Almost immediately, she thought about getting back into the elevator, but the doors closed quickly behind her. What was she doing? She hated the executive dining room. The thinking behind it was that it would foster casual camaraderie among Splatch-Verner executives, but Wendy always found it as terrifying as a high school cafeteria, with its not-so-subtle distinctions of rank and sex. You could insist that people were equal, but left to their own devices, human beings regressed to the cliquishness of teenagers.
The elevator door opened and two executives from the advertising department got out. They nodded at Wendy and she nodded back. Now she really was acting like a teenager. She couldn’t just stand there indecisively. She was going to have to go in.
You can do this, she said, following the two executives down the hallway. From now on, your life is going to be about taking on all kinds of new challenges.
Like eating alone, she thought bitterly. She wished she’d at least brought a script. Then she wouldn’t have to sit there by herself like a geek.
The dining room was supposed to resemble a bistro in Paris. The walls were of dark-paneled wood, the tables covered with red-and-white-checked tablecloths. You could order salad and drinks from a waiter, but otherwise you had to go through a cafeteria line for the hot buffet, which featured some kind of chicken, a fish (usually salmon), and a roast. Wendy put her bag on an empty table in the corner by the window, and, feeling as if everyone were watching her, got into the line.
No one was watching her, of course, and the dining room wasn’t even very crowded. She picked up a wooden tray, and putting a plate on top of it, suddenly found herself indulging in one of her favorite new fantasies. What if, one of these days, she found Shane in his new, run-down walk-up apartment (which, she suspected, she was somehow paying for, although he hadn’t actually asked her for the rent money—yet) and discovered him in bed with another woman? She wouldn’t kill Shane herself, she would hire someone to do it. There was a mafia guy who had been a consultant on one of her movies two years ago, and she could easily look up his phone number without arousing suspicion. She would call the guy from a pay phone in Penn Station, and ask him to meet her at the Sbarro’s. She would also wear a wig, but it would have to be a really good wig—bad wigs stuck out. People always remembered someone in a bad wig. But what color? Blond, she thought. But not white blond. It would have to be something natural. A brownish blond, maybe . . .
A jolt of her tray suddenly brought her back to earth. Someone had bumped her tray. She immediately looked down and saw a man’s hand resting against the edge of her tray. It was smooth and well-formed and slightly tanned, and it suddenly made her think of sex. Then she looked up and froze. The hand belonged to Selden Rose.
That was just typical! she thought. “Trying to run my tray off the road?” she asked rudely.
“Oh, Wendy,” he said, startled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was you.”
“So if you had known it was me, you wouldn’t have bumped my tray?”
“No,” he said. “I would have bumped it even harder. You can handle it.”
She gasped quietly. This was so extraordinary (Was he trying to flirt? Or was he blatantly threatening her?) that she didn’t know what to say.
She took a good look at him, instead. In the last month, he must have grown his hair, because it was longer than usual and tucked behind his ears. He smiled. “I guess we’re both here for the same thing,” he said.
We are? Wendy thought. What was he talking about? He actually looked cute. She never in a million years thought she would flirt with Selden Rose, but she found herself responding, “Oh? And what might that be?”
“Fresh meat,” Selden said. He leaned toward her, speaking in a low voice close to her ear. “It’s one of the best kept secrets in New York. Thursdays. Splatch-Verner executive dining room.” He paused. “Roast Beef Special. Direct from the Old Man’s cattle ranch in Colorado.”
“Really?” Wendy asked, finding herself actually impressed and uncomfortably titillated. How was it that Selden Rose always knew these kinds of details and not her? And why was he being so friendly all of a sudden?
Ha! Who was she kidding, she thought. Everyone who got to their level was more than capable of being utterly charming when they wanted something. Not to be outdone, she said, “Thank you, Selden. I’ll keep your suggestion in mind.”
“My pleasure, Wendy. I’m always happy to turn people on to gastronomical delights.”
Wendy looked at him sharply. Was there a sexual innuendo there? He raised his eyebrows and smiled as if there might be, and a couple of responses along the lines of “other possible delights” flitted through her head. But she decided to say nothing. Selden Rose was the enemy, and couldn’t be trusted.
The conversation seemed to have petered out, so they continued through the line without speaking, the silence growing heavier and more uncomfortable. When she finally got to the end of the line, she was actually relieved.
She sat down at her table, awkwardly unfolding her napkin and putting it on her lap. The napkin slipped to the floor, and she bent over self-consciously to pick it up. As she did so, she saw the legs of a man’s suit pants coming toward her. Selden Rose. Again!
“Do you mind if I join you?” he asked. “I wanted to talk to you about the corporate meeting.”
This was perfectly reasonable, and she couldn’t exactly be a bitch to him for no reason. “Sure,” she said, waving the rescued napkin at the chair across from her. Selden sat down. She suddenly found herself smiling encouragingly at him, as if she was pleased to be having lunch with him. While he was busy arranging his tray, she stole another look at him. She’d always pictured Selden Rose as a bit of a schlump, but now she wasn’t so sure. Maybe it was how he was dressed. His tailored navy suit, worn with an open white dress shirt, screamed casual power. She picked up her fork. “You don’t need an excuse to sit with me, Selden,” she said.
“That’s good,” he said, sitting down across from her. “By the way, I wasn’t looking for an excuse. I just didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Really,” Wendy said, thinking that he’d shown no such compunctions for her feelings in the past. “This is a first.”
“Aw, Wendy,” he said, looking at her as if she’d gotten him all wrong. He raised his hand and signaled to the waiter. “I’ve been meaning to call you about Tony Cranley.”
Wendy felt a spark of inexplicable anger. Nearly everything seemed to be pissing her off these days. “Tony?” she asked, followed by a harsh, dismissive laugh.
“We all know he’s an asshole,” Selden said smoothly. “But a very hot one.”
“Is he?” Wendy asked.
“Isn’t he?” Selden said. “I thought he was the kind of guy you women go crazy over.”
Wendy gave him a disgusted look. Was Selden trying to tell her that he was an asshole himself, and that she should, therefore, like him? Or was this one of those tests? Was he trying to say that if she liked assholes, she wouldn’t like him? What was going on? Selden knew she thought he was an asshole. Or did he? “Men are so stupid,” Wendy said.
“Don’t you like assholes?” Selden asked cockily.
Was he, somehow, referring to Shane? No, she thought. He couldn’t know about that already. He was probably just being flippant. Most likely he was simply being . . . an asshole.
“Don’t you like gold-digging bitches?” she snapped.
This didn’t, however, elicit the response she’d been anticipating. Instead of bantering back, Selden put down his fork and looked out the window. He actually looked . . . sad. “Selden?” she said cautiously.
“I was married to one,” he said simply.
“Oh,” Wendy said, taken aback. “I’m sorry.” She suddenly recalled hearing vague rumors about some crazy woman Selden Rose had been married to, but Selden never talked about her.
He shrugged. “That’s life.”
“Yeah,” she said, thinking about Shane. “Tell me about it.??
?
“Trouble in paradise?” he asked.
“You could say that,” she said vaguely. Her throat felt tight. She forced a smile.
“I’ve been there,” he said. “It’s not easy.”
She shook her head. Jesus Christ. She was going to cry. And all because Selden Rose was being nice to her. Which was, in itself, a reminder that the world was not all bad. But that Selden Rose should be the bearer of this good news . . . Well, it should have been enough to make her laugh.
“Listen,” he said. “I know this doesn’t help, but he must be a complete fuck-wit.”
“Fuck-wit?” Wendy said, jolted out of her thoughts by the word. “I haven’t heard that since the seventies,” she said, slightly disdainfully.
“I’m bringing it back,” he said. “It’s too good a word to lose.”
“Oh, really?” she said. “Do you have more words you’re planning to bring back?”
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked gently, cutting into his roast beef.
She pressed her lips together. She did want to talk about it. Selden was a man, and sometimes men had insights into these situations. But he was also her co-worker, and one who could probably not be trusted. But was this how she was going to live her life, never trusting anyone again? At some point, he would find out anyway.
“It looks like my husband is divorcing me,” she said finally.
“You don’t sound convinced,” he said. Their eyes met. Damn. There it was again. That sexual undercurrent. She couldn’t be imagining it. And then—she was quite sure his eyes flickered to her breasts. She was wearing a white shirt with a cashmere cardigan. The shirt was tight, and her breasts were pushed out in a push-up bra. She hadn’t worn the bra on purpose. It was her only clean bra. That and a pair of large, pink cotton panties.
“It’s not, um, final or anything. I haven’t even found a lawyer.” She looked down at her plate, pretending to be interested in her roast beef. He said nothing, but when she glanced back up at him, his eyes seemed to be filled with understanding.
“Still hoping that everything will work out?” he asked.
“It’s just that . . . I don’t understand any of it,” she said helplessly. She sat back in her chair.
“What does he say?”
“He won’t say anything. Other than the fact that it’s over.”
“Counseling?” Selden asked.
“He refuses. Says there’s no point.”
“In his mind, there probably isn’t.”
“We were together for twelve years,” Wendy said.
Selden frowned sympathetically. “Geez, Wendy. I’m sorry. So you basically grew up together.”
“Well . . .” She emitted a short, bitter laugh. “You could say I grew up. He didn’t.”
Selden nodded wisely. “I don’t mean to pry, but what did he do?”
Normally, she would have been defensive on this point. She would have said that Shane was a screenwriter (leaving out the word “failed”) and was working hard, opening a restaurant. But suddenly, she just didn’t care anymore. “Nothing,” she said. “He didn’t really do a goddamn thing.”
“That’s something I’ve never understood,” Selden said.
Wendy laughed. “My mother never understood it either.”
Selden’s lips curled into a sardonic smile. She’d never noticed his mouth before. His lips were plump and curved, like two reddish-pink pillows. I could kiss that mouth, she suddenly thought.
“I know what you’re going through,” he said. He ran his hand over his head, pushing a piece of hair behind his ear. He smiled. There was another flash of sexual tension. Was it because she was suddenly available? Was she giving off some kind of scent? “You feel like your insides are filled with broken glass,” he said.
She nodded. Yes, that was exactly how she felt. It was such a relief to know that she wasn’t alone. She wasn’t a freak.
“It’s hard, but this is what you have to do,” he said. “You have to make a decision and stick with it. And then move on. No matter how bad you feel, even if he wants to come back, and he will, you stick to your decision. Once someone has betrayed you, they’ll always betray you again.”
She said nothing, staring into his eyes, and for a second, she held her breath. Then he picked up his fork. “That’s a lesson I learned the hard way,” he said.
“You always think life is going to get easier when you get older, but it doesn’t,” she said, trying to act like everything was normal.
“No, it doesn’t, does it?” he said. He looked up, and gave her a smile that was so filled with sadness, she nearly gasped.
She took a bite of her roast beef instead. Chewing self-consciously, she thought about how crazy it was, that you could think you knew a person and be totally wrong. Selden Rose had experienced pain. Why had she never considered that before? And he probably felt the same way about her.
It could be her imagination, but it struck her that she and Selden were really very much alike.
What would it be like to be married to Selden Rose? she wondered.
They finished their lunch, and went down in the elevator together.
Selden started talking about a TV show he was working on. Wendy nodded enthusiastically, but she wasn’t really listening. What if, she wondered, by some bizarre twist of fate, she and Selden got together? Before this, they always hated each other, but what if it had been due to the fact that they were secretly attracted to each other? You did hear about these kinds of things happening. Mostly in movies, of course. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen in real life.
She bit the inside of her lip. If it was true, it would make the whole Shane fiasco make sense. Everybody said that it took years to get over a divorce, but what if it didn’t? What if you met the next right person right away and began a new, happy, better life? Where was it written that you had to suffer? She was a good person. She was loving. Why shouldn’t she have the big, loving, giving life she’d always dreamed of?
The elevator slid to a stop. “Thanks for lunch,” Selden said casually.
Was there a hint of something more in his voice? she wondered. “No problem,” she said.
And then Selden did something. He took a step forward and gave her a hug.
She stiffened. Her breasts were squished right up against his chest. Could he feel them too? Oh no. What if he got a hard-on?
What if he didn’t?
“If you need a lawyer, call me,” he said.
She nodded, her eyes wide open with shock. She started to take a step back, but a piece of Selden’s mysterious new, long hair got caught in her glasses. She jerked her head to the side and her mouth practically landed on his neck.
“I’m sorry . . .” she murmured, quickly pulling back. Her glasses fell off and landed on the floor.
Selden bent down and picked up her glasses, handing them to her with a shake of his head. “It’s my fault,” he said, brushing back that lock of hair. Selden Rose didn’t have hair like that before. Had he had it straightened? she wondered curiously.
She replaced the glasses on her nose and their eyes met.
There it was again! Sex!
Thankfully, the elevator door opened and she got out.
She walked down the hallway, her heart pounding in her throat. What had just happened? Something had, she was sure of it. And with Selden Rose! She must really be going insane. She was a grown woman—the president of Parador Pictures, for Christ’s sake—and here she was, acting like a silly schoolgirl. But that was the unavoidable part about being a woman, the part no one really understood. No matter how old you got, despite the fact that “you knew better,” you could still be reduced to a giggling teenager when faced with a sexy man at a vulnerable moment. It was about hope, she supposed.
Hope, and the all-too-human belief that it was possible to go back and try again, she thought, walking into her office. And maybe get it right for a change.
Chapter 7
THE PAST THI
RTY HOURS HAVE GONE AS FOLLOWS:
Wake up and realize that the fall fashion show is now sixteen days, eleven hours, and thirty-two minutes away. Feel urge to throw up but don’t. Run to studio—still haven’t washed hair but don’t care. Take taxi, knocking businessman with umbrella out of the way. Make daily early-morning call to Nico. Panic in voice. “What’s it all about?” “Peter Pans,” Nico says calmly. “Peter Pan collars?” I gasp. This will not be a good look for fall. “No, us. Women who act like Peter Pans. We refuse to grow up.” “But we run companies and have children,” I say, even though I don’t have actual children but have employees instead, which might be same thing. “We still want to run away,” Nico says. Wonder what she’s talking about. Am worried about Nico, but no chance to get into the running away issue as both get other calls.
Morning: Stare despondently at fabrics purchased at Première Vision in Paris last September. What the hell was I thinking? Every other designer purchased leopard print—again—but did not “feel” leopard for fall. Other designers also purchased lime green felt and pink wools, but am not “feeling” colors for fall. Too late anyway. Must work with fabrics already purchased or company will certainly go out of business from excess expense. Lie down on floor and put hands over eyes. Assistant discovers me in this position but is not surprised—is “used to” crazy behavior on part of boss. Get up and stare at fabrics again.
Midday: Run to annual luncheon at New York City Ballet. Shouldn’t go (shouldn’t do anything but suffer horribly for art), but go anyway, seeking inspiration. Annual ballet luncheon filled with the most powerful professional women in the city: the senator from New York, two major judges, bankers, lawyers, television personalities, the “new” socialists (young socialite girls who work—now there’s a new one), the queen bees, the feministas (fifty-something women who don’t “do” fashion or their hair, and are so powerful they don’t care), the Prada wives (women who used to work, but married rich men and now have nannies and get facials all day), and the citizen girls (determined to get ahead and know that the ballet is now the place to do it) and everyone is wearing fur and leopard-print fabrics and their grandmother’s brooches (oh, I hate that trend) or else they’re doing pretty, pretty, pretty, which is pastel-colored dresses, skimming the body with unfinished hems everywhere unraveling (which could be a metaphor for fashion right now—it’s unraveling and not meant to last beyond one or two wearings), and I keep thinking this is all wrong. But what is right?