Lipstick Jungle

  “Bought it off some farmer for ten thousand dollars.”

  “What the hell are you going to do with it?”

  “What d’ya think?” he said. “I gave it back to him. He’s my new best friend. Told him next time I come up here I’m gonna come to his farm and ride it.”

  That night, she made a roast chicken for dinner. Lyne couldn’t stop talking about the tractor pull, and how he’d beaten the pants off some of the locals. She thought it was funny, until she started making gravy. Lyne, still taken with his performance in the tractor pull, insisted on butting in, claiming that he knew a great recipe for gravy from his mother. He poured red wine into it, and then Worcestershire sauce. Suddenly, Victory had had enough. She screamed at him, and for a moment, he stood there, stunned. Then he threw the spoon into the sink.

  “How dare you?” Victory said, picking up the offending utensil. She shook it in his face. “You cannot behave this way in my house.”

  “Fine,” he said. “You seem to want to be alone anyway, so maybe I’d better leave. I’ll call Bumpy and tell him to pick me up.”

  “That’s probably a good idea,” she said.

  It took Bumpy two and a half hours to get there; in the interval, they barely spoke. She tried to eat the chicken, but it tasted dry and got caught in her throat. This was the moment when they should have made up, when one of them should have apologized, but it seemed that neither one of them could be bothered to make the effort. “It’s probably better like this,” she said to him, when he finally walked out the door.

  “Whatever you say,” he said coldly. He had retreated back into his indifferent billionaire shell, and she had put him there.

  “You broke up over gravy?” Wendy exclaimed later, on the phone.

  “It’s always the little things, isn’t it?” Victory said. She looked around her tiny house. It should have felt blissfully peaceful, now that order was restored, but instead it seemed sparse and depressing. “Oh Wendy, I’m a shit,” she said. “I acted like a total asshole. I don’t know what came over me. I freaked out. I just couldn’t stand seeing him in my space . . .”

  “So why don’t you call him?”

  “I don’t think I should. It’s too late now, I’m sure he hates me. Or thinks I’m insane. Which I gave him pretty good reason to believe.”

  Still, she had thought that Lyne would eventually call her. He always had in the past. But this time, he didn’t. Two days went by, then four. And by then, she had made up her mind to forget about him. It didn’t matter.

  But still, it scared her—this frightening ability to immediately disassociate from a man and her feelings for him. Out of sight, out of mind. It was really that easy.

  Did other women feel this way? Wendy didn’t, and neither did Nico. Even if Nico was having an affair, she was still “in love” with Seymour. But something happened to you when you’d had lots of relationships, meaning lots of breakups as well. At first, it hurt terribly, and you thought you’d never be able to get over it. But then you learned to be circumspect. You were only hurt because the guy had taken away your dream of the relationship. You understood that hurt feelings were really only about ego, about the self-absorbed idea that every man you were with should love you, that the universe owed you that. But love was not an inalienable human right, and some women probably went their whole lives without ever having had any man who really loved them. Some men too! And she was probably one of those people. It was a truth she ought to accept, she thought fiercely, no matter how much it hurt. No one ever said life was going to be easy. She could take it; she would soldier on. And besides, she had her career.

  She looked out of the window of the Mercedes again. The car seemed to have advanced another block, and at last, Mr. Hulot was putting on his blinker to turn left into the driveway of the harbor. This was it, she thought. The party was an acknowledgment of her and her talents, of everything she’d worked so hard to achieve.

  The car drove slowly down a narrow cement lane, finally stopping at the end in front of a shiny white yacht from which sparkled small white lights. Two burly men wearing nautical attire and holding clipboards stood stationed at the end of the gangplank. To the side lurked a cluster of security men with walkie-talkies, and in the front was a pack of paparazzi, held back with an orange police barricade. The flashbulbs were nearly blinding, and through the white light Victory recognized a famous pair of movie stars who were holding hands and waving professionally.

  Victory slid out of the car, reaching down to pick up the hem of her dress. Suddenly, the attention of the paparazzi turned on her, and she smiled, stopping to pose for the photographers, some of whom she knew from New York.

  “Hey Victory,” one of them shouted. “Where’s Lyne?”

  She shrugged.

  “I hear he’s in Cannes . . .” another one called out.

  “His yacht is here . . .” said another.

  Lyne, here? In Cannes? Her heart gave a thumping lurch. No, she thought, it couldn’t be. And even if he was, he was probably with someone else . . . and it didn’t matter anyway. If only she could become just a little bit more successful, she thought, as she walked up the gangplank and stopped again to pose for the paparazzi, who kept begging her to turn around. Maybe if she worked harder and made more money and her company became even bigger, she thought . . . Maybe then a man would finally come along who really loved her.

  * * *

  “WENDY?” SELDEN ROSE EXCLAIMED. “Wendy, is that you?”

  Who else did he think it was? Wendy thought, with some annoyance. She’d spotted Selden out of the corner of her eye when she’d come downstairs to talk to the manager about getting another room added on for Gwyneth. She’d been hoping to avoid him, but he had suddenly looked up from his newspaper and his face had opened up with pleasurable surprise. Well, there was no getting past him now. She was going to have to say hello. If she didn’t, he would probably tell people she had dissed him.

  “Hello, Selden,” she said, approaching the table. What the hell was he doing in the bar-lobby of the Mercer Hotel at nine a.m. on a Sunday, and drinking, she thought, taking in the glass in front of him, what appeared to be a Bloody Mary? And one with a celery stick, a lemon slice, three olives, and a straw sticking out the top?

  Selden Rose drank Bloody Marys from a straw? Wendy thought meanly. What was he, twelve?

  He stood up. Despite the straw, Selden himself was looking alarmingly sexy, with his longish brown hair and reading glasses. Tortoiseshell. Adorable, really. “Would you like a drink? Or maybe a latte,” he asked. “You look like you could use one.”

  She immediately got her back up. “Do I look that bad?” she demanded.

  “No, Wendy, not at all . . .”

  “Let me explain something, Selden,” she said warningly. “If you want to know one thing about women, and women like me especially, it’s that you should never tell us that we look like we need a drink, a boob job, or a goddamned latte.”

  “Gosh, Wendy,” he said, surprised at this attack. “I didn’t mean . . . You look great, as always . . .”

  “Great?” she asked, slightly outraged.

  “And you definitely don’t need a breast job. I mean . . .” he said, faltering under her withering gaze. “I only said you needed a coffee, hoping that you’d sit down and have one with me.”

  And he pulled over a chair.

  Wendy regarded the chair suspiciously. Oh, what the hell, she thought, tossing her hair over her shoulder. It wasn’t like she had anything else to do. She sat down. “So? How are you, Selden?”

  “I’m doing great . . .”

  “Everyone in New York and Los Angeles, and especially in our business, is always doing great. Have you noticed that?”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “Doesn’t it bother you, Selden? Don’t you find it . . . suspect?”

  “If you put it that way . . .” he began.

  “I do,” she said.

  Selden fiddled with his straw. “You
should be doing great, Wendy. The Spotted Pig won two Oscars.”

  “But not for Best Picture.”

  “It was a comedy, Wendy,” Selden said patiently. “The last comedy that won Best Picture was Driving Miss Daisy. In the late eighties. You know how it works.”

  “Yes, I do,” she said sharply. She caught herself. Why was she being so mean to Selden? Look at him, she thought, picking up her napkin. With his soft face and longish hair, he looked more like a college professor than a killer movie executive, which might be a deliberate attempt on his part to confuse his business associates as to his true nature. On the other hand, it could also mean that Selden Rose was simply just like everybody else and wanted to look younger. She could hardly believe that a year ago she’d found him scary. But maybe when your worst fears were realized, it put everything else into perspective.

  I must call Nico and tell her about this Selden sighting, she thought.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, attempting a smile.

  “I live around the corner. I come here every Sunday morning for breakfast,” he said. “I don’t mind being alone, except on Sunday mornings. There’s nothing more depressing than making eggs and bacon for yourself.” He smiled sweetly, as Wendy stared at his hair again. How had he gotten it so straight? She hoped he wasn’t ironing it.

  “I’m sure you’d have no problem finding a girlfriend, Selden,” she said firmly, not about to be taken in by his lonely bachelor story. “You’re successful, you don’t have kids, you’re . . .” she paused, “attractive.”

  “Do you think so?” he asked, seemingly genuinely pleased at the compliment. He handed her his menu. “You should try the cheese soufflé. It’s really good. Anyway, it’s not that easy,” he said casually, sitting back in his chair.

  Wendy nodded, looking down at the menu. “The soufflé or the relationship?” she asked, hoping it was the soufflé. “Isn’t it too early in the morning to talk about relationships?” she said, handing the menu back to him.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Let’s talk about you. What are you doing here, by the way?” he asked innocently. “Don’t you live farther uptown?”

  “Now we’re talking about relationships again.”

  “Are we?”

  “Well, I live here now. That’s all,” she said. She looked around uncomfortably, feeling a twitter of sexual excitement. For some bizarre reason she was attracted to Selden Rose—and she just couldn’t help it. She crossed her legs, twisting one foot around the opposite ankle as if the gesture might contain her inappropriate desire.

  “Really?” Selden asked. Was there an eagerness in his tone? Or was she imagining it? As if trying to monitor his own feelings, he frowned. “So it didn’t work out with your husband after all.”

  “Nope.” She shook her head. “I suppose you were right all along. You said that once someone betrayed you, they would do it again.”

  “I’m sorry for you, Wendy, if it makes you unhappy.” He paused, and then he said the most astounding thing. “But I’m pleased for me.”

  She looked at him in shock. Had he really said that? She blushed, feeling suddenly giddy. He couldn’t have really meant what he’d just said. She’d better ignore it . . .

  “I mean,” he said. “You probably wouldn’t want to, but I was thinking that maybe we could have dinner sometime.”

  “You mean . . . ?”

  “I mean like a date,” Selden said boldly. “I guess that’s what they still call it. Although it seems kind of funny, people our age going on a date.”

  “Us?” she asked in horror. She hadn’t meant it to come out that way, but she was so surprised she didn’t know what she was saying. When was the last time a man had asked her out on a date? she wondered. Had it ever happened?

  “If you don’t want to, I understand,” Selden said. “I mean, with us working together . . .”

  If they went on a date, did it mean that they would sleep together? she wondered, the idea of it causing a fresh surge of excitement. But no, that came later. You weren’t supposed to have sex with people on the first date.

  She felt a little dizzy. “Oh no, Selden,” she said, wanting to reassure him. “I mean, sure. I’d love to have dinner with you. I guess I can now. I don’t have my kids every day.”

  “You don’t?” he said.

  She shrugged, wanting to quickly change the subject. It was one thing to agree to have dinner with him, but another to tell him about her pathetic situation. “Do you have kids?” she asked.

  “I would . . .” he said, looking uncomfortable, “but I can’t.”

  “You can’t?” Wendy said, taken aback.

  “My first wife and I tried. We had all the tests, and it turned out I was the one with the problem. She didn’t take it that well. She cheated and I found out about it, and then I cheated.”

  Wendy gasped. “That’s terrible.”

  “It was a mess,” Selden agreed. “And then my second wife . . . Well, let’s just say I married someone who was the complete opposite of my first wife. We weren’t married long enough for me to find out whether or not she wanted kids, but I’m sure she didn’t. I wasn’t rich enough for her anyway.”

  “Are there still women like that?” Wendy asked in horror.

  “Yeah,” Selden said, pushing his hair back off his forehead. “But that one was my fault. I was stupid. She was a supermodel, and I let my ego overrule my common sense.”

  “At least you figured it out,” Wendy said encouragingly, relieved that they were talking about him and not her problems, and not their prospective date. “Most men still think that if they can get a supermodel, it will solve all their problems.”

  “That’s where the problems begin,” Selden said cryptically.

  Wendy nodded, and sat back in her chair, impressed. Nothing made a woman feel better than a man who had been with a supermodel . . . and rejected her! There was something very comforting about it. It meant that a man had his values in the right place. She studied his face for a moment. Was Selden really that decent? Or was she making a mistake, and all of this . . . stuff . . . was just part of some schtick to . . . to do what? she wondered. If he was trying to get her into bed, was that really so bad?

  “What are you doing now?” he asked suddenly. “I was just going to go for a walk though Soho. Do you want to come?”

  “Why not?” Wendy said, suddenly finding the prospect of a walk with Selden Rose a lovely way to spend the morning. At least she wouldn’t be alone.

  Selden paid the bill and they got up. “Hey,” he said. “I forgot to ask you. Why are you at the Mercer? Shouldn’t your husband be here instead?”

  Wendy suddenly felt like crap again, remembering her conversation with Tessa Hope the day before. “He should be . . . but it’s an unusual situation. I had to give my husband the apartment.”

  “Jesus, Wendy,” Selden said. “You have been through a lot.” He held open the door for her, allowing her to pass through. “If you need an apartment, I might be able to help you. I’ve got a great real estate agent.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I just might take you up on it.” And stepping outside, she thought about how nice Selden was, and how easy it was to be with a man who was nice for a change. Nice! She thought. Who would have ever imagined that that would be the quality she would end up wanting most in a man?

  * * *

  THREE HOURS LATER, SHE and Selden were riding up in the freight elevator to his loft, having meandered all the way to the Hudson River and back. For the first time in weeks she’d been able to enjoy herself a little, actually forgetting about Shane and his frightening demands. It was so strange and exciting to be walking on a Sunday with a man who wasn’t her husband, and acting like a couple, poking into various shops and stopping for yet another coffee. She’d bought a dress for Chloe, a stuffed dinosaur for Tyler, which Selden had picked out, and a jacket for Magda, and all the while they had talked and talked, as if they both knew that when they stopped talking, the
y would finally have to part company. When they’d reached West Broadway again, she’d looked down, not wanting to leave, but not knowing what else to do, and he had said, “Do you want to see my loft? I could give you the number of my real estate agent.”

  “That would be great,” she’d said, relieved and suddenly elated again.

  “I have to warn you, I’m not that big on decorating . . .”

  “Neither am I,” she said, stealing a glance at him. He was looking back at her, and they both looked quickly away, embarrassed. Everything they needed to know was in that look, she thought. It said, “I want to have sex with you, now. And I hope you want to have sex with me too.” She hadn’t experienced that look for years, not since she was single—over fifteen years ago! Funny how it all came back—the dry mouth, the insides that felt like they were on springs. The fear and excitement over the prospect of unknown territory. A different body, a new penis, and hoping that the sex wouldn’t be a disappointment . . .

  She grimaced.

  “Anything wrong?” Selden asked.

  “Oh no,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Not worried about your kids?” he said. The ride up to his floor felt interminable. It was these old elevators—they took forever.

  “I’m always worried,” she said. “But they’re okay. Shane doesn’t bring them back until five.” Now she’d done it, she thought, taking a step away from him. She’d practically announced that she had the next four hours to have sex with him.

  “What does Shane do with them all day?” Selden asked.

  “He takes them to the stables . . . my older daughter has a pony . . . and to the park, and usually to some other kid’s birthday party.”

  “He can handle them by himself?” Selden asked.

  Wendy nodded. “He’s a shitty man but a good father. Unfortunately.”

  The elevator door opened and they stepped out into a large foyer with a glass wall constructed of green blocks. There was a beige Oriental carpet on the floor. “It’s nice,” Wendy said cautiously.

  “You haven’t seen it yet,” he said, pushing through a door hidden in the glass that opened up into a huge, empty space. Selden’s loft was much bigger than her own—the living room and kitchen were probably 2,500 square feet—but he hadn’t lied; he wasn’t big on decorating. In the middle of the room was a long wooden table with eight chairs; along a wall of windows was a solitary couch fronted by a glass coffee table. And that was it. Wendy wasn’t sure what to say. “It’s . . .”