* * *
“THE PROBLEM IS SHANE’S lawyer,” Tessa said, fifteen minutes later when they were seated at a small table in the lobby bar of the hotel. A long gauzy curtain billowed at their feet.
Wendy looked out the window at the assortment of passersby on the street outside; it was a Saturday afternoon at the end of April, and Soho was filled with tourists. “I’m not afraid of his lawyer,” Wendy said, stirring her espresso with a small metal spoon. “He has to know that Shane doesn’t have a case.”
“Viewed traditionally, perhaps, he doesn’t,” Tessa agreed. “But Juan Perek is a man, and he spends most of his time getting huge settlements out of rich men for their wives and children. He’s been waiting for a case like this for years. It’s an opportunity to prove that the law really is blind, neither racist nor sexist. In other words,” she added, sipping a plain black coffee, “he wants to make an example out of you.”
“But he’s already done that,” Wendy said, crossing her arms. “I’m giving Shane the apartment. It’s worth over two million dollars. That’s a lot of money for a man who hasn’t worked for ten years.”
“I know,” Tessa said, nodding sympathetically. “But that too is a problem. If Shane had worked, this would be easier. It would mean that he was capable of supporting himself. The courts tend to look on these kinds of situations as indicating that the spouse shouldn’t be expected to work, having been out of the job market for ten years.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Wendy said. “Shane is a healthy forty-year-old man. He can get a job like everybody else in the world. He can be a waiter if he needs to.”
“I wouldn’t bring that up in front of the judge,” Tessa said cautiously. “It won’t go over well.”
“Why not?” Wendy demanded. “It’s true. He can get a friggin’ job for a change.”
“You have to try to understand this from a different perspective,” Tessa said soothingly. “Shane contends that he already has a job—and has had one for the past twelve years—being a father to your children . . .”
“Oh please,” Wendy scoffed.
“I don’t know how much child care he actually did, but it doesn’t really matter. In the eyes of the court, taking care of the children is a job. And if the situation were reversed, if Shane were a woman, well, telling the judge that he should go out and get a job as a waiter would be like a successful man telling his suburban wife that she should go out and get a job at the local carwash.”
Wendy’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose he wants more money.”
“It isn’t exactly money,” Tessa said. “He wants alimony. And child support. He wants those kids, Wendy.”
Wendy emitted a harsh laugh. “There’s no chance of that. They’re my kids. I love them; they need to be with me. Children belong with their mothers, and that’s that. Shane can do what every other divorced man does and see them every other weekend.”
“That would normally be the result, if this were the usual situation. But it isn’t,” Tessa said, taking a sip of her coffee. “You’re one of the most successful women in the country, so the normal rules don’t quite apply.”
Wendy put down her cup. “I’ve been through hell, here, Tessa. And what everyone seems to be forgetting is that I never wanted to get divorced in the first place. This wasn’t my idea. It was Shane’s. He’s the one who wants to leave. He’s the one who should be punished. If you hate your spouse so much that you can’t stand being in the room with her, guess what? You have to give up your kids.”
“Let’s reverse the situation, shall we?” Tessa asked diplomatically. She never got flustered or emotional, a trait Wendy was beginning to wonder if she’d come to resent. “Let’s say a woman with a not-so-successful career married an up-and-coming banker, and because he was making so much money, she gave up her work. Then they start having children. The woman stays home and takes care of the kids. The man becomes more and more successful, and because of his job, begins spending less and less time at home. The woman begins to feel abandoned, she gets resentful. She’s home with the kids, while her husband is out in the world, collecting kudos. One day she wakes up, and decides she deserves better—and she wants a divorce.”
“But I wanted to appreciate Shane,” Wendy objected. “I went to the damn marriage counselor . . .”
“Aha,” Tessa said. “But it’s too late. The resentment is too deep, the couple has grown too far apart. And what happens? The woman gets the house. She gets alimony and child support. And if she insists, she can probably get full custody of the kids. And no one thinks twice about it. Can you imagine the outrage if we suddenly started telling those women that they couldn’t have their kids, and that they had to go out and get jobs?”
“But I want my kids,” Wendy protested. The calmer Tessa was, the more heated she seemed to become. “Goddammit,” she said, putting her coffee cup down on the table with a bang. “I’m not going to be punished for being a woman and being successful.”
Tessa said nothing, pausing as if waiting for Wendy to get control of her emotions. “If we’re going to get through this with as little damage as possible,” she began, “you’re going to have to look at the situation from a broader perspective. I know this is intensely personal, but at some point, in order to make the right decision, you’re going to have to put your angry feelings aside. The fact is, viewed logically and unemotionally, men get punished all the time for being successful. A successful divorced man is routinely denied access to his children. In any case, you can be sure that the children are rarely allowed to live with him, unless the mother agrees.”
“Those men don’t want their children . . .”
“Actually, you’d be surprised,” Tessa said, motioning to the waiter for another cup of coffee. It was her third—she must be so cold, Wendy decided, that not even caffeine could affect her. “In my experience, most men want to live with their children. They’re heartbroken at the idea of not seeing them every day. But they know they can almost never win in court, so it’s not worth the fight.”
“Well, this is,” Wendy insisted. “I want full custody of the kids. And I want you to get that for me.”
Tessa looked uncomfortable for the first time during their conversation. She wiped the corner of her mouth with her napkin, put it down, and glanced away. “As your lawyer,” she said, “I am morally obligated to tell you the truth. I could lie to you, and we could spend two years in court, and I could probably make enough money off of you to start my own law firm. If I was the kind of lawyer like lots of men in this business, I wouldn’t think twice about it. It’s the kind of case lawyers salivate over—a successful client with lots of money who wants revenge. But revenge is expensive. And in my experience, even if you win, you won’t find it nearly as satisfying as you expected. You’ll spend more time with me than you’d prefer—time you could be spending with your children or at work. And ultimately, Wendy . . .” She paused, giving Wendy a sympathetic look. She shook her head. “You’re never going to get full custody of the kids. Not with the way your life is right now.”
“Because I work,” Wendy said dryly. “That’s wonderful. What a great message for the young women of America. If you work hard and become successful, society will punish you one way or another.”
“Society punishes women in general,” Tessa said evenly. “No matter what you do, there’s no guarantee you’re going to win. You could stay home and take care of your kids for twenty years, and then your kids go off to college and your husband leaves you for a younger woman and you have nothing.”
Wendy glared into her coffee cup. “You have a house.”
“Big deal, Wendy. You have a house.” Tessa shook her head. “Juan Perek only took on this case for the potential publicity. It’s a perfect reversal of traditional sex roles: When a woman takes on the man’s role, she can get screwed like a man. Shane has given him documentation pinpointing all the time you spent away on business last year. If you go after full custody, they’re going to go after ful
l custody. And depending on which way the wind is blowing, there’s a possibility they might win.”
Wendy felt the blood drain from her face. Not able to win—this was not a possibility. “Nobody could ever believe that children should be taken away from their mothers.”
“Normally, they don’t,” Tessa said. “In the usual situation . . .” She sighed.
“I’m not a bad mother,” Wendy said, suddenly feeling desperate. “You saw me with my kids . . .”
“No one is saying you’re a bad mother,” Tessa said soothingly. “Technically, the mother has to be abusive, wildly unstable, a drug addict, or legally insane for the courts to separate the child from the mother. But the assumption is that the mother is the primary caregiver. Whereas in the case of you and Shane, Juan Perek is going to try to prove that Shane is the primary caregiver. So unless we can prove that Shane is abusive, unstable, a drug addict, or legally insane, there’s no good reason for the court not to grant him at least shared custody.”
“At least?” Wendy asked.
“Is he abusive, unstable, a drug addict, or legally insane?” Tessa asked.
“He was fifteen minutes late picking the kids up today. You saw that,” Wendy countered.
“He was late once.” Tessa shrugged. “But he takes the kids to school . . .”
“I take them,” Wendy objected. “Some of the time . . .”
“And he picks them up and takes them to their doctors’ appointments,” Tessa said. “They’re going to be able to make a pretty convincing argument that Shane is the primary caregiver. And historically, the courts don’t like to separate the children from the primary caregiver. They’re going to argue that if the children go to you full-time, they’ll end up being raised by nannies. A situation that’s less ideal than being raised by their biological parent. I’m sorry, Wendy,” Tessa said.
“Don’t be,” Wendy said fiercely. “It’s easy. I’ll quit my job. I’ll become the primary caregiver.”
Tessa smiled patiently. “That’s the usual solution in movies, isn’t it? The successful woman gives up her career for her children and everyone feels good. But it’s not really practical in real life, is it? Especially in the case of your life, unless Shane suddenly decides he wants to go out and start earning a living, which he insists he isn’t going to do, since he already has a job taking care of the children.”
“So in other words, I’m fucked,” Wendy said quietly.
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” said Tessa. “I’m sure we can work something out with Shane. My sense is that he’ll be reasonable if you’re reasonable.”
“There is no being reasonable when your children are involved,” Wendy said. She motioned to the waiter.
“I know it’s hard,” Tessa said, picking up her bag. “Take some time to think about it. Believe me, there are worse situations.”
“Are there? Remind me of them sometime,” Wendy said, walking Tessa to the revolving door. She paused. “Tell me something,” she said. “Have you ever been in love?”
“Don’t believe in it,” Tessa said.
“Really?” Wendy said. “You’re lucky.”
“You can’t believe in true love in my business,” Tessa said. “You see too much evidence that it doesn’t exist. But I plan to have a child soon. Sperm bank. It’s the only way.”
“Lucky you,” Wendy said again. This wasn’t like her at all, she thought. It was horrible to be so bitter about life.
* * *
THE BLACK MERCEDES MOVED slowly along the strip of roadway known as the Croisette in the seaside town of Cannes. To the left was a flat and not terribly interesting strip of sea, with a narrow band of sand, from which palm trees sprung at even intervals. On the other side was a cheesily majestic series of large hotels. The traffic came to a standstill, and Victory squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. New Yorkers always complained about the traffic in the Hamptons, but the traffic in the South of France was worse. There was literally only one road, and everyone was on it, and it was ten o’clock at night. It was the first day of the Cannes film festival, and the parties would go all night.
“We are almost there, Madame,” the driver said, turning around. “We have three lights, and then we come to the harbor.”
“Thank you,” Victory said, thinking there was that word again—“Madame.” Or, ma’am, in New York. It was like she woke up one day and all of a sudden, shopclerks and taxi drivers were calling her “ma’am” instead of “miss,” as if she were suddenly middle-aged. It had thrown her off-balance for a while, especially as she wasn’t married. Still being single in your forties was a state of being the world couldn’t really comprehend, especially in Europe and England, where women as young as thirty panicked over their biological clocks. But if you were wildly successful, you could make your own rules for how you wanted to live your life.
And what joy it was! she thought, looking out the window at a set of Klieg lights that shot beams of hard white light into the black night sky. To be on her own in the world, free. Why did the world never tell women about this kind of happiness? The feeling might not last, but it didn’t matter. What was important was to experience everything in life, the struggles and the sadness, and the dizzying triumphs. And if you worked really hard, and believed in yourself, and were willing to experience pain and fear (clichés, of course, but they were true), you might get really lucky and have a night like tonight. Anything could happen in life, she thought; anything could happen to anyone, and sometimes it was good. You just had to believe that it could happen to you.
The car inched forward a few feet and stopped again, as a throng of people crossed the street. The traffic didn’t matter either—the party was for her, and she could be late. She inhaled deeply, appreciating the smell of the brand-new leather in the Mercedes. There was nothing like the smell of a new car, and when you were lucky enough to experience it, you had to enjoy it. How nice it was of Pierre Berteuil to send a brand-new Mercedes (a model not yet available in the United States) to drive her around for the weekend. “This is Mr. Hulot, your driver,” Pierre had said that morning, when Mr. Hulot, wearing a chauffeur’s cap and a gray uniform, had appeared on the terrace of the Hotel du Cap, where they were having a breakfast meeting and where Victory had eaten two croissants slathered with that creamy salty butter that you could only get in France. “Mr. Hulot is a bodyguard as well, so you are very safe.”
“It isn’t safe here?” she’d asked.
“The festival attracts some strange people,” Pierre said. “It is not dangerous, but you must be careful. We don’t want to lose you,” he added, with a slightly lascivious smile.
So now, on top of the junior suite at the Hotel du Cap (it was one of the best rooms, in the main building looking out over the gardens, pool, and the sea, with shutters that opened onto a small balcony), she had her own car and bodyguard.
She crossed her legs, smoothing the folds of the blue silk gown. The dress was one of her favorites, and she planned to send it down the runway in the upcoming fall show. But would the show be held in New York or Paris? She had to remember to talk to Pierre about it. He wanted her to spend two weeks out of the month in Paris, but the company wanted to develop her as an American couture designer, with, of course, a lesser-priced off-the-rack line. But it was the opportunity to do a couture line that had finally swayed her to take the offer; it was simply too tempting to turn down.
She knew she was taking a risk, she thought, frowning as she stared at the traffic in front of them. But life was about risks. She’d been worried that B et C had a secret plan to buy her name and take away her involvement. It happened all the time in the fashion industry, and there were legions of cautionary tales about designers who had lost their companies when they’d sold their names to a fashion conglomerate. It was a potentially Faustian bargain: You ended up with a lump of cash, but you could also lose the rights to your own name, even to your ability to make money. One of the stipulations of the contract was that once B et C own
ed you, you couldn’t go off and start another company. On the other hand, just the thought of doing a couture line made her insides light up like a Christmas tree. A couture line was something every designer dreamed of doing, and few were given the chance to even try. A couture line was the pinnacle, the place where fashion crossed over into art as opposed to commerce. After weeks of meetings and analyzing the situation with Wendy and Nico, she’d decided it was probably worth taking the chance. Her reasoning was that if B et C wanted her to do a couture line, they needed her.
She hadn’t signed the contracts yet, but she would, she thought, at the end of the week when she was back in Paris. On Wednesday morning she was flying to Florence to visit three family-owned fabric companies that were so exclusive, a designer couldn’t even get in the door without the right connections, and on Friday morning she’d be back in Paris. In the meantime, Pierre had insisted that they fly to Cannes for the opening weekend of the film festival. He was throwing a party in her honor on his three-hundred-foot yacht, to which venue she was now headed, and where, she hoped, she would eventually arrive—if they could ever get through this damn traffic.
The Croisette was lined with fifty-foot billboards trumpeting various movies that were being featured at the festival, and above her she spotted the billboard for Wendy’s summer blockbuster, a futuristic thriller called Die Slowly. She immediately felt a swelling of pride for her friend. Wendy was doing so great—in her career, anyway. The Spotted Pig had just won two Oscars, and Wendy said that it would have been great if she hadn’t gotten her period when she was walking down the red carpet and had to spend the rest of the evening stuffing her underpants with toilet paper. Nico and Victory thought it was funny, and Wendy would have too, if she weren’t so upset about Shane. What he had done to her was incomprehensible, but Wendy was handling it admirably well. She had the whole brood packed into her suite at the Mercer Hotel, and having seen the situation, Victory thought that Wendy must be going crazy. But she never complained about it. She didn’t even yell when Tyler spilled his juice on the carpet on purpose because he wanted cranberry juice instead of orange juice. “Hey, what’s the problem, buddy?” Wendy had asked Tyler, hugging him. “Are you scared?” Tyler had nodded, and Wendy told him that everyone was scared some of the time, and it was okay. Then she mopped up the mess herself, and called room service for a glass of cranberry juice. “I’m sorry, Wendy,” Victory had said admiringly. “But I would have screamed.”