“What’s the meeting about?”
“How should I know?” she said.
“You’re running off to a meeting in Paris—leaving the Bahamas on a Sunday morning and ruining the weekend—flying overnight to get to some meeting you don’t even know what it’s about?”
“That’s how I do things, Lyne,” she said.
“It’s stupid.”
She shrugged and kept packing. What she didn’t want to tell Lyne was that at that moment, she would have used just about any excuse to get away from him, his schedule, and his damn “relaxing” weekend in the Bahamas.
“Do you want to know what your problem is, Lyne?” she asked. “You’re so afraid of intimacy that you have to schedule every minute of your life. You can’t even sit down and have a conversation like a normal person.”
“I’m afraid of intimacy?” he asked, outraged. “You’re the one who’s running away to some stupid meeting in Paris.”
Now it was her turn to be furious. She turned on him, her face flushed and her heart beating rapidly in her chest. “It’s not a ‘stupid meeting,’ okay? It’s my business. Just because I don’t make a billion dollars a year doesn’t mean that my business isn’t just as important as yours.” And she’d screamed this last bit so loudly that her throat closed up in protest.
“Jesus!” he said, taken aback. “Take it easy, kiddo. Take my plane to JFK if you want. It’s only about a four-hour round-trip. If you leave now, we can still get the wheels up at five . . .”
There it was again, she thought, irrationally, his schedule. “Don’t you get it?” she demanded, throwing a pair of underpants onto the floor in a fury. This dramatic gesture didn’t have quite the hoped-for impact, especially as the underpants merely fluttered to the floor and then just lay there, like a discarded tissue. “I don’t need your plane . . .”
“Suit yourself.” He shrugged and walked out of the room, the way he always did when things didn’t go his way.
When the taxi arrived to take her to the tiny airport, he’d already moved on to his next activity—snorkeling. And once again, standing on the tarmac in the sun, waiting for the rattly single-engine, five-passenger plane she’d managed to charter to Islip Airport on Long Island, she wished that she had been able to take Lyne up on his offer. But she just couldn’t. The charter cost $3,000, and then there was a $200 taxi ride to JFK, which got her there just in time to catch the six p.m. flight to Paris, for another $3,000. All together, that meeting in Paris had cost her close to $8,000, but it was worth it, especially after she came back and, running into Lyne at Michael’s again, said casually, “Well, it looks like B et C is going to make a huge offer for my company,” and he had nearly choked on his lamb chop . . .
The memory made her smile, and leaning forward to look in a mirror in the Sotheby’s viewing area, she turned her head from side to side, enjoying the way the diamond earclips caught the light. Maybe she should buy herself a little something to celebrate. Maybe these . . .
Her phone rang. “So,” Lyne said, as if picking up where he’d left off several minutes before, “I’m stuck in Washington for the night. Why don’t you hop on the plane and come down here for dinner?”
She sighed. “Lyne, I’m busy.”
“Doing what?”
“Living my life.”
“So you’re not going to come to Washington for dinner.”
“No.”
“Okay. Bye,” he said, and hung up.
Nico suddenly appeared, damp, disheveled, and breathless, her cheeks reddened as if she’d been running. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “I had something—”
“It’s okay. I’ve just been looking,” Victory said.
“Lyne?” Nico asked, taking in the cell phone that was still in Victory’s hand and her annoyed expression.
Victory shrugged and rolled her eyes. “He wanted me to fly down to Washington tonight to have dinner with him. I said no. I think it’s kind of hookerish, don’t you, being flown on some guy’s private jet just to have dinner with him?”
“Is it?” Nico asked. “I don’t know. I like those earrings.”
“They’re twenty-two thousand dollars,” Victory whispered, and handed the ear clips back to Ms. Smith.
They moved down the cases to the blue diamond, property of a gentleman. “I’m going to try that on,” Nico said suddenly.
“But you can’t afford—”
“You never know, Vic. We might be able to someday,” she said with confidence. She removed her fur coat and Ms. Smith came forward to unlock the case.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Ms. Smith said, removing the diamond from its stand. She held it up, suspended from a fine platinum chain. “Are you buying it for yourself?” she asked. “Or thinking of it as a present? From your husband, perhaps . . . ?
“God no,” Nico said quickly. And then she blushed. “My husband could never . . .”
Victory stared. She’d known Nico for years, but had no idea she had such a passion for jewelry. But she supposed you could learn new things about your friends every day.
“My husband doesn’t care about . . . jewelry,” Nico said, lifting up the back of her hair so that Ms. Smith could fasten the diamond around her neck.
“That’s the way it is these days, isn’t it?” Ms. Smith agreed. “We’re seeing more and more women buying jewelry for themselves. But it’s better that way. At least you can get what you want . . .”
“Exactly,” Nico said. She turned around to see her reflection in the mirror.
The diamond looked stunning against the white of Nico’s skin. It was a shame, Victory thought suddenly, that they weren’t richer, because the diamond was Nico—as cool and blue and as powerful as she was. That diamond belonged to Nico, Victory thought. It was too bad there was no way she could have it.
But just wearing the diamond, even for a minute, seemed to have restored Nico to her usual self, because in the next minute, she leaned toward Victory, and in her low, cool voice, she whispered casually, “By the way. I’m having an affair.”
Chapter 10
THE PHONE WAS RINGING FROM VERY FAR AWAY, possibly from another country.
At least, that’s how it sounded in Wendy’s dream. Then she realized that it wasn’t a dream, and the phone actually was ringing next to her head. It didn’t sound like the phone at home, however. And opening her eyes and looking around at the small, muted white room, she remembered that she wasn’t at home.
She was in the Parador corporate suite at the Mercer Hotel.
She was guilty of some terrible crime that she hadn’t committed, but which everyone else seemed to think she had. And then the horrifying events from the night before came rushing back at her: Shane was trying to divorce her . . .
Oh God! The phone. Maybe it was Shane calling to tell her that he’d made a huge mistake.
She lunged for the receiver, grabbing it with both hands. “Hello?” Her voice came out in a croak.
“Wendy Healy?” an enthusiastic, official-sounding man’s voice said. All that hit her was that it wasn’t Shane. She glanced at the clock. The digital readout read 5:02 a.m. in numbers that were probably as red as her eyes.
“Yes?”
“This is Roger Pomfret from the Academy Awards committee. Congratulations. The Spotted Pig has been nominated for six Oscars.”
“Thanks a lot,” she said groggily, and hung up.
Eeeeeeeee. She’d totally forgotten. It was nomination day for the Oscars. To make it really special, they called you at five a.m.
She fell back against the pillows. How did she feel about this? She put her hands over her eyes. I really do not care, she thought. Heresy!
She sat up and turned on the light. In the next few minutes, her cell phone was going to start ringing. And then she was going to have to be all excited and cheery. About exactly what, she wasn’t sure. She’d hung up on Roger Pomfret before he could even tell her what they’d been nominated for. Not that it made any differ
ence, really.
Brrrrrp. Her cell phone chirped from the chair where she’d tossed it at about one a.m. She had to pick it up, and she had to act normal. The bedroom was tiny—only about twelve feet square—and the chair was only a couple of feet away. She tried to reach out for the phone without getting out of bed, but the sheets were those luxurious hotel kind that can be slippery, and she fell onto the floor, bashing her knee.
Ow. Fuck! “Hello?”
“Congratulations!” said Jenny Cadine.
“Congratulations to you,” Wendy said, assuming that Jenny had gotten nominated for Best Actress.
“Isn’t it exciting? I’m so excited.”
“You deserve it. You did a great job.”
“And it was a romantic comedy too,” Jenny went on. “Normally, you don’t get nominated for those . . .”
Jenny, Wendy wanted to say, will you just shut up? You probably won’t win, anyway. “I know,” she said aloud. “It really is amazing.” She sat down on the side of the bed and rested her forehead in her fingers. She’d had, maybe, an hour of sleep last night. The exhaustion, combined with the stress, made her literally think she was going to vomit. “Congratulations, again,” she said, trying to wrap up the call.
“Are you home? Have you told Shane?”
“I’m at the Mercer,” she said hesitantly, her desire to share her terrible news overwhelming her common sense about keeping her mouth shut. Shit, she thought, why hadn’t she just lied and pretended that everything was normal? “There was a leak in the apartment . . .”
“I love the Mercer,” Jenny said. “Tell everyone there I said ‘Hi.’ And congratulations again.”
“Congratulations to you too.”
Jenny hung up and Wendy’s phone rang again. It was the director; apparently they’d been nominated for Best Picture as well.
She took several more phone calls, and when she looked at the clock, it said 5:45.
Was it too early to call Shane? Probably, but she didn’t care. She would wake him up. Let him suffer the way she was. Why should he be allowed to sleep when she couldn’t? Besides, after three hours of lying in bed agonizing over the situation, she’d decided that the best thing to do was to pretend that everything was normal—and then maybe it would be normal. And if things were normal, the first thing she would have done was to call Shane with the good news.
“Yeah?” he groaned into the phone.
“I just wanted you to know,” she said, her voice full of an edgy, false enthusiasm. “We’ve been nominated for six Oscars. For The Spotted Pig.”
“That’s good. For you,” Shane said. He sounded like he was trying to be happy for her, but she guessed that if he was, it was only because he thought it might neutralize her. If he thought she wasn’t going to put up a fight, he was in for a surprise. “And exactly when are you coming home?” she demanded.
“I told you,” he said wearily. “Maybe around seven or eight.”
That’s too late, she wanted to scream. Chloe needs to be in bed by seven . . . “I’ll meet you in front of the apartment,” she said.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he said warningly.
“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do, Shane Healy,” she shouted, suddenly losing her temper. “You cannot prevent me from being with my kids.” Something in her head, a blood vessel maybe, exploded, and sharp pain hit her behind the eyes.
“That’s not what—” Shane began, but she interrupted him. “I don’t know who is advising you or what they’re telling you, but they’ve made a huge mistake. I’m going to sue your ass so bad you’ll never see our kids again. Never . . .”
Shane hung up somewhere in the middle of her diatribe. She stared at the phone blankly. The doorbell rang.
“Who is it?” she asked, walking through the small living room to the door.
“Room service.”
“I didn’t order room service.”
“Wendy Healy?”
“Yes?”
“Room service. I’m just going to put this inside the door.”
Leave me alone! She opened the door.
A young man, so good-looking that you had to notice, she thought angrily, who probably worked at the hotel because he wanted to be an actor and figured this was a good place to make connections, was standing outside the door holding a tray on top of which was perched an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne. She could tell by the dark green label around the cork that it was Dom Perignon.
“Where should I put this?” he asked pleasantly.
She looked around the room in exasperation. Did he have any idea that it was six in the morning? “I don’t know. The coffee table, I guess.” He then made a great show of moving a small vase of flowers to a small table next to the couch. Could he be any slower? she wondered. He put the ice bucket down on the glass table, sliding a folded document to the side.
Oh Christ, she thought. She took a step forward and snatched up the document, shoving it into the pocket of her robe.
“There’s a card,” he said solicitously, handing her a small white envelope that was sitting on top of the tray.
“Thank you,” she said coldly, glaring at him.
He began arranging the white towel around the neck of the champagne. “Should I open this for you?”
“It’s six in the morning.”
“You never know,” he said, not getting the hint. “I mean, it’s a special day. You might want to get drunk. I know I would.”
I’m sure you would, she thought, looking him up and down. “I don’t drink,” she said pointedly. This was the problem with New York. Everyone was just too friendly and too familiar, especially in a place like the Mercer, which was basically a big party all the time. “Please,” she said, looking toward the door.
“I just wanted to say that I know who you are and I love your movies,” he gushed. “And congratulations on your nominations . . .”
“Thank you,” she said, mustering what felt like her last ounce of civility. She held open the door.
“Bye now,” the young man said.
“Bye-bye.” She let the door close behind him with a bang. Why did this always happen in life? When everything was falling apart in your personal life, suddenly your career was going great guns.
She shook her head, overcome with a wave of sadness that felt like a big, empty, smoky breath of air. She tore open the small envelope and read the card inside. “Dearest Wendy,” it said. “You are a star. I couldn’t have done it without you and love you madly. XXOO Jenny.”
Well, at least someone appreciated her, she thought. She tore the card up into pieces and watched as they fluttered into the wastepaper basket.
Then she went back into the bedroom and sat cross-legged on the bed, pulling up the white duvet comforter around her. She could feel the veins—or were they arteries?—pulsing on either side of her temples, like there was a percussion band in her head. She stared blankly at the far wall. This couldn’t really be happening. It couldn’t actually be real. It was impossible. Things like this didn’t happen, but people did say that when it came to divorce, people did crazy things.
Like locking your spouse out of the apartment and stealing the kids.
Now surely that was illegal.
She would call the police in Palm Beach and have Shane arrested for kidnapping.
She dialed Shane’s number. “What?” he said.
“I’m surprised you’re even answering your phone.”
“I’m not going to, in a minute.”
She almost broke down then, almost begged him to take her back, to give her a second chance. Just before she lost her nerve, however, she blurted out, “I’m going to have you arrested.”
“Oh Wendy. You’re crazy,” he said, as if she were the pitiful one.
“I am. I’m calling the police right now,” she said warningly.
“Go ahead. And are you going to have my parents arrested too?”
“That’s right. All of you Healys are going to jail
.” In the silence that followed, Wendy had an image of Shane and his parents, who were seventy years old and beginning to shrink, standing in a jail cell together. Shane’s mother would have an Hermès scarf wrapped around her neck, and his father would probably be in a Ralph Lauren navy blue blazer with gold buttons. They would be scared to death, just like she was.
“Oh, and Shane?” she said. “I hate you. I just want you to know that.”
“That’s nice, Wendy. Keep it up. It’ll make this whole process easier for me. Go ahead, have us arrested. I’m sure a judge will consider that sensible behavior.” He hung up. She threw her phone across the room, where it hit the wall with a loud crack. Now she’d probably broken her phone. She got out of bed to retrieve it and the document fell out of the pocket of her robe. She picked it up, the words jumping out at her like fingers poking into her eyes. “State of New York.” “Matrimonial Division.” “Abandonment.” “Hereby summoned to appear in court on April 14.”
Court? No, no, no, she thought, shaking her head. She was not going to any court at any time. Ever. She’d never even gotten a parking ticket, for Christ’s sake. She was a good girl. She was a good person, and good people did not go to court.
She was the president of Parador Pictures, and the president of Parador Pictures did not go to court either.
She picked up her cell phone. The case was cracked, but it still seemed to be working. Okay, she thought, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have Shane arrested. It would end up in the newspapers and it was still possible that this incident might blow over. But there was nothing to stop her from going down to Palm Beach and getting the kids herself. And if Shane still tried to keep her out of the house, she would bring the children to the Mercer Hotel. They could live here, with her, until she got Shane out of her life. The Mercer was a full-service hotel—they had dog walkers and, she believed, nannies. And if they didn’t, they would certainly get her one.
She dialed another number. “Hello, Josh,” she said, trying to make her voice sound as normal as possible.
“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Josh said.