Nightlife Page 4

  Who to be now? Being a brunette made her feel sedate, understated, aristocratic. Her new name should be something old-fashioned, even biblical, but Anglo-Saxon—no Catholic saints, and nothing faux French. Sarah would be good, or Rebecca. No, both were too common. Rachel. That was just about right.

  She had always favored names that sounded like rich people’s names, but nothing too heavy-handed. She didn’t want to call herself a name that was also the name of a company: it would be hard to pass as a Ford or a Pillsbury. She thought about her new self for a few minutes, and decided that she should have roots in New England. Maybe a place-name. Stamford? No. Sturbridge. That felt right: Rachel Sturbridge—how do you do?

  Rachel Sturbridge held the car to the south, and began to wonder where to stop. San Francisco was the next city she had heard about along the way, so she decided to aim for it and stop to see if it felt right. She drove half the night and reached the city at three A.M., then parked the car in a big structure near Union Square. She made her way downhill to the square, then walked around staring at the big buildings, the quiet, lighted entrances to hotels and the dark display windows of stores. She loved seeing a city late at night, after all of the superficial busyness and crowding and knotted traffic had been stripped away. She decided that she would stay. Then she returned to the parking structure and slept in the back seat of her car until people began starting the cars near hers and driving off.

  In the morning Rachel used her Tanya Starling identification to rent a small furnished house, then added the name of Tanya’s roommate, Rachel Sturbridge, to the lease. That afternoon she rented a post office box in both names, then placed a fictitious-business-name statement in the ad section of the Chronicle. It said that Rachel Sturbridge and T. Starling were doing business as Singular Aspects, and gave the post office box as the address. She went to City Hall and bought a business license for Singular Aspects, which she said on the form produced a “mail-order newsletter for alternative lifestyles.” She was pleased with the fact that the description was utterly meaningless.

  Before the banks closed at six she managed to start a Singular Aspects bank account with the two women as signatories and a deposit of four thousand dollars. At the end of each day for the next two days she made another cash deposit. When the balance reached twelve thousand dollars, she made out an application for a business credit card in the name of Singular Aspects. She flirted a little bit with the manager on duty, a young man named Bill, and he took the application without asking any embarrassing questions.

  Dennis Poole had been dead three days. On the way home that night she bought the Portland newspapers at a newsstand and searched for stories about what the police were doing, but there was no mention of an investigation. There was only a short obituary that said his death had been declared a homicide. Since there was no mention of a woman, she supposed that meant her part in the episode was over, and decided that in the future she would remember only the good parts.

  The next morning Rachel went to a copy center and selected a pack of ten sheets of heavy white paper with high rag content and a blank CD. She paid for them at the counter, rented a computer, and went to a Web site that she had found once before. It was a fan site devoted to every aspect of the life of the actress Renee Stipple Penrose. There were pictures of her parents’ home in Barnstable, Connecticut, including some taken by a camera aimed through the windows, pictures of her elementary school and her high school, and—because there was a controversy about her real birth date—a clear and sharp image of her birth certificate.

  Rachel copied the image to the computer and removed the original names and dates without altering the signatures or seals. She copied the blank birth certificate onto the CD for future use, and put the CD into her purse. Then she selected a matching type font and filled in the form to record the birth of Rachel Martha Sturbridge twenty-five years ago, and printed the new certificate onto one of her sheets of official-looking paper.

  Rachel still had a driver’s license she had obtained in Illinois as Tanya Starling. Now she found a matching type font, typed her new name a few times, and printed it out on a sheet of thin white paper.

  When she was in her house that night she patiently scratched the old name off the license with a razor blade. She took the printout with the name Rachel Martha Sturbridge on it, cut it out in a narrow strip, placed it in the groove on the license she had created with the blade, and used a drop of clear glue to hold it there. In the morning, when it was dry, she placed a laminating sheet over the front of the license, and trimmed it carefully.

  Two days later she went to the Department of Motor Vehicles office, flashed her Illinois license and her birth certificate, took a written test, and received a new California driver’s license in the name Rachel Martha Sturbridge. 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 Chronicle and sold Tanya Starling’s car for fifteen thousand dollars. She deposited the check in the Singular Aspects account so Rachel Sturbridge would be able to write checks against it. Then she bought a six-year-old Nissan for five thousand in cash. The whole process of changing names was like watching a candle burn down and begin to gutter, and using its flame to light a new one before it went out.

  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 maître 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 uniform
s 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 maître 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 maître 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 entrée, 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 technical and business types who used to work for deceased Internet companies. There are lots of printers and good shipping facilities.”

  “What about the rents?”

  “They’re expensive, but not like New York, and I can work out of my apartment and my post office box for a long time before I need to expand,” she said.

  “I can tell you’re a practical businesswoman,” said Larson. “And I know a little about that. What’s the title of your magazine?”

  “I’m calling it Singular Aspects. It’s going to be about alternative lifestyles.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means nothing and everything. Americans love to think they’re special. Every last one of them, no matter how much of a conformist he is, wants to believe he’s a maverick, an innovator. What people want to believe is what they’ll buy, and lifestyle is everything. So I can do clothes, furniture, houses, music, books, movies, art, food, relationships, and say it’s about them. It doesn’t take much of a pitch to get them to buy an attractive version of themselves. They already like themselves.”

  “And you think San Francisco is a good place to do this?”

  “Not just a good place,” she said. “The very best place. More huge fads have come out of San Francisco than anywhere, block for block. This was the place to be a beatnik in the fifties. Practically the whole hippie movement in the sixties came from the corner of Haight and Ashbury. The food-worship fad came from restaurants like Chez Panisse in Berkeley in the seventies. The computer revolution came from just down the road in the eighties. It’s wave after wave. Not only will fad watchers pay for the latest from here, but advertisers will pay to be part of the next wave before it leaves here.”

  He laughed. “Well, that’s just great. I like everything about it, and I think it’s a good bet to succeed.” He stared at her for a few seconds. “I think it’s the best idea I’ve heard this trip.”

  She saw her chance to move the conversation onto him. “You’ve heard others?”

  “Well, yes,” he said. “I feel so comfortable talking to you that I keep forgetting that we don’t actually know each other yet.” He took out his wallet—she caught a thick sheaf of green bills and a platinum card—and slid a business card out with his thumb, then handed it to her.

  There was a logo with a pair of longhorns, and a business address in Austin for David Larson Ventures. She held it out for him to take back, bu
t he said, “No, please hold on to it.”

  She slipped it into her purse. “So what are David Larson’s ventures?”

  “Oh, I make investments.”

  “In what?”

  “Young companies, mostly start-ups. Anything where I can evaluate the product, the market, the competition, and the costs. I came to meet some people and hear some pitches.”

  Rachel Sturbridge let the topic drop to see whether he was going to be a bore who didn’t talk about anything but business. Instead he talked about other restaurants he knew in the Bay Area, an art exhibition he wanted to see while he was in the city, a book he had read on the airplane.

  She silently cursed the waiter when he delivered the check. She had not had enough time. When she reached for the check, Larson’s big hand was on the little tray, covering it. He said, “Please. I already know you’re the kind of person who likes to pay her own way, but you would be doing me a kindness to let me have it. You did a great favor to let me join you, and it’s all I can do in return.”

  “Well, all right.” When the waiter took his card and went away, she said, “Thank you.”

  She pretended not to pay any attention to the check after that, but she had found that the way people treated servers could be an early indication of unpleasant qualities. She excused herself to go to the ladies’ room at the right moment and looked down at it over his shoulder. He was a generous tipper. When she returned, she said, “I would like to take you out for an after-dinner drink. There’s a place near here that’s quiet.”

  He seemed taken aback. “I would be absolutely delighted.” He stood up, then said, “How near?”

  “Two hundred feet.” They walked down the street to the bar of the Pan Pacific hotel, just off the huge white marble lobby. They sat at a table and ordered drinks. He said, “I gave you my business card. Have you had any cards printed yet?”

  “No,” she said. “I haven’t hired my designer yet, and I want to be sure everything has the right look.”

  He produced another card of his and a pen and set them on the table in front of her. “Then please write a number where I can reach you.”