CHAPTER THREE
 
 

     On a tethered yacht, inside a harbor along the French Riviera, Nicole Simonge was enjoying the perks of being Mrs. Robin Cooper -- when Mr. Robin Cooper was, characteristically, nowhere to be found.
    She wore a strapless vermilion dress with a plunging neckline, slit up both legs to her thighs, and strung from thousands of ruby beads.  Not beads threaded into cloth, but beads held together by silver, silk string and clinging to every curve of her body for a sheer, almost see-through effect.  A man tilting his head just the right way, could get quite an eyeful between the beads.  Which was what the fifteen year old nephew of her Moroccan tycoon host was trying to do as he pressed his sweaty palms against Nicole's bare back and ground his pelvis into her hip, pretending to dance while, from the waist up, he leaned further and further back, hoping to leer down her cleavage.
     Yet, his kiddie attempts to cop a feel or, at worst, score a cheap thrill, didn't bother Nicole in the least.  Although barely a decade older than her juvenile pervert, she'd worked this circuit for so long that such clumsy pawing barely registered.  She let him do whatever he wanted because she refused to make waves in front of his uncle, a man whose income equaled that of several medium-sized nations.  She was having too much fun at his soiree, mingling with men and women who, only six years ago, barely noticed her as she escorted them to their tables inside a Monte Carlo restaurant and groveled for the change they deigned to pitch her for a tip.  Now, these same men and women had to at least pretend to tolerate her.
     Because she was Mrs. Robin Cooper.
     Till death do them part.
     Nicole gracefully wriggled out of the teen's slippery clutch, remembering to offer him a dazzling smile as she went, to insure no hard feelings in either him or his uncle, and stepped straight into the arms of the next waiting customer, a cousin, or perhaps another nephew, but definitely older and definitely interested in more than a playful ogle.  The music being played was heavily Middle Eastern, reminding Nicole of a snake slowly being charmed out of its basket, and prompting her dance partner to writhe in what she presumed was supposed to be a lithe and seductive manner.  She attempted to keep up with him, but, just when she thought she'd finally decoded his unusual rhythm, the cousin passed her to another, equally gyrating, relation.  It seemed to be a game of some kind, the men gathering around her in a circle, all of them clapping, trying to over-shout each other and gesturing for Nicole to dance in the middle.
    She obeyed their summons, fully aware that every woman on the yacht was looking at her in a combination of disgust and I-told-you-she-was-nothing-but-a-whore smugness.  Nicole didn't care.  She was in her element.  Those stuck-up, frigid bitches were probably just jealous of the way Nicole could steal any man's attention.  It was a skill she'd cultivated since she first ran away from home at the age of thirteen.  A skill even trust-fund money couldn't buy.
     Of course, it didn't hurt that nature at least, had been kind to Nicole, gifting her with luxurious mink-black hair, a mouth made for pouting, smoke-filled, gray bedroom eyes promising all sorts of pleasures, and a body guaranteed to deliver.  But, Nicole had known girls almost a gorgeous as she was, who still couldn't generate her level of attention.  Because they didn't know the secret.  Or maybe they knew it, but just didn't have the guts to follow through.  The secret to being the girl who, at the end of the night, every man's balls throbbed to go home with, was to be... nothing.  To have no thoughts, no desires, no needs.  To be a blank slate.  No man could resist a woman whose every smile, every wink, every gesture, broadcast her willingness to do anything she was told.
     Nicole laughed, flitting from man to man inside her Moroccan cage, her movements quickening to keep up with the music, spinning gaily, oblivious to the subtle change of temper in the room, until the musicians abruptly quit playing, and a voice she could identify even in sleep sliced the subsequent hush to inquire sarcastically, "Am I too late for your dance of the seven veils?"
     Robin stood in the doorway, dressed casually in slacks and a tan, vicuna sweater; ounce for ounce, the most pricey cloth on the planet.  He walked towards her, parting the suddenly still revelers with no more than a glance, and stopped short in front of the two inch, elevated stage that made up Nicole's dance floor.  His eyes swept from the men who, only moments earlier, had been grabbing at his wife, and then over Nicole.  From the day they met, he'd had a way of looking at her that made Nicole feel like she was wearing a layer of sewage.  Or, worse, like she was wearing nothing at all.
 Robin reached into his pants-pocket, and, withdrawing a wad of bills, stuffed them down the open front of Nicole's dress, two tens slipping out and crumpling by her feet.  "Is that enough to buy me your attention for a couple minutes, darling?"
     Nicole glanced down, plucking cash out of her décolletage and making an exaggerated show of counting it slowly.  She looked at the money, she looked at the Moroccan tycoon, she looked at Robin.  She smiled wickedly, rolled the bills into a tube and, tucking them between her breasts, innocently propositioned her host, "Care to go bobbing for dollars?"
     Watching anger consume Robin's face, Nicole knew her arrow had struck its mark.  Her husband, apparently, had forgotten that his taste for humiliating her in public was exceeded only by Nicole's ongoing attempt to turn that humiliation back on him.
     Robin leapt on the stage, the ball of his foot balancing along the edge of the platform only long enough for him to grab Nicole's wrist and tug her off.  Stunned by both the unexpectedness of the assault and the force Robin used to carry it out, Nicole stumbled, losing her balance, and hitting the floor with both knees.  Fingers still locked around her arm, Robin yanked Nicole upright, dragging her out of the room, off the yacht, and into his car.
     He flung Nicole into the passenger-side, gunning the engine.  Only once they'd hit the open road, did he compose himself enough to take a deep breath, and brush the bangs falling down his face off his forehead.  "Nice show," Robin snapped.
     "I thought you'd enjoy it."  Nicole smoothed her dress, noting where a silver strand had snapped, sending dozens of beads rolling under the seat.  She straightened up, asking Robin, "What are you doing here, anyway?  I thought you were going to San Francisco for that Fund -- grant -- whatever it is, of your mother's."
     "It's over."  Robin's lips were set in a pursed line, meaning he didn't wish to discuss it.  Which, of course, meant it was now the only topic Nicole longed to pursue.
     "And you didn't stay a few days extra to... see the sights?"
     Without taking his eyes off the road, Robin raised a finger of warning in her direction.  "Don't start with me."
     Oh, good, she'd hit a nerve.  This was going to be fun.
     "Losing our touch, are we, lover?"  She snuggled her shoulders against the seat's kid-soft leather.  "Don't tell me the debutantes have stopped falling at your feet?"
     "One more word, and you can use your feet -- or whatever part of your anatomy gets the job done best -- to find your way home."
     Nicole shrugged, "Fine with me.  You're the one who dragged me out of that glorious party.  I'd have been happy to stay forever."
     "I wanted to talk to you."  Robin pulled his Ferrari into the garage of their high-rise, and climbed outside, slamming the door loudly enough for the walls to reverberate.  "About our divorce."

     "What's she still doing up?"
     Nicole barely crossed the threshold of their apartment, before she was indicating the five year old child sitting on the carpet in the center of their living room, braiding her doll's hair.
     Eve's nanny stepped between Nicole and her daughter, informing imperiously, "She isn't still up, Miss Simonge.  Eve happens to be up again.  It is seven a.m."
     Nicole couldn't recall how many nannies she'd discharged, all for the same reason.  Every single bitch of them, talked to Nicole like she worked for them, instead of the other way around.  They looked down their noses at her.  They never listened to a word she said about Eve.  And, worst of all, they called her "Miss Simonge," not "Mrs. Cooper."  Although, Nicole supposed she couldn't hold the nannies solely responsible for that affront.  Robin paid the bills, and, no matter how much she raged on the subject, Robin insisted on referring to her publicly as "Miss Simonge."
     "Well, get her out of here," Nicole dismissed the child.
     "Yes, Miss Simonge."  The nanny scooped up Eve, along with her doll, and headed for the nursery.
     Just before they rounded the corner, Nicole called out to her daughter, "Look who's here, Eve.  It's your daddy."
     Eve stared quizzically at Robin, her shockingly large eyes -- not gray like her mother's nor hazel like her father's, more like a murky, colorless mishmash -- settled on him only briefly, before she silently buried her face in her nanny's shoulder.
     Damn.  That kid was positively no help at all.
     Shaking her head, Nicole crossed the living room, bending over behind the bar, and riffling in the bottles they kept stored there.  She asked Robin, "Scotch or vodka?  It's all we've got.  If I knew you were coming home early, I'd have restocked."
     "Nicole," Robin took the drink she offered him.  "Let's quit beating around the bush, alright?  This is a farce."
     "What is?  I said, I'll have the bar restocked tomorrow."
     He shot her a look fit to freeze the Riviera.  "Our marriage, Nicole.  It's the farce.  We don't love each other.  I don't think a minute has passed when we've even tolerated each other.  So, how about pulling the plug, before things get really ugly?"
     Nicole sighed.  She settled comfortably in a plush arm-chair, studying Robin over the rim of her mineral-water filled glass, and asked, "What's this one's name?"
     "It's nothing like that."
     "Please, darling, it's always something like that.  What does she look like?  Blonde?  Brunette?  I know she must be built.  You do prefer your women looking like women.  None of those starving-model types for my Robin."
     "Cut it out, Nicole.  You're embarrassing yourself."
     "Oh, I'm sorry, darling.  Am I stealing your job?"
     "I'll give you anything you want.  I'll provide for Eve.  But, for God's sake, let's put an end to this misery."
     Nicole clicked her manicured nails against her glass.  "Tell me something, Robin.  Do you have any idea how many times we've had this conversation?  At least three times a year, by my count.  And it's always the same opera.  You go away for awhile, meet some new trollop who tells you how wonderful you are and strokes your ego -- and any other part she can reach -- and you decide 'that's it, it's over, time to hit the divorce court.'  But then, some time passes, you get bored, and, regular as clockwork, here you are again, back in my bed where you belong."
     She stood, resting her glass on the coffee table and sidling up to Robin as he sat on the divan.  Nicole slipped her arm around his shoulder, stroking the side of Robin's neck, her fingers play-fully sliding under his sweater.  She caressed his chest languidly with her palm.  When he didn't resist, Nicole dipped her head, and kissed Robin's Adam's apple, followed by the hollow at his throat.
     "Mmm," she purred seductively.  "Scrumptious."
     "Give it a rest."  He yanked out of her grip, leaving Nicole to thrust out her arms or fall into the couch.  He stood, ramming both hands into his pockets and telling her, "Enough games, okay?"
     Nicole sat up, crossing her arms.  "What the hell's the matter with you?  Since when is some little slut worth getting you in such a lousy humor?"
     "For the last time, Nicole," he whipped around, eyes blazing.  "This isn't about another woman.  This is about you and me and the goddamn mess I've made out of my life."
     She hated it when he talked like that.  It usually meant Robin was about to descend into one of his dismal moods, and those were never any fun.  Trying to keep the conversation blithe in hope of heading his gloom off at the pass, Nicole snapped, "Maybe I'm your punishment, then?  Have you considered that?"
     He glared at her with such disgust, Nicole's stomach churned.  He told her, "I think about it every single day."
 She struggled to hold on to some shred of dignity, but also to wound him as profoundly as he had her.  "Oh, yeah?  Well, I -- that goes double for me."
     Robin sighed, suddenly exhausted, "So, why are we still here, Nicole?  Why are we putting each other through this?"  He answered his own question.  "The money.  Am I right?  My money was the only reason you even looked at me that first day."
     "What if it was?"
     "How much do you want?"  He whipped out his check-book.  "Tell me right now, and it's yours."
     "Anything?"
     "Anything."
     Nicole locked her eyes with Robin's and, in that instant, she forced herself to relive every moment of their life together.  The cocky American playboy strolling into the restaurant she waitressed at in Monte Carlo, and, when she asked him, "See anything you like, sir?" pointing straight at her.  The demanding twenty-two year old who, less than eight hours later, drove Nicole to the crest of the highest mountain around, making love to her right on the edge of a thousand feet drop, reassuring darkly, "Don't worry, I'd never take anyone else with me."  She remembered the fury in his eyes when she told him she was pregnant, and the accusations he'd hurled at her.  She remembered a party one of his friends threw at sea, where the merriment included playing chess with lilliputian liquor bottles scavenged from the bar.  Every time you captured a piece, you drank the bottle.  Robin was quite the chess player.  So, by afternoon, Robin was quite drunk.  Obviously, that was the only reason he ever let his equally intoxicated friends kid him into 'making an honest woman' out of the pregnant Nicole, by having the Captain perform a wedding ceremony.  Robin didn't think the union was legal.  Nicole knew that it was.  The next day, when she found him gone, and only a pile of bills next to a note telling her to get an abortion left, Nicole knew that he wouldn't get away from her that easily.
     Now, facing his offer of cash-on-demand, Nicole informed her husband,  "There isn't enough money in the world."
     He snapped shut the check-book, slipping it back inside his jacket.  "Fine.  We'll do it the hard way."

     He packed up his clothes; a ritual Nicole was more than used to, and no longer took seriously.  She sat in the bedroom watching him.  And yet, as she reassured herself that this was par for the course, that it wasn't the first time Robin had walked out on her, she couldn't shake a niggling feeling in the hollow of her stomach that somehow, some way, this time was different.
     She might have even asked Robin about it.  If he weren't, as she'd predicted, sinking deeper and deeper into one of his tempers.  And if she weren't convinced that every noun and verb that came out of his mouth was a lie.
     At the door, Robin paused for a moment, looking over the room and Nicole.  She recognized him mentally washing his hands of the entire circumstance.  "Nicole?"
     She looked up, hopeful.
     He asked, "What goes into a Salty Dog?"
     "You mean the drink?"  She shrugged.  "I have no idea."
     "No," he hefted his garment-bag over one shoulder.  "I didn't expect you to."

     She was exhausted.
     She couldn't sleep.
     At first, Nicole blamed the sunshine streaming from outside.  She climbed out of bed three separate times to readjust the drapes, convinced that if she could just render the room pitch-black, she'd be able to drift off.  At noon, she gave up.
     It wasn't the sun.  It was Robin.
     Robin and the way he'd looked at her when he'd offered Nicole any amount of money she wanted to set him free.  She wondered if he really meant it this time.  If she could name her figure, and walk away none the worse for wear.  But, problem was, Nicole didn't want to walk away.  It wasn't simply the money that kept her clinging to Robin long after any gold-digger worth her weight in precious gems would have long ago taken the settlement and run.  What kept Nicole rejecting every offer Robin made, no matter how generous, was that she liked being Mrs. Cooper.  She liked the life that came with the name.  She liked his decadent friends with their luxury yachts, and their private jets, and their villas.  She liked the way the snooty boutique girls changed their tune towards her whenever Nicole whip-ped out Robin's credit cards.  She liked the way the harridans at Eve's private school had to choke on their bile and address Nicole with respect, even as they exchanged grimaces and whispers as soon as she turned her back.  But, most of all, she liked the security that came from knowing she would never, ever again have to go back to her old life of scrounging for every meal, and every bed.
     Unless, of course, Robin made good on his threat and served her with those divorce papers he'd been promising for years.
     No.  Nope.  Uh-uh.  They couldn't have that.
     She sat up in bed, pushing off the face-mask she'd donned in a last-ditch attempt to block out the sunlight and, without pausing to pull on her robe, sped to her vanity table.  She yanked open the middle drawer, riffling through her jewelry box and pulling out, in increasing order of value, her pearl choker, her diamond bracelet, and the emerald necklace she'd bought herself in honor of her third wedding anniversary.  She hated to part with any of the items, but it was for a good cause.  And, besides, they were only money.  She could always take the trinkets out of hock as soon as Robin came to his senses and returned home to her.
     Nicole strode down the hall of their apartment, barging into the nanny's room without knocking and imperially informing her she was fired.  Mr. Cooper would take care of the severance pay.  Then, Nicole flung open the door to Eve's room, pulling her little girl's travel case off the top closet shelf and telling Eve to pack some of her favorite clothes and toys and whatever else it was that five year olds needed.  They were going to take a trip.
     Her own suitcase packed, Nicole rechecked her math.  Pawning her jewelry would give Nicole enough money to buy two untraceable, cash-only airline tickets, plus keep her and Eve afloat for however long it would take Robin to grasp a truth that Nicole only realized that afternoon.
     He couldn't divorce her, if he couldn't find her.