiece. "Yes, bring it."
He heard Al chuckle. "Sounds like your friend from the restaurant. The cute one?"
Arthur sighed and shot Portia a significant look as she came back into the living room, carrying the bottle of zinfandel in one hand and two half-full glasses in the other. She handed one to Arthur.
"Yes, it's my friend Portia. Yes, the cute one."
Portia's eyes widened. She swung her hips in a rude gesture.
"I won't bug you for long. I was working late, don't have anything better to do, nobody to go home to, you know? I just ... tomorrow's the big day, I think. I'll know for sure. I'll call you right away. Just wanted you to know that."
"That's kind of you. I know it's tough either way," Arthur said.
"Yeah. I'll call you before I call my own brother, hah. I tried to talk to him tonight, but he didn't want to hear it." Arthur heard the sounds of tapping in the background again.
"Brother?" This was the first time Al had mentioned any of his family who were still alive.
"Yeah, my brother Matt. He's my fraternal twin. He lives in Canada on a maple-tree-farm-slash-weed commune or something. He says I stress him out."
Arthur could see that. He, however, found even Al's neuroses somewhat charming. He was so ... natural.
"Well, call him second, then," Arthur joked.
"Maybe I'll just e-mail him. Or give him a link to my website. Can you imagine that on my company website? A ticky box for yes or no ... God, I shouldn't update my website when I'm thinking about this stuff, should I?"
"You do that yourself?" Most businesses Arthur knew hired IT people or outside contractors to handle webby-computery things.
"Yeah. You know yet another one of my dark secrets, Arthur. I'm kind of a geek."
"How do you find time to do that and still beautify properties for the common good?"
"You've read my site! That's so sweet."
Arthur knew he must have a soppy expression, because Portia was making kissy-faces at him. He scowled and she only giggled.
Arthur sat up straight and cleared his throat. "Well, good luck with the web things. No ticky boxes."
"Not a single one, I promise. Good night, Arthur. Sweet dreams." Al's voice was like honey.
"Good night." Arthur wished he'd had the kiss that usually accompanied a phrase like that. He'd have no problem imagining it, however, especially after a couple glasses of wine. He was having no problem now. He clicked his phone and glared in the direction of his cock, willing it to stop being so interested when he had female company.
He looked at Portia. He wasn't sure what was on his face that time, because she just raised her glass at him until he returned the gesture. Then they both took large gulps of wine, a waste of very good wine, really, but still satisfying.
.
***xxxXXXxxx***
.
The "big day" was Friday. Arthur got to see his staff in casual action. True to Lili's promise, there was nothing unprofessional about anyone's attire. Even Andersen and wore crisp denims with his suit jacket, and the mood of the office was lighter, somehow, even for a Friday.
Arthur regretted that he'd not gotten in the spirit as well and had worn a suit as always, but as long as he hid in his office he could avoid being a party pooper.
He had a clear schedule, but there were the usual Friday calls and their attendant impromptu client counseling sessions to keep him busy all morning. He ate lunch at his desk. It was Burger King; someone had fetched it and he could hardly be choosy when he didn't have to acquire his own food. He was chewing away at a Whopper when his cell rang. It was Al.
Arthur swallowed his bite of burger. He crossed his fingers, for what he knew not, and answered.
"Hello?"
"Arthur." He heard Al take a deep breath. "It's not mine. It's Felix. He's the father."
"Oh." Arthur released the breath he'd taken. "How do you feel about that?"
"You sound like a shrink, ha ha," Al said, his conversational laugh sounding shaky. "Um, to be truthful, I don't really know."
"Ah."
"I guess ... I hear she and Felix are a thing, now, so it's probably best that it's his."
Tidy, Arthur thought.
"I checked on the website and was trying to call you and she called me and was all, 'I'm so sorry' and I was all 'I'm so sorry, too, but congratulations' and ... and she said, well, I guess I'll see you in court. And I said, yeah."
Arthur waited for more but it seemed Al was done with his nattering. "So that's that," he said.
"I guess it is."
Arthur cleared his throat. "Can you please scan me a copy of the results? There will be a certificate, eventually, and you'll need to sign an affidavit relinquishing your parental claim. But that can wait."
"Oh. Okay. Today I just want to ... do something else. Go out. Maybe later. I have work to do first, 'cause shoot, I haven't been able to do a thing all day."
"Do what you need to."
"I guess I could celebrate the fact that the baby's not mine for, uh, a lack of complications."
Arthur smiled, since nobody could see him. "Now you sound like me."
"Ha ha! I totally do. Celebrate backwards. Hey, you could come out with me. So I don't sit around crying into my beer and ice cream."
"Er-" Arthur froze in panic.
"No, really. I need someone to hold my hand tonight. Figuratively. Please? Just for a couple of drinks. And maybe dancing. I know! Come with me to Evolve, since I'll be losing it soon."
Oh, lord. Arthur called upon all his training to help him. "Maybe it would be best if you don't have to see your attorney right now? You could spend time with your friends or family, those who can comfort you best."
Al's laugh sounded bitter. "Hah. My family is - was- Mariel. Except for Matt, and he's in Canada on the weed farm. And most of my friends here were our friends as a couple, you know? It would just be weird. My best buddy Ki - my college roommate at UCLA - is in Japan, and I just ... I'm telling you all of this, so now you have to come with me."
Arthur felt his chest tighten. It really was pathetic, that someone as rich and charming and gregarious as Al had to be so damned lonely that he'd latch on to someone like Arthur. Did he even realize that such fraternization could be seen as inappropriate? And if so, would he care? Arthur had a feeling he wouldn't.
The fact remained, however, that Arthur was a soft touch. "Perhaps ... for a glass of wine or two. I don't really dance-"
"You don't have to dance. My soon-to-be-ex-nightclub has a very nice bar. And I can promise you'll find a good wine."
Arthur sighed. "Very well."
"Great!" Al sounded actually thrilled, more fool he. Arthur could be a stick when he wished to be, and tonight he would have to wish it very hard. "I can be done by six. Wanna meet somewhere at, what, seven? It's early but then we can just have a drink or two before the crowds get there."
Arthur rubbed his forehead, regretting it already. "Seven is fine. At the bar is fine." We're all fine here. How are you? That was from a movie, Arthur would swear it.
"Cool. My day is looking better already. Ciao," Al chirped.
"Goodbye."
Arthur clicked to end the call, and right away felt his stomach tighten to match his ribcage. He jittered about the rest of the day, and was thankful he didn't have to meet other clients or - oh, lord, what was he going to wear? He checked the bar's website, which told him the dress code was "casual chic." What in the hell was casual chic? Shouldn't a gay man know what casual chic was?
He texted Portia. Going out to club. Gay club. What is casual chic?
YAY, Portia texted back. better than jeans, less than suit. wear thsoe dark blue pants you have with the pipe down the side and a nice shirt. NOT a white shirt.
Thank you, you are a diamond Arthur texted back. Oh, lord, were those pants clean? Had he taken them to the cleaners? He hadn't been to the gym in a week. Would they still fit him?
Arthur wasn't going to get another thing done, was he? He finally just left at four-fifteen.
.
***xxxXXXxxx***
.
He dithered at home, stressed himself out some more, tried to eat and couldn't, dusted and rearranged things on his shelves. Then he realized it was six-fifteen and that he had to get ready.
He dressed in the thankfully clean trousers, short boots, and a long-sleeved crewneck shirt he'd bought last time he'd shopped the boutiques up on Clark. It was dark green silk with gold thread in a tasteful, Asian-style pattern. It was the gayest piece of clothing he owned, if only because of the gold and the way it fit, sort of clingy.
He took a cab and arrived at the club at six-fifty-five. The club didn't open until seven; there was no line this early, only a tall and very well-muscled and square-jawed man in a sleeveless shirt guarding the door. The temperature had to be in the twenties - Farenheit still felt strange sometimes, that "twenties" should be so cold - but the man didn't seem to notice it. He barely looked at Arthur.
"Pardon me, I'm meeting a fr- a ... someone here," Arthur told him. "Perhaps you've seen him?"
The man raised his left eyebrow.
Arthur was too classy to say it's your boss, Mister Eyebrow. "Tallish, blond, wears glasses - his name is Alfred Jo-"
"Oh, okay," the doorman said, and cracked a smile. "Come on in, hon."
The man shooed Arthur in the door and directed him to sit on a blood-red velvet sofa in a nook just inside the door. Arthur could hear thumping music that started, stopped, changed, and started again, as a dee-jay somewhere warmed up. Arthur recognized the beat of the new song: it sounded like Depeche Mode. He'd seen them once in concert, years ago in London.
After a couple of minutes he heard Al's voice at the door. "Hey, Vin! Hi. Have you seen a blond guy, about yay tall- oh, he's here? Great."
Al breezed in, yanking off his coat as he did so. His face was flushed and his teeth were white and he was wearing those form-fitting black trousers and Arthur's heart sank, because Al looked utterly scrumptious.
"Hi Arthur! Thanks so much, man, you just don't even know. Here, gimme your coat and I'll check 'em-"
"Hello, Al," Arthur managed. He slid his arms out of his long, wool coat and handed it over. Al's eyes widened a little.
"Hey! Nice shirt."
Arthur was infinitely grateful for the darkness of the hallway. "Oh, thank you- It's-"
He cut himself off when Al actually grabbed his arm by the elbow and dragged him along to the coat-check. "I half-thought you'd wear a suit, you know? Ha ha. I've never seen you in anything else."
"Normally I eat and sleep in them, but they were all at the cleaners, I'm afraid," Arthur said. He was able to slide his elbow out of Al's warm fingers by pretending to reach for his wallet. He still tingled where Al had gripped him. "Here, let me get this."
Al waved him off. "I'll let you buy me a drink." He saw off their coats and led Arthur in another direction, this time without grabbing him. "We'll sit in the lounge. It'll be quieter. There's the dance floor, by the way."
Arthur peered around a corner into a cavernous room with warehouse-style ceilings and flashing colored lights. A long, shiny, steel-and-glass bar took up one wall of the room, and in the center was a hardwood dance floor with a polished wooden "fence" around it. There were more of those plush sofas scattered around the perimeter, dotted here and there with twisted-metal tables.
"Classic and modern. It's like space age meets suburban brick ranch," Arthur quipped, loudly to be heard over the music.
"You totally get it! What I was going for," Al beamed. "When I- we- designed this place."
"Are you a designer as well as a geek and entrepreneur?" Arthur joked.
"Nah. But I'm the vision man."
"So you've said."
Across the room in his- no, her - glass booth, a dee-jay with an afro hairdo and oversized headphones spun another track. It was more techno music, something Arthur thought he might know, given time to think about it.
"It's Eighties night," Al said. "It'll be packed in here later."
Eighties? Well, at least Arthur would recognize the music of his childhood. He followed Al around the corner into another room, the lounge. It was large as well, with the same design aesthetic, but quieter.
The bartender who greeted them was a tall, slender and very pretty young man. "Hi Al," he said in a sing-songy voice as they approached.
"Hi, Lance. This is my friend, Arthur. Get him a wine list, would ya?"
Arthur noticed that "friend," but decided that it was at least less awkward than "attorney." Lance gave him a book-bound list, and Arthur easily found a few things he could drink. He even found, by the glass, a sauvignon blanc from one of the wineries he and Portia had visited.
Arthur ordered and handed over his card for a tab. Lance looked at the card and then looked at Al, his eyes wide. Al laughed, sounding a little nervous.
"Gotta start paying sometime," he told Lance.
Lance shrugged but took Arthur's card with a small smile. "She's not coming in tonight."
"That's probably good."
"God, I wish you all weren't going through this."
"Me, too," Al said, with another nervous-looking grin. "Well, see you later."
Some people had trickled in behind them. Arthur thought about how he must appear to them, walking next to Al, dressed as he was. He looked like a man going out with his friend, maybe even a date. Perhaps he was, in a way. He was treading a thin line by doing so, given the way Al cranked his own knobs up to eleven, and the way he himself did ... something for Al, it was best not to know what.
He chose them a sofa tucked away in a darkened corner, more from wishing for quiet than for privacy. Arthur made sure there was a decent space of couch between them; that one touch had already set his insides to boiling. He sipped his wine and tried not to notice the way Al's shirt, another clingy button-down, hugged his torso as he sat. His stomach looked soft and enticing.
"I had to hold a management meeting this week," Al said. He sighed.
"Best to have gotten it over with," Arthur said. The cold wine was smooth and warmed him even further. Odd and wonderful, how wine did that.
"Yeah. I always wanted to own a gay dance club. Thought I'd have it in Southern California or something, of course, but I met Mariel and moved out here. The weather stinks but I kind of like it here anyway. It's a big city but people are pretty nice. More real than they are out in L.A."
Arthur nodded. He'd read how Al had done his MBA at Northwestern. "The weather in California is very nice, however. Very constant. In some places, anyway. I was there recently."
"Yeah?"
"In fact, I visited this winery." Arthur held up his glass. Al picked his up and they clinked them together.
"Cheers," Al said, and drank. Arthur couldn't help it; he was only human. He watched Al's mouth on his glass, the way his lips left marks in the condensation. "So why did you come here? To Chicago?"
Arthur took another sip. "I ... wanted to escape the bad weather of England. Funny, how that worked out."
Al grinned at him. He seemed to be watching Arthur's lips. Those lips tingled and Arthur took another sip of wine.
"My father was American, an Army soldier stationed in the UK," Arthur continued, wanting to chatter just keep the awkwardness of sexual tension at bay. "He grew up in southern Illinois. I came here after law college to study the American legal system, and just sort of stayed."
Al brightened. "Hey, my dad was a soldier, too! A colonel."
"My mother was - is - a doctor. She is still in the UK," Arthur continued.
"Arthur? Oh, my God, is that you?"
Arthur turned at the familiar voice. Oh, hell, it was Tony, his friend; vivacious, loud Tony. Christian was with him. Tony was dark and tanned as Christian was pale and Nordic. They always made a striking pair.
Arthur had dated Christian off and on, but they'd never really been a match in interests. The sex had been okay, but not magic. Not that Arthur required magic. He just ... sometimes he wondered if he should have settled for Christian, or someone like him.
Arthur downed the rest of his wine. "Hello," he said in a choked voice.
"Aren't you sly? I can't believe you came out to a dance club," Tony said. Nearly shouted.
"Yes, I kn-" Arthur began.
"Hi Arthur. Who's your da- friend?" Christian added.
Al's eyebrows migrated upwards up as he looked back and forth among the three of them. Arthur swallowed the alcoholic aftersigh of his wine.
"Tony, Christian, this is Alfred. Alfred, Tony and Christian," Arthur said, gesturing at each of them in turn. He coughed. Lance magically appeared with two more glasses of wine, and looked at the new arrivals.
"Not right now, thanks, we're going to dance," Tony told him. He waved at Al and looked again at Arthur. "So how do you two know each other?"
God, Arthur had nosy friends, didn't he? "I know him from work," Arthur said, starting on his second glass.
"Yeah. We met through law," Al said. He looked somewhat gleeful at Arthur's discomfort.
"Because you never go out," Christian added, patting Arthur on the shoulder. He was looking at Al with somewhat narrowed eyes; for the life of him Arthur could not fathom what that look was, because Christian had never seemed the jealous type. Unlike Tony, who could have jealous rages to shame a Spaniard, Christian was quiet and intense, and had always seemed diffident where Arthur was concerned. And there was part of why Arthur and Christian hadn't worked out: Arthur had to admit to himself that he did need some sort of admiration from a partner, to feel wanted. He sometimes did not care enough for himself, and didn't need a lover who was too much like him.
"My situation was truly dire, or I'm sure I'dve never dragged Arthur out with me," Al told Christian, grinning steadily.
"Dancing will help that. Just be sure to drag Arthur to the dance floor with you, too," Tony said. He poked Christian in the upper arm. "Nice to meet you. See you boys later."
They walked off. Christian shot another strange and sly look back at them. Al waved, still smiling.
"Your friends seem nice," Al said.
"They are," Arthur said, and did not say, usually. He did notice that this 'opening up and conversing' business was becoming surprisingly easy around Al. "They despair of me, for I rarely go out, except for food or work. I leave the city when I want to relax, it seems."
"I want to travel someday," Al said, draining his first glass of wine and taking a starting sip of his second. "We always said - well, I guess it doesn't matter now."
"It can hardly not matter," Arthur said with a sigh that he tried to keep hidden. He felt hot and chilled at the same time; hot where he was only inches away from Al's thighs, Al's shoulder, cold in his chest where he realized that this coming out tonight had been a mistake. He wasn't being a stick. And Al was still married. Al was his client. Al was still married.
"I know. But I want to have fun. Oh, god, I love this song," Al said, wiggling in his seat to the opening strains of ... Blue Monday, Arthur believed it was called.
He looked resolutely away from Al's hips. By repeating the "married" and "client" bits like a mantra in his brain, he managed to have a general, good-natured sort of conversation with Al about law, about travel. They went through yet another glass of wine, and Arthur relaxed enough to talk about souvenirs, and how he'd never thought he'd get into family law, because he'd trained in business and transactions. That was something Arthur admitted to few people.
At some point Al had sort of sprawled back into his corner of the sofa and lounged, his left leg bent flat upon the cushion so that Arthur had a view of his sock-clad ankle - plain black tonight - as well as the rest of him, including how snugly his trousers pulled against his legs.
"Do you regret it?" Al was asking, meaning the family law conversation. "It's probably less money than business law, and you have to deal with people like me, who are freaking out because of ... well, like Frannie says, lost love."
Arthur shook his head and looked at his wine. "No, not really. I get to help actual people, rather than just entities, corporations." Lord, the wine had loosened his tongue, hadn't it? "Not that I'm discounting those, but-"
"Nah, I get what you're saying. We really need the help more."
"I do some immigration work on the side," Arthur admitted. He usually did those cases pro bono, too. "Those are the people who need real help."
"That's really awesome of you, Arthur." Al waved his nearly empty wine glass at him, sloshing wine up the sides. "I meant what I said, about you coming out with me. I do think you are a good friend. That first moment I met you I just started saying stuff, private stuff. I guess I just felt comfortable. You're a hard nut to crack, though."
"Do you wish to crack me?" Arthur asked. It was blatant double-entendre, and Arthur was relaxed enough that he barely felt shame at having let that one slip.
Al's eyes widened and his mouth opened, and he held that expression for a second or two, then he shook his head. "Nah, nothing so violent."
"I'm glad to hear it."
A waiter brought more wine, along with some apple slices and water crackers - Lance was busy at the bar, and Arthur realized the lounge had gotten more crowded. He looked at his watch and hell, how had it turned eight-thirty already? He started to say no, I shouldn't, but then he remembered that it was Friday, he'd taken a cab, and he was rather enjoying himself.
They were playing music he knew and liked, and the view around the lounge was not unpleasant. The people were attractive, not even counting Al, who for Arthur was in a class all his own. He took the glass of wine with thanks.
He bit into a piece of crisp apple and watched Al as he drained the rest of the wine in his glass, watched his throat, and wondered why Al did it for him. There were certainly more conventionally attractive people here, and the waiters were very muscled and wore very little ...
Al was talking. "'S just that I knew you'd understand. That note from Mariel, God."
"That led to an interesting conversation," Arthur said. Hell, his tongue had probably been loosened too much.
"Ha ha! I'll bet," Al said, seeming tickled. Then his smile drained away and he looked around the bar, as if bemused. "Now I understand why Felix. She was all, oh, it'll spice up our love life and you might like it! Like she was bored with me in bed or something. And she was ticked after, like it wasn't what she'd expected, like I'd done something wrong. I thought she'd enjoy the show ..."
"I can imagine problems, if everyone involved is not on the same page," Arthur said, having sought for something general to say, feeling the warmth of the wine in his belly creeping lower. The mental images his creatively visual brain conjured made his toes curl.
"We weren't even reading the same book, I guess. It turns out she has a ... she's still my wife and she's having a thing. I haven't had a thing. I mean, I look, we always look, but."
Arthur felt a dire need to say something attorney-ish, to bring the conversation back into a realm where he felt comfortable and not, well, melting. "If you wish for a lack of complication, then it's best that you don't. Not until the stress of the divorce process has passed."
"Sure," Al said. He set down his wine glass and uncurled from the couch to stand, a mite unsteadily. "Hey, I'll be right back."
He ambled off, his limbs relaxed and quite nice to watch. Arthur sipped his wine and tried to decide if he needed to use the men's room. Not yet. He took the opportunity to look around again, at the people, his people, he should feel. People in their element, free to show affection to whomever they wished. And oh, my, that couple over there were being quite affectionate indeed. They were sprawled onto one of the nearby sofas making out, and it couldn't even be quarter till nine, yet. Tainted Love was playing in the background.
"PDA, boys," a voice said, loudly. It was Tony, and he and Christian and another man, one Arthur didn't know, had made their way over to his couch-corner. They were all watching the show with amusement.
"The young ones just can't hold their liquor," Christian observed. He looked at Arthur. "Where's your friend?"
"I don't know. Off, somewhere," Arthur said, waving his hand in the general direction Al had gone. His hand, nay his entire arm, felt pleasantly buzzy and flowy. He waved it again for good measure and pleasure. He glanced at the newcomer, a handsome Indian man. Arthur said hello. The man waved.
"Maybe he's on the dance floor," Tony said. "It's fun, but getting a little crowded. You should try it anyway. You need to relax more, Arthur."
Arthur scowled. "A great many people seem to have ideas about what I should do. Would my friends like me better if I was different?" he said. Al had never told him what to do. Nice thing about being the attorney in the relationship, that.
Christian merely widened his eyes but Tony jaw-dropped at that. "Fuck, you're right. Sorry. It's just, your friends hate to see you down."
"I understand," Arthur said, taking a sip of his drink and settling down. The music was changing. Was that - it couldn't be.
"Sounds like your boyfriend playing," Christian observed.
It was. It was-
Al reappeared behind Christian. "Hi guys," he said, and then squeezed through to hold his hand down to Arthur. "I asked Angel to play this one for you. Now you have to come with me with the dance floor."
And there Al was, like everyone else, trying to get Arthur up. "Oh, for heaven's sake. You can't bribe me with Rick Springfield," he said, and started to wave Al off, but Al grabbed his hand and pulled. He was strong. Arthur came up out of his seat, spilling wine. "Fuck," he said, wiping at his trousers.
"Oops," Al laughed. "Well, come on. You can just stand still on the dance floor if you want, but you gotta come see, at least."
Tony took Arthur's glass of wine and set it on the table. "Let's all go, just to represent for Arthur's boyfriend," he said.
Arthur really had no choice but to be dragged off, with Al gripping his hand like that. He didn't let go even when they reached the dance floor, which was as crowded as Tony has promised. It was a mess of color and light and shiny faces, and the music was loud enough that the beat was palpable, sound waves of bass and vocal thrumming throughout him.
Bop till you drop in the big city, keep on working day and night. Don't stop till you get what you want.
Arthur wasn't sure he'd ever heard this song in a dance club. Al dragged him through the mass of dancing bodies to the middle of the floor, and the others followed and started swaying around, laughing like idiots. Al released Arthur's hand but only to hang one arm over his shoulder, almost like they were slow-dancing.
He was perforce pressed very near in the crowd. Arthur's head swam a little with the wine and the music and Al's body. He tried to breathe but couldn't seem to catch a breath that wasn't close and sticky. The people around them surged and bumped into his stock-still form. He was being a stick at last, as he'd promised himself.
Al was smiling at him, and after a minute or so Arthur pushed off. "Pardon me. I - I need to use the men's room," he mumbled. It wasn't completely true, but he was desperate for air.
He wasn't sure he'd been heard above the music but perhaps Al was a lip-reader. "Okay, I'll go too," he said, looking not too disappointed that his bait hadn't worked, thankfully.
Arthur led them out of the crowd as Al had led them in. He looked for a restroom sign and saw it, around by the bar, and made for it.
The back hallway was nearly as crowded as the dance floor had been. The unfortunate thing about gay clubs was that the crowd skewed male and thus gentlemen often had to wait in queues, rather than the ladies.
The men in queue were making the best of it, many of them snuggling close in twos, laughing or kissing or both while they waited. Arthur faced forward, resolutely away from Al. He remembered why he hadn't been to clubs in a very long time.
Behind him, Al jiggled his shoulder. "I think there's another place, not far. Totally secret. Come with me."
He took Arthur's elbow - he'd gotten so touchy - and dragged him down the hall, past the amorous crowds, and then around a corner. A short walk led to a dead end, holding nothing but a locked electrical closet.
"Where is it?" Arthur asked.
Al laughed. "I dunno. I thought it was here. Guess I remembered the way wrong." Al stood there, looking at the locked door with a lightning symbol upon it. He made no move to go back, and Arthur pulled his arm away, but wasn't forceful enough to dislodge Al's fingers. Al just looked at where he held Arthur's arm for a moment, and then up at Arthur's face for another moment. He put his other hand on Arthur's shoulder and pushed him lightly against the wall.
Arthur's heart stopped for a half-second, and then started up again, thumping so hard in his ears that it nearly drowned out the music. He understood explicitly that Al was going to kiss him, and understood also that he was going to let it happen. He stared at Al's mouth as he leaned forward. Their lips touched, and yes, there was magic, buzzing through him like a spell that brought people to life.
The kiss started with closed mouths but almost before Arthur knew it he was sliding his tongue against Al's, licking the inside of his teeth, tasting the citrus and sweet of Cakebread Cellars sauvignon blanc. And sunshine and Al, his breaths short and harsh in Arthur's mouth. Arthur gripped the sides of Al's face and soothed him with kisses, with gentle thumbs against his temples.
Arthur was foolish and he didn't care, experiencing the feeling of something he'd long desired, and discovering it was just as wonderful as he'd imagined. Rather than satiating that desire, it only made him want it more. His pulse pounded independently of the thumping music. Their kissing had a rhythm as well, a desperate one, as if they shared the knowledge that this was fleeting and had to be experienced as fully as possible before it ended. Arthur sank back against the wall and experienced it, let the world center on the slick sensation of their joined mouths, their joined breaths, the knot of heat that sank into his belly.
Voices remembered echoed in Arthur's scrambled thoughts. I'll let you know when I really want something. He's impetuous.
He was also divine in his nervous desperation. Al's fingers trembled where they held Arthur's shoulders. With wanting him, Arthur felt it. Al pressed his hips close and the knot sitting Arthur's his belly unfurled.
Al peeled his tongue off of Arthur's tonsils and pulled away a tiny bit, hovering, still breathing onto Arthur's lips, still close where Arthur held him. Arthur was holding him, he realized. He opened his eyes and saw Al's were still closed behind his fogging glasses, his eyelashes long against his shiny cheeks.
"You make me so goddamned hot, Arthur. Just listening to you talk gets me hard," Al whispered against his lips.
"Oh," Arthur might have said, and unnnh as Al pulled his hand from Arthur's shoulder and slid it down until the heel of his palm was pressing against Arthur's burgeoning erection.
Arthur's erection, for fuck's sake. He turned his head and took a breath, fresh cool air to further the chill of reality that was already seeping throughout the rest of him. "Stop."
"What?" Al said, still breathy. He pushed his hand into Arthur's crotch, which absolutely wanted to push back.
"Stop. No, we must stop," Arthur managed.
Al's eyes opened. "What? Why? Arthur-"
There were a great many reasons why. Because Arthur liked him too much. Because he was vulnerable. Both of them were. Because Al was still married. Because Al was his fucking client, for Christ's sake. "It's ... it's unethical for an attorney to become involved with one of his clients."
Al's laugh was sharp. "Hah. Now you bring this up?"
"Seemed like a bloody good time to," Arthur said.
"But I like you, Arthur. And I think you like me," Al said, punctuating that with a palm-nudge of Arthur's obvious interest. "We don't have to get married. We can just fuck, right?"
Arthur was far enough gone that he actually considered it for a second. "No," he said finally, in what he hoped was a firm voice. Then Al ruined it all by licking under Arthur's ear, making him gasp.
"At least let me suck you off. God, I want to."
Yes, please, said Arthur's cock, well able to imagine it even without Al's filthy words rumbling against his throat. "No, not even that," Arthur's lips said. He mustered strength to push Al away.
Al just smiled. "Well, stop being my attorney, then."
"What? It's not that easy." With a few inches of space between them, Arthur could think more clearly.
"Yeah, it is. Give my case to your partner. He does divorce stuff, right? We're almost done, anyway."
"Don't be foolish," Arthur said, blunt for once.
Al's eyes narrowed. "Here, I'll show you." He pulled out his phone - where had he tucked that in those trousers?- and did the slide-plink-plink-plinkplink-tap-tap thing for a few moments.
"What on Earth are you-"
Al grunted and held his phone up. "See? I just texted Frannie. I told him you're not my attorney anymore. It's official."
"You what?" Well, stunned shock had the salutatory effect of fully snuffing Arthur's ardor and erection, which was for the best. But as for the rest of it? "Really? You idiot. You complete ass. You're going to jeopardize your legal situation for a quick fuck?"
Al put his hands on his hips and assumed a cocky pose. "I thought you liked me, Arthur."
"Arrrgh," Arthur actually said, finding no better sound to encapsulate his feelings in that moment. "I thought you respected me. Goodbye."
He darted past Al and stomped around the corner, back into the hallway, glaring at the happy couples as he passed, hearing their murmurs of "Gawd, what's his problem," behind him. He heard Al call his name a couple of times but he ignored it, too angry even to turn around and give Al a piece of his mind.
Well, I don't do quick fucks, he thought as he shoved his way through the crowds to the door. Especially with morons who thought with their cocks instead of their brains. So what if that was eighty-five percent of the male population?
And as he neared the door he realized it was March and hell, he had to get his coat first and he'd probably have to stand in line and put up with Al whining behind him - fuck it. He'd get his coat later. He shoved past the doorman and the crowds waiting to get in the club, and made it to the curb just as a cab disgorged a load of passengers. Arthur shooed them out of the way and climbed in. The cabbie just eyed him over his shoulder.
Arthur crossed his arms against the cold and gave his address. He wanted a cigarette like he hadn't in a long time. Halfway there he realized they were passing Portia's building and decided to stop there instead. There were times when he needed to be around someone who wasn't himself, as well.
When he dug out his wallet to pay the cabbie, he realized he'd left his credit card at the bar. Fuck it; he'd pick it up tomorrow and then cancel it. He paid cash.
Portia was surprised to see him, but at least she was home and alone and buzzed him up without fuss. She took one look at him in her doorway and said, "What's wrong?"
Arthur stomped in, still rubbing his upper arms in their thin silk. "I'm pissed."
Portia closed the door behind him and sighed. "In the British sense or the American one?"
"Both." Arthur glanced back and realized Portia was in her pajamas. "Oh, I'm sorry, I just barged right in-"
"Don't be stupid." Portia directed him to her sofa, and perhaps deciding that further alcohol would not help his situation, offered him a cold bottled water instead of wine. Arthur drank the water looked around her messy apartment for a minute or two, at the empty Chinese takeout container, at the TV, which was paused on whatever she'd been watching. Some of his equanimity returned.
He took a deep breath. "Alfred Jones and I have a mutual attraction that makes it impossible for me to continue as his attorney."
Portia raised her eyebrows and looked down at him. "What did you do?"
Arthur felt himself flush. "I kissed him. He kissed me. That is all."
"So how was it?"
Arthur sighed. "Fantastic."
"And?"
"I told him we couldn't continue and he dumped me as his attorney."
"Really?" Portia shrugged. "Well ... now you can go out with him, at least?"
Arthur frowned. "No, I'm not going to go out with him because he's a little shit who dumped me as his attorney."
Portia sat next to him. She looked him up and down. "You look really good tonight."
"Thank you."
"Oh, Arthur," Portia said. She rubbed his cold hands and leaned her head on his shoulder. He'd known she would understand.