Lipstick Jungle

  “Lonely, huh?” Selden said, going into the kitchen. “I keep telling myself that I’m going to get some furniture, or at least hire a decorator. But you know what it’s like. You get busy and you keep putting it off, and then before you know it, two years have passed.”

  “Do you even have a bed?” Wendy asked.

  “That I do have. And a large screen TV. In the bedroom. I watch all my shows in bed.”

  She followed him into the kitchen, her footsteps echoing on the bare wooden floor. She could never have imagined Selden Rose—aggressive, high-powered entertainment executive—living like this. But you never did know about people, until you really knew, she supposed. It was probably quite a risk for him, allowing her to see his apartment. He must trust her enough to think that she wasn’t going to go back to Splatch-Verner and blab about his weirdly unfurnished apartment. She had a sudden image of Selden lying in bed alone, wearing a robe, a remote control in his hand, watching the dailies from his various TV shows. There was something deeply vulnerable and sad about it, she thought. But it was also something that she could understand.

  “I’ve got a cold bottle of champagne,” he called out to her, opening the refrigerator door. “It’s Cristal. Victor gave it to me last year.”

  “And you haven’t drunk it yet?” she asked, coming up behind him.

  “I guess I was waiting for a special occasion,” he said, turning around with the bottle in his hand so that they nearly collided.

  “I’m sorry,” Wendy said.

  “I’m not. Wendy, I—” He didn’t finish his sentence, because he suddenly leaned down and started kissing her.

  It was one of those great moments, and suddenly, they were all over each other, Selden pausing only to put down the bottle of champagne. Still kissing, they began removing their clothes, with Selden steering her through the living room onto the couch.

  “My breasts,” she whispered. “My stomach. I’ve had three kids . . .”

  “I don’t give a damn,” he said hotly.

  They were still making love an hour later when she heard her phone ring, its jarring tinkle magnified in the empty space. “My phone . . .” she said.

  “Do you have to get it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  The phone stopped ringing and a few seconds later, the message indicator buzzed.

  “You’d better get it,” Selden said, rolling off her. “No point in being nervous.”

  She got out of his bed, where they had eventually ended up, and walked naked to the living room, where she’d left her bag on the table. She pawed through its contents for her phone.

  “Mother, where are you?” demanded Magda, in a rasping accusing whisper, that immediately caused Wendy to become terrified. “Where are you?” she asked again. “We’ve got pimples. And we’re all sick . . .”

  * * *

  A BEAM OF VICIOUSLY bright sunshine, streaming in through the open French windows, traveled across the bed and landed on Victory’s face, causing her to open her eyes with a start.

  She sat up, and then immediately lay back down again, moaning softly. Her head felt like a cement block that had been squeezed in a vise.

  Oh no. Was she still drunk?

  And why were the shutters open?

  Hmmmm. She must have opened them when she got back to her room last night. Now that she thought about it, she remembered being out on the balcony, looking out over the sea, the moon shining whitely on the water with small waves catching the light like sparks. But mostly she seemed to remember the following sentence: “It’s really not any better than the Hamptons, you know? But the French are so snobby about it.” Now, whom had she said that to? Not Pierre . . . Lyne Bennett, maybe? Had she seen Lyne last night? His face was coming back to her—there were other faces around it—like spotting someone in a high school yearbook photograph for the glee club. She pictured him in black tie, and looking terribly amused.

  She suddenly sat bolt upright. It wasn’t Lyne. It was that actor, she thought. The French movie star she’d met . . . in the hotel . . . late at night . . . Marvelous how the French had their own movie stars, she thought. This one had quite a large nose, even though he seemed to be a young movie star. She hoped that he had not somehow ended up sleeping in her room. That kind of thing had happened before, when she’d woken up and discovered people sleeping on chairs or the floor, and once she’d even found a man sleeping in the bathtub. But that had been in Los Angeles, where, apparently, that kind of thing happened all the time.

  She crawled to the end of the bed and surveyed the room. It did not appear to contain any stray presences, and she sat back on her haunches with relief. And yet, there seemed to be a slightly unpleasant feeling associated with the young man. Had she slept with him? Or possibly insulted him? She seemed to remember discussing his nose, and how it was larger than average and how, if he were an American actor, he’d have to have the tip chopped off. Was this, perhaps, the source of this queasy feeling of guilt? But it wasn’t likely that a Frenchman would be insulted by comments about his nose. Frenchmen tended to be proud of their proboscises, claiming they had all kinds of interesting uses that Americans couldn’t understand.

  Hmm, she thought. She must get some coffee. Coffee might help her think.

  She picked up the phone. “Café au lait, s’il vous plait?” she asked.

  “Good morning, Madame. I’m sorry, but room service is going to take an hour.”

  “Une heure?” she asked, aghast. “For a cup of coffee?”

  “Yes, Madame. We are veree busee this morning.”

  “What kind of a hotel is this?” she asked in desperation. “There aren’t even that many rooms . . .”

  “The restaurant is veree nice for breakfast, Madame. Veree pleasant. Overlooking the sea.”

  “It all overlooks the sea,” she said with an annoyed sigh. “And can you please tell everyone to stop calling me Madame? I’m not married.” She hung up, and sat fuming on the bed. For two thousand dollars a night, you’d think you’d be able to get a cup of coffee in your room in the morning!

  Oh dear. Her head . . . she really didn’t feel too well, and for good reason. First, there was the party on Pierre’s yacht, where she’d certainly had her share of champagne (but so had everybody else) because there was so much to celebrate. And then, she’d come back to the hotel and had quite a bit more to drink, because there suddenly wasn’t anything to celebrate after all . . .

  Yikes. That scene on the yacht. She had a sudden, and discouraging, image of Pierre Berteuil, his face screwed up into a corrugated expression of anger. What could she have said to make him that furious? But maybe he hadn’t been angry at her. Maybe he’d been angry at someone else. She was beginning to realize that Pierre was one of those rich men who had temper tantrums. No doubt he was as hungover as she was; he probably didn’t remember much of it himself.

  The buzzer rang and she jumped, crawling off the bed to answer the door. Perhaps it was room service after all. She opened the door in anticipation, but it was only a maid, holding the newspapers and a pile of towels, and looking very disapproving. “Madame,” she sniffed, handing Victory the papers.

  Now what was her problem? Victory thought. These old French women—they were very strange. The maid went into the bathroom and began noisily running water. Victory returned to the bed and began looking through the papers. In France, fashion designers were as famous as movie stars, and the newspapers had faithfully covered the party for Victory on Pierre’s yacht, massaging the details into glamorous-sounding decadence. Robbie Williams had performed (but only two songs, and neither of them hits), guests had been served Dom Perignon and beluga caviar (that part was true), and Jenny Cadine had been there (but had left after half an hour, claiming she was tired), and so had Princes William and Harry (who should have been at school! Victory thought). “Viva La Victory!” declared the headline on one story, above a photograph of her dancing on a table.

  Oh dear, she thought, p
eering more closely at the photograph. She was sticking one foot into the air, and she seemed to have lost a shoe. No wonder the maid looked disapproving. It wasn’t terribly professional, she supposed, to be dancing on a table with your shoe missing. But someone had to do it . . . and from what she could glean from her poor French, the party seemed to have been a resounding success. Perhaps there wasn’t anything to worry about after all.

  But then, Pierre and his irate expression came back at her like a movie clip. The stern of the yacht had been turned into a disco, complete with a flashing black light, and in her mind, she saw the image of Pierre furiously crawling away over a pony-skin-covered hassock in photographic flashes. Really, she thought. Pierre was good-looking, but not when he got angry. His face crumpled up like an overcooked baked potato. Perhaps someone ought to remind him of that, she thought.

  Her head was beginning to throb. She had no choice but to go down to the restaurant, which was famously overpriced—they might very well charge twenty dollars for a cup of coffee. She moved unsteadily to the wardrobe, where she extracted a linen shift and a pair of mules. She went into the bathroom to brush her teeth, smiling pointedly at the maid until she got the message and went out. Then she looked in the mirror. The sleeping mask she’d been wearing had crawled to the top of her head like a caterpillar, and now her hair was sticking up like a fright wig.

  She wet it down, but it sprang up again. She went back into the bedroom and spotted a long white silk scarf with tassled ends lying over the armchair. Now whose was that? It was obviously a man’s—one of those silk scarves men wore with tuxedos. She picked it up and thought she detected a whiff of French cologne. She looked in the mirror and frowned, wrapping the scarf around her head. The important fact was that the mystery man had had the sense to remove himself before she woke up, thereby not causing either one of them further embarrassment.

  She looked around the room, and spotted a pair of large black sunglasses on the desk. These were not hers either. She put them on, staring out the window into the sun, and then she went out. Well, she thought, moving carefully down the marble stairs to the first floor, no matter what happened last night, at least it was a beautiful day. It was Sunday and she had nothing planned—maybe she would sit by the pool. She’d be sure to run into people she knew, and quite possibly, someone would invite her to lunch. She put her hands over her ears. These marble steps were so noisy; someone really ought to carpet them. The sound of her shoes hitting the marble was clattering through the lobby like gunshots. And now the concierge was looking up at her, frowning. He stepped out from behind his desk and came forward.

  “Ah, Madame,” he said. “I have something for you.” He handed her her watch. She held it up in confusion, wondering how her watch had ended up at his desk. The concierge leaned forward, and speaking conspiratorially, said, “I believe you lost it last night. In the poker game. The gentleman who won it wanted to be sure to return it to you.”

  Poker game?

  “Thank you,” she said. She snapped the watch around her wrist and smiled queasily.

  “Are you okay, Madame?”

  “Oh yes,” she said. “I’m absolutely fine. Couldn’t be better.” She paused. “And the man . . . ?”

  “He left it this morning about half an hour ago. He said he was returning to his yacht and wasn’t sure when he would see you again.”

  This did not sound particularly pleasant, so Victory decided not to pursue it further. “Thank you,” she said. She began moving carefully through the lobby. There were silk-covered couches and little marble tables and settees scattered all over the place. A veritable minefield, really—a person might trip at any moment!

  She went out through the paneled wooden doors at the other end. These led outside, to another series of steep marble steps that had to be warily negotiated, and to gardens below. She stepped outside and pushed up the sunglasses. Poker! That, unfortunately, made sense. She could never resist a poker game. And for some regrettable reason, poker always seemed to be accompanied by large quantities of scotch. Moving delicately, as if she were made of glass and might break, she went down the stairs sideways like a crab.

  A brick path led to the restaurant through a maze of high hedges, and from behind one of the hedges a baby stroller suddenly shot in front of her, nearly causing a collision. Victory jumped back at the last minute, practically falling into the hedge. “I’m so sorry,” said a pleasant Englishwoman’s voice, followed by, “Oh darling! It’s you. I didn’t recognize you with those sunglasses. You’re up early, aren’t you?”

  “Am I?” Victory asked, smiling gamely as she extracted herself from the hedge. The woman was one of those nice English girls she’d met at the party the night before. But what was her name? Something unusual, like “granny” . . . Grainne, that was it, she thought with relief. She somehow remembered spending what felt like hours with those English girls. They were so much fun—and quite badly behaved. Their husbands were business associates of Pierre’s, and they spent all their time shopping and going to parties and flying around the world in private jets and being, as they kept saying, “Naughty.” From the sound of it, they seemed to have been “naughty” in just about every country in the world . . .

  “You were just slightly drunk last night, darling,” this Grainne person said, with an intriguing sort of understatement. “But we all were. And you’re absolutely right,” she said, nodding at the tiny child strapped into the stroller. “Babies are soooo dull.”

  “Did I say that?” Victory asked, aghast. “I’m sure I didn’t mean it. I had no idea you had one yourself . . .”

  “You were hilarious, darling. Everybody loved you. And my husband says you shouldn’t worry about Pierre at all. He is an old fart. His mother is Swiss, you know, so he’s really terribly uptight . . .”

  “Pierre . . .” she croaked.

  “No matter what happens, you have to come and stay with us in Gstaad in February,” Grainne said pleasantly, patting her hand. “I’ll leave my mobile number with the concierge . . . Bye, darling! Call us,” she said over her shoulder, as she wheeled the child away at a fast clip.

  Victory lunged forward determinedly. She must get some coffee. She had a terrible sinking feeling that something had happened with Pierre. And it wasn’t good.

  A short flight of wooden stairs led to the alfresco area of the restaurant, and adjusting the scarf so that it covered the tops of her ears, she started up the steps, determined to appear as normal and carefree as possible. If something really bad had happened with Pierre last night, it was incumbent on her to behave naturally, as if everything were fine. It was still possible, she reasoned, that only a few people were acquainted with this bad incident. If, indeed, it had happened at all.

  “Bon matin, Madame,” the maître d’ said, with a small bow. Victory nodded, and followed him across the restaurant to a small table by the railing. The restaurant, which was covered with a green-and-white-striped awning, was fairly crowded, she thought, and looking at her watch, she saw that it was nine in the morning.

  That was early, especially as she hadn’t gone to bed until late. No wonder the world seemed to have a slightly unreal quality, as if she were still partially dreaming. Glancing up, she could have sworn she saw Lyne Bennett sitting at a table by the railing, reading the newspaper and holding a napkin with ice over his nose. As she came closer, she saw that it was, indeed, Lyne, and that he didn’t appear to be in a particularly good mood. What the hell was he doing here? she wondered, with a certain degree of annoyance. She really wasn’t prepared to run into him now, especially not in this state . . .

  The maître d’ led her to the empty table next to Lyne’s. He pulled out the chair opposite his, so that she and Lyne would be sitting back to back. Lyne looked up briefly. “Good morning,” he said neutrally and went back to his paper.

  Now that was a strange greeting for someone you had dated for six months. But Lyne was strange. Well, two could play at that game, she thought. In a nonch
alant tone of voice, she said “Good morning” back, and sat down.

  She unfolded a pink cloth napkin, and put it on her lap. Behind her, she could hear Lyne turning the pages of the newspaper. There was a sharp crackling noise, followed by the irritating sound of Lyne smoothing down the pages.

  She took a sip of water. “Do you really have to do that?” she asked.

  “Do what?” he said.

  “Smoothing down the pages of your newspaper. It’s like squeaky chalk on a blackboard.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, with faux politeness. “But in case you haven’t noticed, I’m slightly disabled this morning.”

  “That’s not exactly my fault, is it?” she asked. She motioned to the waiter. “What happened to your nose, anyway?”

  “Excuse me?” he asked.

  “Your nose,” she said. “What did you do to it?”

  “I didn’t do anything to it,” he said, with what she hoped was mock outrage. “As you probably recall, it was your friend, the French actor with the exceptionally large snout, who appeared to want to enlarge my nose to the size of his.”

  This morning was getting worse and worse, she thought. Something bad had happened with Pierre Berteuil last night, and then Lyne had gotten his nose punched by the French actor. A hazy image of Lyne grappling with the Frenchman in the hallway suddenly came back to her. “So I did see you last night,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said pointedly. “You did.”

  “Mmmmm,” she nodded. “I see.” A waiter came to the table with a pot of coffee. “And you were at the hotel, as well?”

  “I brought you back here. After the party. You insisted on a game of poker. The French actor tried to make off with your watch, and when I protested, he decided to hit me.”