Cathy Yardley - L.a. Woman

Martika was an Amazon. Easily five-ten, she had deep maroon hair that cascaded in curls down past her shoulder blades. She was wearing a pair of hip-hugging bell bottoms in a deep black, and a maroon top of a sort of silky material that sported some sort of Indian embroidery design at the bottom. She had on a black leather coat over it. She was wearing sunglasses perched on her head, ostensibly to keep the curls out of her face. Her face…it wasn’t necessarily pretty, not in the vogue sort of way. She had large hazel eyes and a pug nose that looked odd on her. She had a strong chin, and a round face. She stared back at Sarah.

“I don’t bite,” she said pointedly. “At least, not until I get to know you.”

Sarah shook herself. “Oh! Sorry. You must be Martika.”

“I must be,” she drawled, and walked in, her stacked heel half-boots making her stride seem even more impressive. She gave Sarah a little questioning look as she walked in, then let out a low whistle as her attention shifted from the owner of the apartment to the apartment itself. “Nice. Empty, but we could fix that in a minute. All yours?”

“Um, yes. Although it’d have to be month to month…”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Martika said, eliminating that possible bone of contention. She went out to the balcony. “I guess this would be my smoking area…I can’t stand smoking in the house, strangely enough. I like smoking, but hate smelling it all the time.”

“Okay,” Sarah said.

Martika turned around, and studied Sarah again. Sarah felt…dowdy. And old, although she knew the woman was probably older than she was. “And you’re Taylor’s friend?” Martika asked.

“I know,” Sarah said. “I have trouble believing it myself.”

Martika laughed, a leonine laugh that matched the rest of her. Sarah was torn between admiring her and being intimidated by her. “So which room’d be mine?”

Sarah showed her. “I’d move the boxes, of course…”

“Oh, this would work out fine, just fine,” Martika pronounced on the spot. “Great! So when could I move in?”

“Um…” Apparently, this was more of a done deal than she’d expected. “Don’t you want to ask any questions about me?”

Martika looked at her, a sarcastic, wry expression on her very expressive face. “You look like…” She paused, as if editing her words. “Let’s just say I trust you to pay your bills on time, sweetie, and leave it at that.”

Sarah knew that wasn’t a compliment, but didn’t know what she could say to counter it. “I might need a little time to think about it.”

Martika looked at her, curious and amused. “You don’t like me, do you?”

“I don’t even know you,” Sarah protested. “How could I not like you?”

“I can just tell that about people. They get this poochy-faced little look that says, ‘I may not know you, but you’re definitely not my kind of people.’ You haven’t gotten that look yet,” Martika said, ducking her head to meet the level of Sarah’s face, “but you’re working on it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sarah said, even though she did. “I just…I’m new to L.A.”

Martika laughed. “I’d guessed, sweetie.”

Sarah glanced around, trying to buy some time. She needed a roommate, but she’d already made one snap decision out of desperation this week. She was starting to develop a habit.

“It’s just that I’m very linear,” she said slowly, looking at Martika. “I get the feeling you’re very…organic.”

Martika stared at her, then burst out into another round of raucous laughter. “Oh, sweetie, if you keep popping out with gems like that, I may have to live here!” She chuckled. “No wonder you’re a friend of Taylor’s. You’re so cute, I could eat you up with a spoon.”

Sarah wasn’t sure how to handle that comment. Things were already getting less linear by the minute.

“This will work out perfectly,” Martika said with a flourish. “I’ll have Taylor and the boys move me in on Saturday. Do you have a spare key?”

“Wait a second. I hadn’t decided yet.”

Martika shot her a skeptical look. “You’ve got rent on the first, right?”

“Well, yes.”

“Where else were you thinking of looking for a roommate?”

Sarah fidgeted. “I hadn’t…well, I’m still in preliminary stages,” she hedged.

“In other words, you don’t know,” Martika said, cutting through her excuse. “Let me fill you in—if you advertise in the L.A. Times, you’re going to get the crème de la crème of freak shows. If you go through an agency, you’ll get the freaks that are willing to pay some clerk at a Mailboxes Etc. to put their name on a list…and you’ll have to pay to find them. If you’re going for someone who’s willing to go month to month, you’ll get somebody who probably likes to turn young Asian boys into patio furniture in his spare time.” She did a slow twirl. “Or, you can get me—who’s vouched for by Taylor.”

Sarah winced.

“I don’t even really think it’s a question, do you?” Martika said mildly.

Sarah sighed. “I…er. I’ve got the spare key somewhere.”

Martika smiled sweetly. “Wise choice.”

Sarah smiled back uncertainly. Glad one of us thinks so.

“Well,” Martika murmured, “it’s not much, but it’s home.”

“I think we moved you in record time,” Taylor drawled, surveying her new digs with the air of one bored with the process. “What, five hours?”

“I’ve unloaded a lot since last time.”

“You mean, besides Andre?”

“Let’s not be bitchy,” Martika chastised, then stuck out her tongue at him before arranging her peacock feathers in a tall wooden vase in the corner. This looked much more homey. The way this Sarah chick had decorated—ick. It looked like corporate housing. She was surprised the girl hadn’t put a Sanitized For Your Protection banner across the toilet.

Kit glanced around, muttering incoherently.

“Sorry?”

He half smiled at her. She didn’t think he ever full smiled. “I said, there’s no place like home.”

“Wizard of Oz,” Taylor said promptly.

Martika simply rolled her eyes. “You two still playing that game?”

Kit shrugged. Taylor started babbling. Martika grabbed her last moving box, labeled Private in big block print, and moved to the bedroom. This was always the last part of her unpacking ritual—the nightstands. She wondered how Andre would fare tonight, getting his bed out of storage, since the three pieces of furniture that she had since she was twenty-two was a California king bed and two nightstands. Girl’s gotta have her necessities, she thought. She loaded up the nightstand on the right of the bed with condoms and a variety of oils and other lubricants, her handcuffs, and a few other knickknacks she’d picked up along the way. The one on the right was always for guests. The one on the left…she put her chicken-scratch-filled journal, loaded with the most disgustingly self-pitying poetry ever spouted on earth, a few Chunky bars, several boxes of cigarettes, a vibrator and a pack of gum.

That drawer wasn’t for anybody else.

She closed it with a nod, and headed out. The guys were on the couch. Sarah was giving them glasses of lemonade. How very Martha Stewart, Martika thought with a grin.

This was already weird. She hadn’t roomed with a girl in longer than she could remember—and a girl like this, the native version of F.O.B. She supposed Sarah was F.O.F… Fresh Outta Fairfax. Or whatever the name of her Podunk town was.

“Well, looks like I’m all settled in,” Martika said.

Sarah was nodding as she looked around, clearly bewildered. “It’s…more than I expected.”