Lipstick Jungle

  Glancing back at the newspaper, she stared at it in annoyance. It would have been so much better if there was nothing in the paper—no mention of this at all. Mike Harness would have to take the piece as a tip-off that his job wasn’t secure, and then would do everything in his power to solidify his position. And now, there was no denying the fact that she’d become some kind of threat. It was possible that Mike might even try to have her fired . . .

  “Here I am,” Katrina said, running down the stairs. Nico looked at Katrina with relief and smiled, not just because Katrina was finally ready to go, but also from the simple pleasure in knowing that there were ultimately more important things in her life than Victor Matrick and Mike Harness. Like most girls her age, Katrina was absorbed by her appearance, and “the girls,” as Nico liked to think of Katrina and her friends, were into a new designer called Tory Burch. Katrina was wearing bell-bottomed pants in a geometric orange-and-brown design, topped by a tight-fitting brown cashmere sweater, under which was layered a yellow silk shirt. She had Seymour’s gorgeously chiseled face, out of which stared two round, green eyes, and Nico’s hair—that unusual reddish blond the French called verte mort, or dead leaves. (Nico loved that expression; it was so poetic.) Her daughter, Nico thought happily, never ceased to remind her of how lucky and blessed she really was.

  “Hello, Kitty Kat,” Nico said, slipping her arm around her daughter’s waist. They were so very, very close, Nico thought, and while she and Seymour weren’t physically affectionate, Katrina still sat on her lap sometimes, and on the occasional evening when they happened to be home watching TV, Nico would scratch Katrina’s back, something she’d loved since she was a baby.

  “Mother, did you know you’ve been named one of the Fifty Most Powerful Women in the Universe?” Katrina asked, leaning her head on Nico’s shoulder.

  Nico laughed—it was a family joke that when Nico got “out of hand,” Katrina would say calmly, “Oh, Mom. Why don’t you just go and buy your own universe?” “Now, how did you know that?” Nico asked, stroking the back of her hair.

  “Saw it online, silly,” Katrina said. Kat spent hours online, in constant communication with a network of friends. In addition to school, horseback riding, cooking, and a variety of other momentary interests, she had an intricate and mazelike social life that Nico imagined rivaled a Fortune 500 company. “Anyway, I’m really proud of you.”

  “If you’re not careful, I’ll buy you your own planet,” Nico said. She pulled open the heavy oak door, and they stepped out into the April sunshine.

  “Don’t need you to,” Katrina said, racing ahead of her to the Town Car that was idling at the curb. “When I grow up, I’ll be able to buy my own planet.”

  I’m sure you will, my darling, Nico thought, watching her daughter slip gracefully into the car. Katrina was as supple as a birch sapling—another cliché, but Nico couldn’t think of a better way to describe her—and Nico was filled with pride. Katrina was so very confident and self-assured; so much more confident than she’d been at her age. But Katrina lived in a different time. Girls of her generation really believed they could do anything, and why not? They had mothers who were living proof.

  “Do you think you’ll get the position, Mother?” Katrina asked. “You know, mistress of the universe?”

  “If you mean chairwoman and CEO of Verner, Inc., I think so,” Nico said. “It’s a little more doable than mistress of the universe.”

  “I like that,” Katrina said musingly. “My mother is the chairwoman and CEO of Verner, Inc.” She turned to Nico and smiled. “It sounds so wonderfully important.”

  Nico squeezed her daughter’s hand. It felt so fragile and vulnerable in her grasp—despite the fact that Katrina was an excellent horsewoman, and was able to control huge animals with those little-girl fingers. Nico was suddenly grateful that Katrina hadn’t yet reached that age when she didn’t want to have anything to do with her, and still allowed her mother to hold her hand when they went out. She was still a child, Nico thought, a child who had to be protected. Nico brushed a long strand of hair away from Katrina’s face. She was so in love with her daughter that at times it frightened her. “My most important job is being your mother,” she said.

  “That’s nice, Mother, but I don’t want it to be that way,” Katrina said, shifting in her seat. And then, with that startling insight given to children, added, “It’s too much pressure. I want you and Daddy to always be happy on your own. Without me. Of course, if you’re happy with me, that’s nice, but I don’t want to be the reason you stay together.”

  Nico was suddenly flooded with guilt. Where on earth had Katrina gotten the idea that she and Seymour weren’t happy? Was her affair with Kirby somehow obvious? She’d been so careful not to behave differently—if anything, she’d been more attentive and patient with Seymour than usual. Having Kirby had relieved some of unspoken pressure in their relationship—the fact that she and Seymour hardly had sex no longer concerned her. But what if, she thought wildly, Katrina found out? What would Katrina think of her then?

  Would she still be proud of her mother?

  “Daddy and I are very happy, sweetheart,” Nico said firmly. “You don’t have to worry about us.” Katrina shrugged, as if she wasn’t convinced, and Nico said, “Are you worried about us?”

  “No-o-o-o,” Katrina said hesitantly, “but . . .”

  “But what, darling?” Nico asked, a little too quickly. She smiled, but her stomach twisted with anxiety. If Katrina suspected, or even knew something, it was better to find out now, so she could deny it. And then—and then, she promised herself insistently—she really never would do it again.

  “I’m not supposed to know this, but I think Magda’s parents are getting a divorce.” Katrina’s eyes widened, with either guilt at being the one to deliver this message, or shock that it might be true.

  Oh, thank God, Nico thought irrationally. This was about Wendy, not her . . . No wonder Katrina was upset. She was probably worried that if this could happen to Magda, it could happen to her as well. She frowned. But surely this couldn’t be right. Wendy was away on location. When would she have found the time to be getting divorced? “Wendy and Shane have had some problems, but I’m sure everything is fine.”

  Katrina shook her head. This wasn’t an unusual discussion, as Nico and Katrina often gossiped about (or rather “analyzed”) the actions of both her friends and her daughter’s. But it seemed shocking that Katrina should know more about this than she did. “They were seeing a shrink,” Katrina continued, confident in her information, “but it wasn’t working. Of course, Shane was trying to keep it a secret from the kids, but there are no secrets in a thirty-five-hundred-square-foot loft.”

  Nico looked at Katrina with surprise and a little pride—where on earth had she come up with such a grown-up way of looking at relationships?—but also a bit of fear. Was it really right for a twelve-year-old to be privy to such matters? “How on earth did you hear this?” Nico asked.

  “Magda,” Katrina said, as if Nico ought to know this.

  “But I thought you weren’t really friends with her.” Katrina and Magda were in the same class at their private school and, because of Wendy and Nico’s friendship, had been thrown together. For years they had merely tolerated each other for the sake of their mothers, but had never managed to become friends, partly due to the fact, Nico always supposed, that Magda was a rather strange little girl. She insisted on wearing only black, and seemed to be less interested in socializing than the other children—certainly less than Katrina—and had Wendy’s defiance of not wanting to fit in. This always struck Nico as slightly worrisome. An adult could make this trait work to advantage, as Wendy had, but in a child, it could only make life more difficult . . . “Madga is very dramatic,” Nico said. “She might be making this up.” Indeed, she had to be making it up, Nico thought. There was no way Wendy could be having this kind of trouble with Shane without letting her know.

  “Well, I’m better friends
with her now,” Katrina said, pulling at a strand of hair and musingly placing it over her lips in a charming gesture. “Ever since she started riding. I see her every other day after school now, so I really can’t help but be friends with her.”

  “Wendy is my best friend . . .”

  “And Victory Ford, too,” Katrina corrected; she had always been fascinated and reassured, for some reason, that her mother had two best friends.

  “And Victory,” Nico nodded. “And we tell each other everything . . .”—well, not quite everything, she still hadn’t told Wendy about Kirby, but that was only because she hadn’t been around—“and I know Wendy would have told me.”

  “Would she tell you, Mother?” Katrina questioned. “Maybe she’s embarrassed. Magda said that her father went to a lawyer, and that he changed the locks on Wednesday. She had to have a new key, and she was worried because Wendy was coming home and she didn’t know how she was going to get in.”

  “Oh, well . . .” Nico said thoughtfully, finding this information disturbing as well. “I’m sure Shane left the key for her with the doorman. And going to a lawyer doesn’t mean anything. He might have gone for any reason.”

  “Mother,” Katrina said patiently. “You know that’s not true. When parents go to lawyers, everyone knows it means a divorce.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” Nico said. “I’m going to call Wendy right now . . .”

  “Don’t tell her I told you about the divorce. I don’t want to get Madga in trouble!” Katrina said with alarm.

  “I won’t. I’ll just find out how she is—she probably isn’t even back yet.” Nico dialed the number, but it went right to Wendy’s voice mail—proof, Nico thought, that Wendy wasn’t back or was flying that afternoon.

  The car pulled up in front of the Exhibitors’ Entrance to Madison Square Garden, and she and Katrina got out, crossing over the little plaza. Outside the entrance, which was blocked off with police barricades, stood two or three scruffy-looking paparazzi—the dog show not being known as a super-glamorous event. Their bored expressions seemed to indicate that they were well aware of this fact, but that, hey, you never knew. Maybe it would turn out that Jennifer Lopez had taken a fancy to dogs.

  “Hey! Nico,” one of them called laconically, holding up his camera. Nico shook her head, and instinctively put her arm around Katrina’s neck, trying to shield her face. Katrina sighed, and once safely past the photographers, broke free. “Mother,” she scolded, fixing her hair with a gesture of annoyance, “you are so overprotective. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

  Nico stopped, giving Katrina an awkward smile, suddenly wounded by her daughter’s disapproval. The thought that her daughter might hate her was like a sharp jab from a paring knife. But she was still the mother, and Katrina was still a little girl, sort of. “As your mother, it’s my right to be overprotective. Until you’re at least fifty.”

  “Please,” Katrina said. She had a pretty pout on her face—soon, she’d be kissing boys, Nico thought with alarm. She didn’t want her daughter getting mixed up with boys. It was such a waste of time. Teenage boys were so awful . . . Maybe she and Seymour should send her to an all-girls’ boarding school, someplace safe . . . like Switzerland . . . but how could she live, not being able to see her daughter for weeks at a time?

  “Hey, Mom?” Katrina said, looking at her with curious concern. “Let’s go find Daddy.” And taking Nico’s hand, she skipped ahead a bit, pulling Nico along behind her.

  “Hold on, sweetheart. I’m wearing high heels,” Nico said, thinking that she sounded just like her mother. And so what if she did, she thought. There was no getting away from being somewhat like your mother when you became a mother yourself; fighting it was a waste of time. And besides, it was nice . . .

  “You were born with high heels on,” Katrina laughed, pausing at the bottom of the steps for Nico to catch up. “You were born to rule.”

  “Thank you, Kitty.”

  “I’m convinced Tunie’s going to win, aren’t you, Mother?” Katrina said, swinging their hands between them. “Daddy says she’s the best miniature dachshund in the country, and if the judges don’t see it . . .”

  She nattered on, the eager little girl again. Nico nodded her head, listening, thinking once more about how much she loved her daughter, and how very lucky she really was.

  * * *

  SHANE HAD BEEN WEARING white jeans and a red shirt. Cherry red, as opposed to a maroon or Christmassy red. With a little green alligator over the left chest. The shirt was tucked into the waistband of the white jeans, hitched around Shane’s hips with a brown leather belt with inlaid bands of pink, yellow, and blue ribbonlike material. But it was the shirt that really stuck out. She would never forget that shirt for as long as she lived.

  “Back to the airport, please,” Wendy said.

  The driver nodded. She was surprised at how calm and unemotional her voice sounded. Robotic, really. But perhaps this wasn’t surprising. She was now officially dead inside. She had no feelings left, no soul. She would never be affected by anything again. She was just a machine. Valued only for her ability to make money and to provide. To pay for things. Other than that, they had no use for her at all.

  The car pulled up to the gate, and it hit her that once the car passed through and exited the Palm Beach Polo Club, she would have reached the point of no return. Stop! said a voice in her head. Go back—go back! But another voice said, No. You’ve been humiliated enough. You must draw the line, or you’ll lose their respect forever. Going back now won’t change anything; it will only make it worse. There was no going back. Only going forward, with the horrible truth.

  The white metal gates swung open, and the car drove through.

  She sank down into the seat, as if afraid to be seen. What could she have done differently? What could she have said? What was she supposed to say? What was the proper response to the statement, “Wendy, I don’t love you. And I don’t think I ever have”?

  If only . . . if only she had her children to comfort her. But they didn’t want her either, she thought dully. Was that really true? Or was she looking at the situation with the simplistic immaturity of a child? They were only children, after all; they didn’t want their day spoiled. She could have stayed, but she couldn’t be around Shane, and his parents, their eyes sneaking glances at her, knowing the truth . . .

  He doesn’t love her, you know. And he never did. We always knew. Why didn’t she?

  And: What’s she going to do now? Careful. She’s dangerous. She’s a bad woman. She could make things difficult for Shane and the kids. We just hope she’ll be reasonable . . .

  And that cherry red shirt and those white jeans. And the brown suede Gucci loafers. Shane had become . . . one of them.

  A horse person.

  And she was not. She didn’t belong there at all.

  When the Citation landed at Palm Beach Airport, she had taken the car directly to the Breakers Hotel, expecting to find Shane and the kids in their suite. Instead, all she found were Shane’s parents wearing Bermuda shorts—from which emerged thickened, lumpy legs that resembled unkneaded bread dough. They were eating breakfast, and when Shane’s father, Harold, opened the door, he didn’t bother to disguise his shock.

  Bet you didn’t expect to see me here, Wendy thought, sure of her triumph. “Hello, Harold,” she said. And Harold, who must have determined that it was best not to challenge her, turned quickly and said, “Marge, look who’s here. It’s Wendy.”

  “Hello, Wendy,” Marge said, not bothering to get up from the table. There was an unmistakable coolness in her voice. “What a shame,” she said. “You just missed Shane and the kids. But I don’t think they knew you were coming.”

  No kidding, Wendy thought. “Where did they go?” she asked.

  Marge and Harold exchanged glances. Marge picked up her fork, and stuck it into her scrambled eggs. “They went to look for a pony,” Marge said.

  “Coffee, Wendy?” Harold said, sitting dow
n across from his wife. “You look like you could use some.”

  “Yes, I could. Thanks,” Wendy said.

  “You can call room service for another cup,” Harold said. “They’re quick here. Great service.”

  If I kill these two old people, will a jury understand? Wendy wondered.

  “Don’t be silly, Harold. She can take my cup. Here, Wendy,” Marge said, pushing a cup and saucer toward her.

  “I don’t want to take your cup,” Wendy said.

  “Marge doesn’t drink coffee anyway. Never has,” Harold said.

  “I used to,” Marge said primly. “Don’t you remember? When we first got married, I drank six cups a day. I stopped when I got pregnant with Shane. The obstetrician said caffeine wasn’t a good idea. He was considered very advanced in those days.”

  Wendy nodded blankly. Were they doing this on purpose, to torture her for being such a bad wife to their darling, perfect son? How much did they know? Probably everything—they were here, weren’t they? They had to be in on all of it.

  “Where are they?” Wendy asked, pouring herself a cup of coffee from a white pitcher.

  “Who?” Marge asked.

  Oh, come on, Wendy thought, giving her a look. You’re not that old. You know who. “Shane. And the kids.” She took a sip of the coffee and burned her mouth.

  Marge screwed up her face in concentration. “What was it, Harold?” she asked. “The Palm Beach something . . .”

  “The Palm Beach Polo Club,” Harold said, being careful not to look at Wendy.

  “Yes, that’s it,” Marge agreed. “It’s supposed to be very famous.” There was a long, uncomfortable silence, which was finally broken by Marge. “You’re not thinking about going to meet them, are you?” Marge asked.