Victory hung up, suddenly in a good mood. She interpreted Lyne Bennett’s phone call as a sign that something was about to change. Something new and interesting was going to happen—she could feel it. She looked at the phone confidently and dialed Japan.
Chapter 3
VICTORY UNFOLDED HER NAPKIN AND LOOKED AROUND the restaurant with relief.
Even if her collection hadn’t been a success, it was still great to be back in New York, where women could be themselves. Where they could be straightforward and say, “I want this!” and no one would treat them like they were the antichrist, violating some sacrosanct law about female behavior.
Unlike in Japan, she thought fiercely. “Miss Victory. You not say no to my proposition!” Mr. Ikito had insisted when she’d called him. “You woman. You listen to what man say. What man say is better.” And finally, she had had to give in, agreeing to put off her decision for another day. Which was really annoying. “Darling, you simply force the stores to take your designs,” her friend David Brumley had said, when he’d called her to console her after those disastrous reviews. “Don’t let them boss you around. You tell them what to do. Jeez.” Of course, it was easy for David to say. He was a successful fashion designer himself, but he was also a man, and gay. And known for being a diva. People were scared of David. Whereas no one, it seemed, was the least bit frightened of Victory Ford . . .
Well, she wasn’t going to think about it. Not now, when she was having lunch with her best girlfriends at Michael’s restaurant. Despite all the ups and downs, Victory had never become jaded about life in New York City, and she still got a thrill out of having lunch at Michael’s. It was ridiculously overpriced and as cliquey as a high school cafeteria, but the day you stopped appreciating the sublimely silly things in life was the day you became a dried-up old turd. And then no one would take your phone calls.
She was the first to arrive at the table, and she took the opportunity to scope out the scene. Michael’s was the high-priced canteen for the city’s movers and shakers, some of whom were so addicted to the action that they lunched there every day as if it were an exclusive country club. If you wanted to remind people of your presence, you had lunch at Michael’s, where it was rumored that the gossip columns paid off the waiters to report back on who had lunch with whom and what they talked about. The hot tables literally had numbers ranging from one to ten, and, probably because she was lunching with Nico O’Neilly and Wendy Healy (Victory was too modest about her own importance to add her name to the list), they were seated at table number two.
Situated a few comfortable feet away and standing on its own, was table number one, the most coveted table in the restaurant. It was not only considered “The Power Table,” it was also the most private table in the restaurant because it was far enough away from the other tables to prevent eavesdropping. Seated at the table were the three women whom Victory secretly referred to as The Queen Bees. Older, wiser, and known for their occasional screaming fits, they were the ultimate career gals who had been cutting a swathe through the city for years. It was rumored that they secretly ran New York. Not only were they at the top of their fields, but having lived here for forty years or more, had deep connections with the people who mattered. Indeed, one of them, Susan Arrow, was known for having once said, “Everybody was a nobody at one time in their life, including the mayor.”
Susan Arrow might have been close to seventy, but it was nearly impossible to decipher her real age by looking at her. Something happened to successful women when they reached forty—it was like time began to reverse, and somehow they managed to look better and younger-looking than they had in their thirties. Sure, they had botox and fillers injected into their faces, and eyelifts and sometimes even facelifts, but the effect was more profound than the result of what could be achieved with the surgeon’s knife. Success and self-actualization was what really made women glow—they shone with the fullness of life. Susan Arrow had battled cancer, had had two facelifts and possibly breast implants, but who cared? She was still sexy, wearing a cream cashmere V-neck sweater (revealing a slightly incongruously youthful décolletage) and cream wool trousers. Victory and Nico always said they hoped they’d look half as good as she did when they got to be her age.
Susan was the founder and president of the notoriously successful public relations company ADL, and she was seated with Carla Andrews, the famous prime-time news journalist, and Muffie Williams, who, in her late fifties, was the youngest of the three. Muffie was the president of the American branch of B et C, the luxury goods conglomerate, which made her the most powerful woman in the United States fashion industry. Her appearance, however, stood in stark contrast to her fluffy-sounding WASP name. Muffie was a WASP (hailing from a Boston Brahmin family), but she looked severely French and unapproachable. Her dark hair was scraped back across her scalp and fastened into a small bun, and she always wore tinted blue Cartier glasses in what were supposedly eighteen-karat-gold frames. She was a ruthless businesswoman who didn’t suffer fools, and she could make or break a designer’s career.
Victory’s heart had skipped a beat when she’d first walked into Michael’s and seen Muffie—not necessarily from fear, more from admiration. To her, Muffie was the equivalent of Mick Jagger. Her taste was flawless and her standards nearly unreachable. A kind word from Muffie meant everything to Victory, and while some people might have found it childish, Victory still cherished the various comments Muffie had made to her over the years. After her first big show in the tents, six years ago, Muffie had come backstage, tapped her on the shoulder imperiously, and whispered in her fluttery East Coast accent, “That was very good, dear. Very, very good. You have poh-ten-ti-al.”
Under normal circumstances, Victory would have gone to the table to say hello, but she guessed that Muffie’s response to her show was probably in line with the critics, and while Muffie wouldn’t say anything about it if she didn’t like it, her silence would be just as effective. Sometimes it was better not to put yourself in a potentially awkward situation, and so when Muffie had caught her eye as she sat down, Victory decided to limit her greeting to a neutral nod of acknowledgment.
But now, as she was checking out the Queen Bee table, Muffie suddenly looked up and caught Victory staring. Victory smiled awkwardly, but Muffie didn’t seem offended. She stood up and, putting her napkin down on her seat, began walking toward her.
Jesus, Victory thought nervously. She couldn’t imagine that her show was so bad as to warrant Muffie making a special effort to let her know. In two seconds, Muffie was standing above her, her rail-thin physique clad in sequined tweed. “Darling, I’ve been meaning to call you,” she whispered.
Victory looked at her in surprise. Muffie had never honored her with a phone call before. Before she could respond, however, Muffie continued, “I want you to know that your show was excellent. The critics don’t know what they’re talking about—they get it wrong as often as they get it right. Continue with what you’re doing, dear, and eventually the world will catch up with you.” And having delivered her pronouncement, Muffie patted Victory on the shoulder twice (much like the queen tapping a knight with her sword, Victory thought), and went back to her table.
For a few seconds, Victory sat in shock, trying to absorb this unexpected compliment, and then she felt as if she were going to explode with happiness. These kinds of moments were rare, and no matter what happened in the future, she knew she would treasure Muffie’s comment as if it were a rare family jewel, taking it out and looking at it from time to time when she was feeling low.
There was a frisson of energy at the door, and Nico O’Neilly appeared, passing the maître d’ at a brisk clip as if he didn’t exist and heading right over to the table, her face lighting up when she saw Victory. Nico was almost always cool and often cold, but never with her friends. “Japan?” Nico asked, giving Victory a hug.
“Terrible,” Victory said. “But Muffie Williams just told me she thought my show was excellent. I’ll be d
ining out on that one for the next three years.”
Nico smiled. “You won’t have to, Vic. You’re a genius.”
“Oh Nic . . .”
“I mean it,” Nico said, unfolding her napkin with a snap. She turned to the waiter who was hovering next to her, waiting for the right moment to hand her the menu. “Water. Sparkling. Please,” she said.
Victory looked at her friend with affection. Her relationships with her girlfriends were invaluable, because it was only with women that you could really be vulnerable—you could ask for a pat on the back, without worrying about being seen as hopelessly insecure. But her friendship with Nico went deeper. Years ago, when she’d had a bad year and hadn’t had enough money left over to manufacture her next collection, Nico had loaned her forty thousand dollars. Victory hadn’t asked, and wouldn’t have ever considered it. But one evening, Nico had appeared at her studio like a fairy godmother. “I have the money and you need it,” she said, writing out a check. “And don’t worry about not being able to pay me back. I know you will.”
The interesting thing about people, Victory thought, was that you never knew what hidden depths they held, especially people like Nico O’Neilly. When she first met Nico, she never imagined that Nico would end up teaching her about friendship, that behind her aloof exterior was a fiercely loyal person. If only the waiter knew what a stunning human being Nico really was, Victory thought, glancing in amusement at the waiter’s face as he tentatively extended the menu. Nico waved it away. “It’s okay. I already know what I want.” Her comment was innocuous enough, but the waiter looked as if he’d just been bitten. Like most men who are faced with a woman who refuses to engage in the regular social niceties, the waiter probably thought Nico was a bitch.
Nico was blissfully immune to most people’s opinions of her, however, and she leaned across the table eagerly. She was unusually keyed up. The meeting with Huckabees had gone exceptionally well, especially as Peter Borsch had mostly ignored Mike Harness—and then, riding high on her triumph, she had done something she never thought she’d do and had called Kirby Atwood, secretly arranging to meet him after lunch. “I’ve just done the most terrible thing,” she said proudly, as if she didn’t think it was terrible at all. “I was so mad at Mike Harness this morning . . .”
“I’m sure he deserved it . . .”
“Well, actually, it doesn’t have anything to do with work.” Nico sat back, and looked down, rearranging the napkin on her lap. “I realized, I’ve shut myself up in a tower. I’m untouchable, and so I did something awful . . .”
Victory laughed. “Sweetie, you never do anything awful. Especially not socially. You’re always perfect.”
“But I’m not. Or at least, I don’t always want to be. And so I—” she broke off, looking around the restaurant to make sure they weren’t being overheard.
At that moment, Susan Arrow spotted them and leaned over the side of her table.
“Hello, girls,” she cawed like an old crow.
Nico suddenly became the professional again. “Darling, can we talk about your client, Tanner Cole?” she asked. Tanner Cole, the movie star, was Bonfire’s November cover boy, and had insisted on photo approval. Pleasing him had required three photo shoots, and then he had apparently frightened one of the assistants by suggesting that she’d like to give him a blow job in the bathroom.
“Sweetheart, the man grew up in a barn. Literally. He has no manners,” Susan said.
“Who?” Carla Andrews demanded suspiciously, putting her hand up to her ear. Carla was sitting on the other side of the table, and hated to be left out of anything—one of the reasons why, many suspected, she’d been able to hold on to her job for so long while younger women had already been put out to pasture.
“Tanner Cole. A movie star,” Muffie Williams said dismissively. Despite the fashion industry’s love affair with Hollywood, Muffie stubbornly insisted on taking an old-fashioned view of actors, which was that they were overpaid, pampered children and should be regarded as such.
“I know he’s a movie star,” Carla said, giving Muffie a disdainful look. “I’ve only interviewed him nine times. I interviewed him when he was practically a baby.”
“Are you sure you want to share that information?” Muffie asked, touching her lips with her napkin.
“I don’t care who knows what. I’m not afraid of anything,” Carla retorted.
“Victory,” Susan asked, ignoring Carla and Muffie, “did Lyne Bennett manage to get ahold of you?”
So that was how he got my number, Victory thought. She nodded. “He called me this morning.”
“I hope you don’t mind,” Susan said. “I never give anyone’s number out, but Lyne has been bothering me about it for the last three weeks. Ever since he went to your show. I kept telling him I had to ask you first, but Lyne is like that—he gets obsessive. He called me five times, insisting he had to meet you . . .”
Jesus, Victory thought—now all of Michael’s restaurant was going to know that Lyne Bennett wanted to go out with her on a date. But it didn’t really matter—the minute she was seen in public with him, everyone would know anyway. “But I already have met him,” Victory said, mystified by Lyne’s behavior. “At least ten times.”
“You’ve probably met him a hundred times,” Susan snorted. “But Lyne doesn’t remember anything. He has a brain like a sieve. He saw his first business partner at a function a couple of years ago, and he didn’t recognize him.”
“He’s not that stupid. He’s a billionaire, you know,” Carla injected.
“Anyway, he’s harmless,” Susan said.
“He’s a pussycat,” Carla added. “Women are always using him. Especially smart women.”
“He’s a man. He has absolutely no idea what he wants,” Muffie whispered.
“He happens to be a very good friend of mine,” Susan said primly. “He may not be perfect, but who is? I always remind myself that no matter how much my husband, Walter, drives me crazy, I’m probably worse . . .”
“Here’s Wendy,” Nico said, looking up.
“Hello. I’m sorry I’m late,” Wendy Healy said, arriving at the table. Her glasses were steamed and she was dripping slightly.
“Sweetheart, you look like you walked,” Susan cracked. “Aren’t they taking care of you at Splatch?”
Wendy made a face. She had walked from her office—her assistant, Josh, had casually informed her that he couldn’t get a car. “I have a male assistant,” she said, by way of explanation.
“I had a male assistant once,” Victory said. “He wore pink sweaters he bought from a thrift shop, and he took naps in the afternoon. On the couch. Just like a child. I kept thinking I should feed him milk and cookies.”
“Are all the men in this town going crazy?” Wendy asked.
“Speaking of which, have you seen Victor Matrick lately?” Susan asked casually.
“I’m supposed to see him this afternoon,” Wendy said.
“Give him my love, will you, dear?” Susan said.
“Of course,” Wendy said.
“Enjoy your lunch,” Nico said, with a wave.
“I didn’t know Susan knew Victor Matrick,” Wendy whispered, sitting down.
“Used to date him,” Victory said. “They still vacation together in St. Barts. With their respective spouses, of course.”
“I’m always astounded by how you know these things,” Nico said.
“I get around,” Victory said. “I ran into them in St. Barts last year.”
“How was Victor then?” Wendy asked.
“Weird,” Victory said. “He had a golf club shoved down the back of his pants. And there aren’t any golf courses on St. Barts.”
“I am seriously worried about Victor,” Wendy said. “He sounded crazy this morning. If he goes, I’m fucked.”
“No one’s career should depend on one person being there or not,” Victory said. “It should only depend on yourself.”
“Should be. But you’re lucky,
you don’t work for a corporation.”
“And I never will—for that reason,” Victory said. “But Parador is making money. And everyone knows that’s because of you.”
“It’s easy,” Wendy said with a shrug. “I’ve got to win an Oscar, that’s all. With Ragged Pilgrims. Or else Nico has to get Victor’s job.”
“That’s going to take at least a couple of years,” Nico said, as if this were entirely within the realm of possibility. “In the meantime, I wouldn’t necessarily be worried about Victor.” She signaled to the waiter. “Victor is manageable. If you know how to deal with him.”
“Yes?” the waiter asked tentatively.
“We’d like to order.”
“I’ll have the hanger steak, please? Medium rare,” Victory said sweetly.
“The trout, please,” Nico said.
“And I’ll have the tuna Nicoise salad. With no potatoes,” Wendy said.
“Potatoes on the side?” the waiter asked.
“No potatoes at all. Not even on the plate,” Wendy said. “In fact, if you could remove all the potatoes from this restaurant, that would be ideal.”
The waiter looked at her blankly.
“I’ve got to lose some weight,” she said to the table. “My tits are hanging down to my belly button. I actually looked at them this morning and nearly jumped out of my skin. No wonder Shane hasn’t initiated sex in six months.”
“How is Shane?” Nico asked, by rote.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Wendy said. “I hardly ever see him. His restaurant is probably going down the tubes, so he’s in a foul mood all the time, except with the kids. I swear, sometimes I think it would have been better for Shane if he’d been born a woman. In any case, we only see each other in bed, and I know it sounds terrible, but I don’t care that much. At some point, I’ll stop working and then we’ll have the rest of our lives to spend every minute together and get on each other’s nerves.”