“Right, boss,” Josh said insolently, and hung up.
“Romania?” Victory asked as Wendy hurried to the table.
“I’m sorry. I’ve got a five o’clock flight to Paris . . .”
“Don’t worry about it, sweetie. You’ve got to work. Just go,” Victory urged. “I’ll get the check. Call me from Romania . . .”
“I love you,” Wendy said, giving Victory a quick, tight hug. If only Shane could be as understanding as her girlfriends, she thought, grabbing her bag and hurrying out the door.
Victory got up and strolled over to Lyne’s booth. The fact that Lyne was having lunch with George Paxton presented an interesting opportunity to do a little investigating on Wendy’s behalf, which was too tempting to ignore. The story of how George Paxton had tried to buy Parador four years ago and was outbid by Splatch-Verner was well known, but what wasn’t general information was how George’s supposed “best friend,” Selden Rose, had gone behind George’s back to engineer the deal, thinking that he would get Parador for himself. It hadn’t worked out that way—Victor Matrick, the CEO of Splatch-Verner and Selden’s boss, had gotten wind of Selden’s double-dealing, and while he was happy to acquire Parador, Victor abhorred disloyalty, and figured that if Selden could do in his best friend, he’d eventually try to do in Victor himself. And so, as a little reminder to Selden not to try such tactics at home, Victor had brought in an outsider to run Parador—Wendy. Nico had somehow gotten this information out of Victor Matrick himself, when she and Seymour had taken a secret trip to Victor’s house in St. Barts, and had naturally told Wendy and Victory. And while George and Selden had supposedly made up (obviously they felt that all was fair in love and business), it was possible that the whole Parador incident was still a source of irritation to George. After all his wheeling and dealing, neither he nor Selden had gotten Parador—and on top of that, they’d been trumped by a woman.
“Hiya kiddo,” Lyne said, pulling Victory down for a kiss.
“Enjoying your lunch?” she asked.
“Always do,” Lyne said. “But not as much as George enjoys his. George is getting fat, isn’t he?”
“Now, come on . . .” George Paxton said, in a voice that sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a pit.
“Who were you having lunch with?” Lyne asked, playing right into her hands.
“Wendy Healy,” she said nonchalantly, looking innocently at George Paxton and wondering how he was going to react to this information. “The head of Parador?”
George gave Victory what she imagined was his best poker face. So it did still bother him, she thought gleefully, which might turn out to be a useful piece of information at some point.
“You know Wendy Healy, don’t you, George?” Lyne Bennett asked casually, exchanging a quick conspiratorial look with Victory. Lyne, she thought, was probably enjoying this as much as she was, because it gave him an opportunity to give George, who was the richer of the two men by several hundred million, a little dig.
“Oh yeah,” George Paxton nodded, as if he’d decided to recognize Wendy’s name after all. “How is Wendy doing?”
“She’s doing great,” Victory said, with the kind of firm enthusiasm that indicates there is no other possibility. “The word is that Parador is going to have several Oscar nominations this year.” She hadn’t, in fact, heard any such information, but in these kinds of situations with these kinds of men it was necessary to paint the rosiest picture possible. And besides, Wendy had said that they probably would get some Oscar nominations, which was close enough to the truth. Plus, it was worth it just to see the startled look on George Paxton’s face. Obviously he’d been hoping Wendy would fail.
“Well, tell her I said ‘hi,’ ” George said.
“I sure will,” Victory said nicely. And then, sensing that she had done as much as she could with the situation, she excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.
Chapter 8
WENDY COLLAPSED ONTO HER SEAT IN FIRST CLASS, her heart still racing from the run down the Jetway. She looked at her watch. There were still a good ten minutes before take-off. Even though she kept telling herself that the plane wouldn’t leave without her as she ran through the airport, another voice kept asking What if it does? What if it does? over and over again like a mocking, six-year-old child. If it does, I’m fucked, she yelled back at the voice. It meant that she wouldn’t get to the location until tomorrow night, and that was just too late . . .
At least Josh hadn’t screwed up on the special services person, she thought, taking a deep breath. The special services person was a very sweet lady who never lost her cool, not even when she could see that Wendy was about to lose it with the customs official who had to stamp her passport. He kept flipping through the pages like he was looking for criminal evidence. “You travel a lot,” he said. “What’s the nature of your journey?” For a moment she stared at him blankly, wondering if it were possible to explain to him that an A-list director was deliberately killing her $125 million movie, and would probably end up finishing her career as well. But she guessed this might be going a little too far. “I’m a movie executive,” she said coldly.
Movies! Christ, it was the magic word. Instead of being insulted, the guy’s attitude suddenly changed. “Oh yeah?” he asked eagerly. “Do you know Tanner Cole?”
Wendy gave him a tight smile. “He tried to make out with me on my thirty-ninth birthday in a closet,” she considered saying, which was the truth, but instead she murmured, “He’s one of my best friends.”
And then she and the special services lady (she never did get her name) got into one of those motorized airport golf cart things, and drove at what felt like about two miles an hour to the gate. Wendy thought about asking if they could go faster, but somehow that seemed just a little too rude, even for her. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help herself from looking at her watch every thirty seconds, in between leaning over the side of the cart and waving at people to get out of the way.
“Champagne, Ms. Healy?” the flight attendant asked.
Wendy glanced up, startled, suddenly aware of how she must look. She was panting like a dog, her hair had come half out of its scrunchy, and her glasses were literally hanging off her face. She had to get a new pair one of these days, she reminded herself, pushing them up onto the bridge of her nose.
“You look like you could use some,” the attendant said, as if they were both in on the joke.
Wendy smiled up at her, suddenly grateful for what felt like, compared to the rest of her day, an enormous act of kindness. “That would be so nice . . .”
“Dom Perignon okay?”
Oh yes, Wendy thought, leaning back against the seat and taking deep breaths to calm herself. In a second, the flight attendant was back with a glass of champagne perched on a silver tray. “Will you be dining with us tonight, or do you prefer to sleep?”
“Sleep,” Wendy said, suddenly exhausted.
The flight attendant walked to the front of the plane and returned carrying a sleeper set—basically a large, long-sleeved T-shirt and baggy sweatpants—wrapped in plastic.
“Thank you,” Wendy said. She looked around. There were ten sleeper seats in first class, most of them occupied by businessmen already sporting their sleep suits. It looked like a giant slumber party except that everyone was pointedly ignoring each other. She picked up her valise—an old black leather Cole Haan bag with a small rip in the top where the bag had been “accidentally” cut by a customs man in Morocco—and went into one of the toilets.
She ripped open the plastic bag, and took off her jacket and blouse. She was still wearing the Armani pantsuit she’d put on that morning for work, and would probably be wearing for the next three days. She slipped the top of the sleeper suit over her head, thankful to have it. She’d had about three minutes to pack, and on the way to the airport remembered that she’d forgotten pajamas. That meant she’d be wearing the sleeper suit for the next three days as well. It would be cold in the Romani
an mountains; they were shooting all the winter scenes there. She’d better try to get some heavy socks in the Paris airport . . .
Her cell phone rang.
“Mommy.” Tyler’s little six-year-old voice was stern.
“Yes, darling?” she asked, shrugging her shoulder to keep the phone next to her ear while she unzipped her pants.
“How come Magda gets a pony and I don’t?”
“Do you want a pony?” Wendy asked. “A pony is a lot of work. It’s not like the Blue Drake. You have to feed it and, uh, walk it,” she said, thinking, is that right? Did you have to walk ponies like dogs? Jesus, how did she end up allowing this pony business anyway?
“I can feed it, Mommy,” Tyler said softly. “I’ll take good care of it.” His little voice was so seductive he could have easily given Tanner Cole a run for his money, Wendy thought.
Her heart broke at the thought that she was leaving him, if only for a few days. “Why don’t we decide this weekend, honey? When we go to Pennsylvania. You can look at the ponies and if you still want one, we can talk about it.”
“Are you really coming back, Mommy?”
She closed her eyes. “Of course I’m coming back, darling. I’ll always come back. You know that.” Maybe just not this weekend, she thought, feeling horribly guilty.
“Is Daddy leaving again?”
“No, Tyler. Daddy’s staying.”
“But he left before.”
“He’s staying now, Tyler. He won’t leave again.”
“You promise?”
“Yes, darling. I promise. Is Daddy there? Can you put him on the phone?”
Shane came on the line. “Did you make the plane?”
“Yes, Angel,” Wendy said, in the sweet and deliberately nonchallenging tone in which she was now supposed to address him. Dr. Vincent, the marriage counselor Shane had employed and whose clientele consisted mostly of movie stars and sports stars (she not only made house calls, she would also fly anywhere in the world, provided she was given private or first-class air travel), said that Wendy’s sharp tone of voice often made Shane feel like an employee. Therefore, one of Wendy’s “exercises” was to speak to Shane as if he were “her dearest love in all the world.” This was annoying, especially as she’d done everything in her power to make Shane happy in the last ten years, but she didn’t have the heart to argue. At this point, it was easier to give in—to Shane and Dr. Vincent—and try to get on with her movie.
“And how are you?” she asked nicely, even though she’d just seen him two hours ago when she was frantically packing in the apartment.
“Okay,” Shane said, in his usual, slightly put-upon voice. And then he must have remembered Dr. Vincent’s dictate as well, because he added, “My love.”
“I just want to tell you how much I appreciate your being there for our children,” Wendy said. “I couldn’t do it without you.”
“And I want to thank you for working so hard for our family,” Shane replied, as if he were reading this response off a cue card. As part of their “marriage rehab,” Dr. Vincent had provided them with two sets of cards with thankful sentiments of appreciation, which they were supposed to work into every conversation. One pile was labeled “provider” and the other “caretaker.”
“Normally, the man gets the provider cards,” Dr. Vincent said, with a bright, chirpy smile, revealing veneers that resembled large Chiclets. Dr. Vincent, who, during their first session, had proudly announced that she was fifty-seven years old, had the jarring features of someone who has had too much bad plastic surgery. “But in this case, I think Wendy should get the provider cards. If this makes you uncomfortable, Shane, we can talk about it,” she said, patting Shane’s arm with a hand that resembled the claw of a small painted bird. “But I find that these days, I’m giving more and more women the provider cards, so you’re certainly not in the minority.”
“I do do most of the work around here,” Shane said pointedly. “I’m a twenty-four-seven dad.”
Wendy did not point out that Mrs. Minniver and the housecleaner did most of the heavy lifting.
“That’s good, Shane,” Dr. Vincent said, nodding her approval. “Acceptance, Appreciation, and Affection—those are our triple A’s of marriage. And what do they add up to?” she asked. “Awesomeness!”
Wendy cringed. She had looked over at Shane, hoping that he was finding Dr. Vincent as ridiculous as she was, and that this could become one of their private jokes. But Shane was staring intently at Dr. Vincent with the triumphant demeanor of a person who expects at any moment to be proven right. Apparently, in the last year, somehow their marriage had moved out of the private joke phase and into the stage of personal hell.
And now, standing in the tiny airplane toilet in her stockinged feet with her pants down around her ankles, she said, “I appreciate your appreciation, Angel.”
“Good,” he said petulantly, like a child who has just decided to concede a fight.
She sighed. “Shane, can we drop this stuff? Can’t we go back to being the way we were before?”
“That wasn’t working for me, Wendy. You know that,” he said, with a warning edge in his voice. “Will you be back on Saturday? It’s important.”
Commitment, Consultation, and Concession, Wendy thought, reminding herself of the three C’s to a cheery marriage that Dr. Vincent had talked about in their last session. “I’ll do my best,” she said. “I know it’s important.” She was supposed to leave it at that, and then show her commitment to its importance by being there. But goddammit, Shane had sprung this trip to Pennsylvania on her with no Consultation—on purpose, she thought, as he knew how crucial this movie was to her career.
“But the movie is important too, Shane,” she said, trying not to come off too strong and sounding whiny instead. Whining, Wavering, and Weakness—the no-no’s that make your marriage worse, she thought, hearing Dr. Vincent’s words in her head.
“Fine,” Shane said breezily, almost as if he’d been hoping for this response. He hung up.
“I’ll call you tomorrow. As soon as the plane lands,” Wendy said, into dead air.
She turned off the phone and tossed it into her valise.
She went back to her seat and sat down. Don’t think about it, she told herself, rifling through her bag. There’s nothing you can do. She took out a red silk sleep mask (a Christmas present from Magda last year), a small metal box containing wax earplugs, and a bottle of prescription sleeping pills, which she arranged in the small compartment in her armrest.
The plane pulled away from the Jetway with a small lurch. She leaned across the seat and pressed her forehead against the window. The plastic felt pleasantly cool. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She had seven hours of freedom ahead of her—seven blissful hours in which she couldn’t be reached by phone or e-mail . . .
She suddenly heard Shane’s voice in her head. “Without me, everything would fall apart. That’s why I left. To show Wendy what it would be like without me.”
He had revealed this startling piece of information to Dr. Vincent at the beginning of their first session. Wendy had only been able to smile sickly at this comment. The fact was, Shane was right.
Which she’d had to acknowledge the night she came home and found Tyler with a pile of poop in his underpants.
The plane sped down the runway and lifted off the ground, engines buzzing. The buzz became a low hum. “Pooooo. Pooooo,” they hummed, mocking her. The flight attendant brought her another glass of champagne. Wendy took one of the sleeping pills, swallowing it with a fizzy gulp. She pressed the buttons to lower the seat into the flat position, put two pillows under her head, arranged a puffy duvet cover on top of herself and closed her eyes.
“Pooooooo. Pooooooo,” she heard.
A dozen thoughts immediately crowded into her brain in no particular order: Selden Rose, Ragged Pilgrims, Bob Wayburn, Shane (and his increasingly weird behavior), Dr. Vincent, a spotted pony, Victory and Lyne Bennett (what the hell wa
s up with that?), the poop in Tyler’s pants . . .
That was really awful. He had taken off his pajama bottoms, and the poop had squished out the sides of his underpants and was all over his sheets. Tyler apparently hadn’t gone to the bathroom all day (he’d been holding on to it, Dr. Vincent explained, in an attempt to hold on to himself), and when he lay down in bed, had finally lost control.
That had been the worst day of all, the apotheosis of the result of Shane’s departure.
In the afternoon, the dailies for the first two days of shooting for Ragged Pilgrims had finally come in, three days behind schedule already, and she’d absolutely had to screen them. They weren’t good—four hours of shit that would probably have to be reshot (at a cost of half a million dollars—three days into shooting, and they were already overbudget)—and she’d spent the next two hours on frantic calls to both Romania and the Coast. She left the office at nine with nothing resolved and the sinking feeling that five years of work was about to unravel, and she had walked into more chaos at home. Tyler was standing on top of his bed, screaming; Magda was trying to drown him out by watching a reality show on plastic surgery turned up to full volume; Mrs. Minniver was in Tyler’s room with Chloe clinging to her leg, crying. And the super was knocking on the door—there were complaints from the downstairs neighbor.
Tyler’s room reeked of shit, and for a moment, Wendy thought she might vomit. Mrs. Minniver disengaged Chloe and handed her over to Wendy. “Young Tyler has had an accident in his pants,” she said accusingly, as if this were somehow Wendy’s fault, which, she supposed, it was. “People shouldn’t have so many children if they can’t take care of them. You’d better get your husband back, dear.”
“I want Daddy!” Tyler screamed.
Wendy looked at Mrs. Minniver as if to say, “You heartless woman, now look what you’ve done!” But Mrs. Minniver was not about to take any of the blame. She pinched her lips together and shook her head, secure in her belief that Wendy was a bad mother and that was that.