“Of course,” Marc said genially. “Your daughter’s future as a rider is at stake here. You should talk it over. But I guarantee you won’t find a better pony for the price.”
Shane looked at her over his shoulder and frowned. “What’s up, Wendy?” he asked. “Is there a problem?”
“Yeah. There kind of is,” she said wearily. My husband just served me with divorce papers, locked me out of my apartment, and kidnapped my kids. And now he wants me to spend $50,000 on a pony . . .
Marc shrugged and lit up another cigarette, as he pulled up in front of a Tudor-style barn with crosshatched timbers, meant, perhaps, to resemble a stable in a royal mountain hideaway. “I’ll be in the office. First door to the right,” Marc said. “Just come in when you’re ready.”
“We’ll only be a minute,” Shane replied. He paused. “Well?” he demanded.
Wendy stared at him in shock. She didn’t know where to begin. “After all this . . . after what you’ve done . . . all you have to say is, ‘well’?”
“Can’t we just buy the pony, please? Why does everything have to be such a big deal with you?”
She stared at him uncomprehendingly. Was it possible that he’d forgotten that he’d served her with divorce papers and locked her out of their apartment? Or was she simply losing her mind?
“What do you want me to say?” Shane demanded impatiently.
She paused. What did she want? I want everything to be back to normal. I want everything to be the way it was before I left for Romania. It wasn’t that great, but it was better than this, she wanted to say. “I want you to explain.”
He stared at her defiantly, like a little boy, and then turned and began walking toward the barn. Wendy ran after him, catching up with him just inside the entrance. “I don’t want to have this discussion now,” he hissed. “Not in front of these people . . .” he said, indicating the door to the office with his hand.
“Why not? What do you care about them?”
“It’s not what I think, Wendy. It’s what they think about our little girl. Why do you have to embarrass her? She’s finally got up the courage to try something new, something athletic, and you want to ruin it for her.”
“No, I don’t . . .”
“Don’t you know how they gossip here?” Shane asked accusingly. “Everyone knows everyone else’s business. You saw Cherry and Nina—they’ll talk to Marc—it’ll be all over the St. Mary-Alice School tomorrow. Don’t you think it’s hard enough for Magda as it is? Does she need all the other kids talking about how crazy her mother is . . . ?”
“But Shane,” Wendy said, staring at him in horror. “I haven’t done anything. I would never do anything to hurt our little girl . . .”
“No. All you did was just turn up here, unexpectedly. I mean, it was hard enough trying to explain that.”
“What’s to explain? I’m her mother . . .”
“Are you?”
“You shit.” Wendy paused, then decided to let this go for the moment. It was too terrible to get into. “How were you planning on paying for that pony without me, Shane?” she asked.
“Credit card.”
“It’s still my money,” she said, and hated herself for pointing this out.
“Fine,” Shane said. “Break your daughter’s heart. That’ll really ingratiate you with your children.”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t . . .”
“Do whatever you want. I’ve tried my best. I’m done,” he said, throwing up his hands helplessly. He began walking into the dim recesses of the stable, his loafers echoing in the cavernous space.
Wendy hesitated and then hurried after him. At least this barn appeared to be empty, free of those terrifying beasts that might jump out and trample you. “Shane!” she hissed. “Get back here.”
Shane turned.
She had to make him tell her, she thought. She could not let him get away with this. “I’m not going to buy that pony until we talk about what’s going on.”
Shane’s mouth curved up in disgust. “Fine,” he said, full of angry bravado. He stepped into an empty stall. Wendy hesitated. The floor was covered with bright yellow straw. Maybe they could just make love and then everything would be back to normal. It had worked so many times before. He was standing in the middle of the stall, with his arms crossed over his chest defensively. She took a step toward him, feeling the rough-cut edges of the straw poking at her ankles. He was being so silly, really. This whole thing was ridiculous. If he would drop it, she would forgive him. She was used to forgiving him. It came easily after twelve years of practice, like learning to say you were sorry. Apology and forgiveness, they were a lot easier than people thought.
And having managed to get her mind into a more amenable state, she decided to take a chance. In the nonthreatening baby voice she used with him, she said playfully, “Let’s have sex.”
Instead of soothing him, however, these gentle words seemed to unleash the brute inside him. He lunged toward her as if he were going to hit her, but at the last minute, he swerved to the side and ran to the wall, banging his hand against the wooden planks. “You still don’t get it, do you?” he shouted. And then, perhaps embarrassed at this unusual display of manliness, he put his hands over his face. His body began to shake like he was sobbing, but no sound came out. She took a few steps toward him and touched his shoulder. “Shane?” she asked. And then more insistently: “Shane . . . are you crying?”
“No.” The sound was muffled from under his hands. She put her hands over his and tried to pull them away.
The expression on his face terrified her. His eyes were reddened slits—full of hate, she thought, for her or himself, or maybe both. “It’s no good,” he said.
It’s over, she thought. It’s over . . . “What’s no good?” she asked anyway.
“Us,” he said. He took a deep breath and exhaled through his open mouth. “I don’t love you, Wendy,” he said. “And I don’t think I ever have.”
Arggghhhh. She took a step backward. Arggggggh. Was she the one making that noise, or was she just thinking it? Her whole life seemed to be falling away from her. She was standing at the edge of a cliff. Arggggh. How could this be?
He hadn’t really said that, had he?
“You never gave me the chance to decide for myself,” he said. “You were always so there—so in there from the beginning. I couldn’t get rid of you. You never took no for an answer. At first I thought, this girl has to be crazy. I’d sleep with other girls, and you knew it, and you never said anything about it. And then I started thinking, maybe you really were in love with me. I could do what I wanted and you’d always be there to take care of me. I’m not saying I didn’t like you. We had a great time together. But I was never in love with you. The way I was in love with some of those other girls . . .”
“Other girls . . . ?”
“Not when we were married,” Shane said defensively. “I didn’t cheat. I’m talking about before we were married.”
“Then why did you marry me?” she demanded.
“Why do you want to hear this?” he asked. “Do you think I like telling you this stuff? Why don’t you walk away? You’re always fucking torturing yourself with me. Do you think it makes me respect you?”
“You owe me a fucking explanation!” she screamed.
He hit the wall again with the palm of his hand.
“I don’t believe it, Shane. How could you be so fucking weak?”
“Do you think I liked being weak? You made me weak!” he shouted. “I never was in love with you. Sorry you have to hear this, but it’s the truth. I kept hoping I would fall in love with you, though. Everyone said I was crazy—you were so great. And you were just so sure. But on our wedding day? When we walked back down the aisle? I knew I’d made a mistake. Did you ever wonder why I couldn’t look at you? I was one of your goals. I’d been accomplished! And I probably would have left, but you got pregnant right away. I never had any say in the matter. You stopped taking the pill.
You said you didn’t, that it was an accident . . .”
“It was!”
“That’s bullshit, Wendy.”
“If you hated me so much, why didn’t you leave?”
“Because I fell in love with our little girl. Can’t you see that? I’m not as big of a shit as you think I am, you know? I’ve tried to do the right thing. I thought I could at least be a good father. And then you got pregnant again. And again. And every time I thought, she’s trapping you more and more so you can never leave . . .”
“Leave, Shane. Leave now.” She ran toward him and punched him in the biceps as hard as she could with the side of her fist. The impact made her hand ache. Shane spun away from her, sneering.
“Is that what you’re going to do? You can’t get your way, so you’re going to beat me up?”
“Just go. I never want to see you again.”
“Yeah, that would be convenient for you, wouldn’t it?” Shane said, nodding and rubbing his arm where she had hit him—just like a girl, she thought. “But I’m not going to do that, Wendy,” he said. “When I was gone, I realized the most important thing in my life is my kids. And I’m not going to give them up.”
Her lips tightened into a cruel smile and she folded her arms, sure that now she would have the upper hand. “You’ll never have the kids. I’ll make sure of it. I’m going to take the kids with me and make sure you don’t see them again for years.”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “That’s what I figured you’d say. You’re such a big, fucking deal, you’re so smart, so successful, so rich. But underneath, you’re just an emotional child. You can never understand that anyone else—me—might have feelings that are different from what you want. You can’t make someone love you, Wendy, but you refuse to accept that. And so all you want to do is punish me. Throw your weight around. Just like one of those big male Hollywood assholes you’re always complaining about all the time. You always say women do it differently. Why don’t you practice what you preach? For twelve years, I’ve been a great father. And I’ve tried to be a good husband. I’ve stuck around. But it’s a lie. Do you know how hard it is for me to admit the truth? I don’t want to spend the rest of my life married to a woman I’m not in love with. Is that so fucking terrible? I spend my afternoons talking to women—talking to mothers—the mothers of our children’s friends. And you know what? If the situation were reversed, if it was the woman who wasn’t in love with her husband, all her friends would say, ‘You have a right to find true love.’ How come women have a right and I don’t?”
Wendy couldn’t speak.
“And I’ll tell you another thing,” Shane went on. “I gave up my career to take care of our kids. You think it’s because I wasn’t talented . . . or I was lazy. Okay, I wasn’t as talented as you are. I don’t have what you have; I don’t have what it takes. But I’ve got other things. And you have never really respected that. Why is it that when a woman gives up her career to take care of her kids, she’s a hero, and when a man does it, all you women think there’s something wrong with him? He’s weak, or he’s a loser. That’s what you secretly think, isn’t it, Wendy? That I’m a loser.”
Oh, God, she thought. He was right. There were times, so many times, when she had looked at him with disdain, and then, feeling terrible for feeling that way, had tried to cover it up by coddling him or buying him something . . . How the hell had this happened? The world was upside down. There were no answers except . . . except, she thought, with a tiny glimmer of hope, to try to go forward and do the right thing . . . as a grown-up. And with a flash of insight, she saw that she must try to put her personal injury and hurt aside. She was so much more powerful than he was; she always had been and she always would be, and she must forgive him for that. He couldn’t hurt her—he never could, really. She must be benign. She must . . .
“Shane,” she said. She squeezed her eyes shut, as a huge gob of sorrow for everything they had misunderstood about each other suddenly overwhelmed her. “I never thought you were a loser. I loved you, Shane. I was in love with you. From the beginning . . .”
Shane shook his head. “You weren’t, Wendy. You thought you were. But you couldn’t have been. How can a reasonable, healthy person really be in love with someone who isn’t in love with them?”
She looked at him. He was so small. And so pathetic, really, in that cherry-red shirt and those white jeans. He would never be more than what he was right now, she thought sadly, but he had his own path to follow. Someday Shane might regret his actions; he might realize he’d made a mistake. Perhaps he would be punished, but if he was, it would be the universe who would punish him, not her.
And then she thought: “I must get away.”
She had paid for the pony and gone to say good-bye to the kids. “Now that I have Prince, I don’t think I’m ever going to need another person again,” Magda said eagerly. Wendy nodded. She understood. There were things that Magda was going to have to go through now, things the pony could help her with more than her own mother. I’ve been replaced by a pony, Wendy thought sadly.
“Are you leaving, Mrs. Healy?” Gwyneth asked shyly.
“I have to go back,” Wendy said. “We were nominated for six Oscars this morning and I have to do publicity.” It was a hollow and meaningless lie, she thought, but she had to maintain her dignity, at least in front of her family.
“That’s fantastic,” Gwyneth said, her eyes widening in appreciation. “It must be quite difficult getting nominated for six Oscars.”
Wendy shrugged. “It’s not such a big deal, really,” she said. She took a breath. “It’s what I do.”
And now, sitting in the back of the car, heading to the airport for the return trip to New York, she thought again, wearily, It’s what I do. Her phone rang and she automatically answered it. “Hello?” she said dully.
“Wendy!” exclaimed Victor Matrick’s hearty voice.
Wendy immediately went into automatic pilot. “Hello, Victor. How are you?”
“How are you?” he asked. “You must be thrilled. I am. Good work on those Oscar nominations. Now all we need is a win or two.”
“We’ve got a very good chance, Victor. I’m going to arrange some special screenings for the Academy members.”
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do. And that was a nice write-up in the Post today,” he added.
What write-up? she thought. But she supposed it didn’t really matter, as long as Victor was pleased.
“I hope you’re going to take the afternoon off and celebrate a little,” Victor said. “Any special plans?”
“Not really,” she said. “I’m just in Palm Beach, with my family. I just bought my daughter a pony.”
“Good for you,” Victor said. “There’s nothing better for little girls than ponies, I always say. It teaches them responsibility. But I don’t need to tell you that, eh? Well, congratulations again, and my regards to your family. There’s nothing like family time. We all need more of it. Enjoy.”
“Thank you, Victor,” she said.
The Citation was waiting for her at the airport with the steps lowered. The car pulled through a chain-link fence and onto the tarmac, and the flight attendant came forward to carry her luggage. “That was a quick trip,” he remarked.
“Yes,” she said. “I had a little business to take care of. It went more smoothly than I thought it might.” She boarded the plane, strapping herself into a wide seat of soft beige calfskin leather. “Would you like something?” the attendant asked. “How about caviar and champagne?” he asked with a wink. “It’s Dom Perignon. Victor Matrick ordered it specially for you.”
Why not? she thought. And then: So Victor knew she had taken the plane. It made sense, she supposed. Victor knew everything . . .
In a rack in front of her was a collection of newspapers and magazines. She pulled out the New York Post—“50 Most Powerful Women!” it proclaimed.
She opened it up. Inside was her picture taken at a black-tie movie premiere. She
had put on makeup that night, and had worn her contact lenses with her hair pulled up. She didn’t look so bad, she thought, but really, who cared?
Underneath was the copy: “Wendy Healy, 43, President, Parador Pictures. When Comstock Dibble was booted out as President, there was only one woman for the job—bespectacled brainiac beauty Wendy Healy. She took Parador mainstream, and netted the company two hundred million dollars.”
Oh, she thought. She folded up the paper and put it on the seat next to her. The pilot started the engines, and the plane taxied to the runway. She supposed she should have been pleased by the mention, but instead, she felt nothing. The plane sped down the runway, and she watched the scenery blur outside the window, thinking that she would never feel anything again.
Chapter 12
IT WAS, NICO O’NEILLY THOUGHT, LOOKING OUT OF the window of the town house, a perfect day for taking over the world.
It was seven-thirty on a Thursday morning, and she was dawdling a little over her soft-boiled egg, wanting to remember exactly what this day looked like, and specifically how this morning felt—the morning she was to meet with Victor Matrick to give him the news about Mike Harness. The very interesting news that, she was quite sure, would finish Mike off. Once and for all.
She turned the egg over onto its side, and neatly sliced off the tip, which was exactly what she was going to do with Mike’s head. It would be a clean break, and hopefully, Mike would only feel it a little, and only for a couple of seconds. One . . . two, she thought, shaking salt onto the top of the exposed egg. She picked up a toast soldier, which was exactly half an inch wide, and dipped it into the yolk. She chewed thoughtfully and with pleasure. As usual, both the egg (boiled for four and a half minutes) and the toast soldiers were perfect, having been prepared by her own hand. Nico ate the same thing for breakfast every day—a soft-boiled egg, half a slice of toast, and a cup of English breakfast tea with sugar and lemon—and because these items had to be prepared exactly (the tea water, for instance, had to come to a full boil for thirty seconds), she always made her own breakfast. There were some things in life that were simply easier to do yourself.