“You know, she’s so excited about seeing you, that she’s already picked out an outfit for your lunch date.”
“God I love her.”
“She loves you, too.”
“I know she’s busy writing about her zombie peeps, so I just hope that she doesn’t order a side of brains to go with her lunch tomorrow.”
“I’ll be pleased to pass that on.”
“Please do.”
On the drive to Henri Dufort’s penthouse on Fifth, I sat close to Alex, and he held my hand in his. He squeezed it harder than he usually did and held it in his lap. I squeezed his back just as hard, took a breath to collect myself for all that was to come, and looked out the windows, where the city passed by us in colorful vignettes in a host of untold stories.
There was the kid on the skateboard, roaring down the sidewalk without a care; the older man and woman, walking side-by-side with bags in their hands; the homeless man, curled up against one of the buildings; and the three young women dressed in little black dresses, all primed for a night on the town. One of the young women had her head thrown back in laughter. I knew that feeling all too well. It was Friday night—the night was theirs, and it was peppered with promise.
Alex and I were so deep in our own thoughts that the ride was silent until we arrived at Dufort’s building, which he not only owned, but where he also lived in its two-story penthouse.
Fresh into his seventieth year, Henri Dufort was one of the more vital, interesting men I knew. He owned a massive media empire that included Streamed, a Netflix rival, with which Wenn Entertainment had joined forces months ago in an effort to take the service global. So far, the joint venture had been very successful.
Now, Streamed was in more than a dozen countries, which was huge considering that it had only partnered with Wenn a few months ago. Joining forces with Dufort had been yet another brilliant move on Alex’s part, as Streamed was now growing faster in some foreign countries than Netflix was.
Infuriatingly, its successful acquisition was also something the media hadn’t mentioned in its aggressive takedown of Wenn Enterprises.
When the car slowed to a stop, I saw a line of well-dressed people waiting to get inside and a crowd of paparazzi snapping photographs of them.
“Are you ready for this?” Alex asked.
“Oh, I’m ready,” I said.
“When you say it like that, why do I feel anxious?
I didn’t answer.
Tank got out of the car and opened the door for me. Flashes of light began to pop as the crowd of reporters and the paparazzi standing along the sidelines realized that it was Alex and I who had arrived. I held out my hand to Tank and stepped onto the sidewalk as elegantly as I could given the length of my dress and how nauseous I felt from the sudden rush of nerves that overcame me. When Alex emerged from the car, he acknowledged the crowd with a wave, and then, on impulse, kissed me full on the lips as our bodies were sheathed in an unimaginable display of light.
Men and women from the press called out to us. We were asked to turn this way and that. I heard some call out questions about Wenn’s stock and future plans for the SlimPhone.
“Will you scrap it?” one man asked.
“Why would I scrap something that’s sold millions of units in its first week alone?” Alex asked. “Wouldn’t that be silly? The SlimPhone is a success, and it’s here to stay.”
Without another word, Tank ushered us past the crowd, into the building, and to Henri’s private elevator, which he had instructed Alex and I to use earlier in the day. He was sensitive to Alex’s situation. He knew that we’d want to bypass the lines and get to the party with as little interference as possible.
Earlier that day, he’d said, “You’ll go to the bar. You’ll have a drink to calm your nerves. Members of the press will be there, but just put them off, and tell them that you’ll answer their questions later. Bring your man, Tank, with you. I’ve seen him, and I have a feeling that—with him in front of you—few will dare to get in your way.”
When we arrived at the penthouse, Henri’s private elevator opened away from the fray in a small alcove just out of sight of the massive entertaining space. As we stepped out and saw the crowds of people teeming in front of us, I took Alex’s hand.
“Would you like me to stay?” Tank asked.
“We’ll be fine now,” Alex said. “But thank you, Tank. I’ll call you when we’re ready to leave.”
Once Tank had stepped back into the elevator and the doors had slid shut behind him, I turned to Alex. “So, how about that drink? If I remember correctly, the bar is just off to our right.”
“It is—and yes. I could use one. Martini?”
“When has this girl ever refused a martini?”
He grinned at that and we moved into the crowd. I was immediately aware of the attention we caused, but I tried my best to ignore it. Instead, I once again admired the first floor of Henri Dufort’s penthouse. It obviously had been designed for entertainment since it essentially was one long rectangular room paneled in deep mahogany. It was a huge, decadent space, and—not unlike his rooftop, which hosted one of the city’s most fabulous gardens—it was designed to impress.
Everything was on point—from the warm parquet flooring to the antique wall sconces to the massive chandeliers that glimmered twenty-five feet above us. Original paintings from his private collection were prominent, and, despite how many people were there, the noise-level was manageable because Dufort had placed acoustic tiles in discreet, strategic locations along the ceilings to diffuse the noise. What I could hear is exactly what he wanted me to hear—a bit of the crowd and a lot of the orchestra, which was at the far left of the room where I could also see heads lifting and dipping as bodies swirled to the music.
“Dufort knows how to do it,” I said.
“To say the least.”
“How many people do you think are here?”
“Four hundred? Maybe five?” Alex said. “It’s tough to tell in a space this large. It’s huge. I know I’ve asked you this before, but I’ll ask you again. Would you like something like this?”
“No. We’re fortunate enough to have an apartment that overlooks the Park on Fifth. That’s our place. That’s our corner of the world, and I adore it. If we ever need to entertain, we’ll rent a space.”
“God I’m happy I married you.”
“You don’t even know how happy I am that I married you—but I hope that you can feel it. I hope you know what’s in my heart.”
“I can—and I do.”
At that moment, a horn blared, causing me to jump as an elderly man jetted past us in a motorized wheelchair. He had round spectacles at his eyes, his thinning white hair was perfectly trimmed and slicked away from his pale face, and clenched in his teeth was one mother of a cigar that left a ribbon of blue smoke in his wake, almost as if he was an aircraft getting ready to drop from the sky and crash to the ground.
“Who the hell is that?” I asked.
“That’s Henri’s father, Audric Dufort.”
“That’s Audric? Your mentor? I can’t wait to meet him.”
“He’s a card. I’ll introduce you to him later.”
“I’m surprised Henri lets him smoke in here.”
“Audric can do any damned thing he wants. He’s wealthier than his son—and everyone here knows it. But beyond that, people really do love him. Because he’s so well-liked, they overlook the smoke. He’s a character—you’ll see.”
“Let’s brave the crowds and get ourselves that drink.”
Alex reached for my hand and led the way.
Thankfully, the bar was indeed just to our right—but it was three-deep in people, and the masses looked thirsty despite the servers milling through the crowds with flutes of champagne on silver platters. Clearly, they wanted something stronger—and who could blame them? Thankfully for us, Alex was nothing if not well known, and it wasn’t long before a bartender spotted him in the crowd and called out to him. Alex or
dered cocktails for each of us, and—in what seemed like only a matter of minutes—we each had our martinis.
“You’re a magician,” I said, touching my glass to his.
“I wish,” he said while he took a sip. “Because if I were, I’d make her disappear. Don’t turn around, but your old friend Tootie Staunton-Miller is here with her husband, Addy. And they’re coming our way.”
“And so it begins,” I said. “And naturally with her. I’m too low-class for her. I’m not in her league, and she’s never liked me because of it. But at least I like Addy. I just wish he’d be brave enough to come out of the closet and ditch that bitch. He deserves better than her.”
“Maybe one day he will.”
“If he’s hung in this long....”
“I hear you. But you’re right—he’s a gentleman. As for her? Well, you already know all about her.”
I flashed my eyes at him. “And guess what? I’m ready for her.”
“You’re in a mood tonight.”
You have no idea....
“Alex!” Tootie said as she closed the distance between us. She was wearing a sleek, ivory-colored evening dress that, even at her age, didn’t betray an extra pound of body fat. She was nothing if not fit and well preserved. She gave Alex an air kiss on each cheek and made a clear point of ignoring me. “You look as handsome as ever,” she said.
“Hello Tootie. Addy,” Alex said.
“Good to see you, Alex,” Addy said. “And also you, Jennifer. You look more beautiful each time I see you.”
“Thank you, Addy. You look pretty swell yourself.”
“My wife couldn’t disagree more,” he said, ignoring Tootie’s disapproving glance. “She thinks my tux is ill-fitting.”
“It is. You’ve lost too much weight.”
“I’m low-carbing it,” he said to us. “I’ve given myself over to the revolution—and it’s working. By the way, Jennifer, might I just say that red is your color?”
I was about to respond to that when Tootie said, “Do you really think so, darling? Red? I find it an interesting choice.”
“Oh, hello Tootie,” I said. “I wasn’t sure if you saw me.”
“Do forgive me,” she said. “I was just trying to process everything before we spoke.”
“Process what?”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I was wondering if red was the correct color to wear tonight. Of all nights?”
“I don’t understand.”
“For the past two days, all Addy and I have seen on CNN and CNBC are all of those awful red graphs showing Wenn’s stock collapsing. The moment I saw you, that’s the first thing that entered my mind—all of those red graphs plummeting down, down, downward. All pointing toward despair.”
I blinked at her. “You’re equating my red dress with those graphs?”
“Oh, everyone is. Or will be.”
“Seriously, Tootie?”
“After all of these horrid calls for Wenn’s demise, most of which have been underscored by jagged arrows pointing toward hell in that exact shade of red, it isn’t that much of a stretch, my dear. You’ll see. That dress is going to be labeled as a warning call by evening’s end.”
“You know, Tootie, you should write a book.”
“Well, there’s a change in subject.”
“Actually, I’m right on subject.”
She put her hand to her chest. “Oh, I suppose you mean my memoir? The tell-all everyone wants me to write, but that they’ll never get out of me.”
“No, I was thinking that your genre might be fantasy.”
“It might be what?”
“Fantasy. With your imagination, I think you’d be a shoo-in for it. And Wenn Publishing could help you cobble your story together and get it quickly into mass-market paperback. You know, so that you could do signings at airports.”
“You expect me to sign where?”
“At airports.”
“But what about my memoir, and the long-anticipated hardback edition of that?”
“As you’ve pointed out, Tootie, things are collapsing at Wenn—and we need to cut costs in an effort to save money. Besides, as you’ve admitted yourself, you don’t want to write that book. That said—after what I just heard from you about my dress—you really should think about writing fantasy. I think you’d take to it as a surgeon to a knife.”
“Oh dear,” Addy said, though I saw that he was suppressing a smile.
“So clever,” Tootie said, patting her hair. “You know I have to ask—when are you going to give Alex a son?”
“Excuse me?”
“A son,” she said. “An heir. It’s what he married you for. Essentially, you’re a brood mare for the Wenn empire.”
“I’m a what?”
“Oh, you know what I mean.”
“Actually, I don’t,” Alex said.
“And neither do I, especially since I’ve never associated myself with a brood mare.”
“All I’m asking is when can we expect a little Wenn?”
“Then why don’t you ask that question?” I said.
She just blinked at us.
“We’re not going to get pregnant for a couple of years, Tootie,” Alex said, trying his best to temper the tension that threatened to fuse Tootie and I together into one fiery brawl of hatred. “Jennifer and I want to enjoy and focus on each other during the early years of our marriage before we have a family.”
“And whose idea was that?”
“Both of ours.”
“Really? Was it? Hmmm.”
“By the way,” Addy said. “Congratulations on your marriage. Well done.”
“Yes,” Tootie said. “But I have to say that you made such a curious decision about where you were wed. I hear that it took place in your office, Alex.”
“It did,” he said.
She glanced over at me and sipped her champagne. “Well, I suppose, considering the situation, that sounds about right. But still, I have to ask you, Alex...what would your mother think? You know she would have wanted a big church wedding for you. You were her only child. You know she would have wanted that for you, even if this is your second marriage.”
“My mother and I never got along, Tootie. She was abusive to me. You know that. You also know that my mother is dead. My father killed her before he turned the gun on himself. Furthermore, this is only my second marriage because my first wife, Diana, died in a car accident. You remember that, don’t you?”
“I—”
“Naturally, you must. So, knowing all this, I need to ask—why would I even consider what anyone other than my wife would have wanted when it came to our wedding?”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh dear. I’m afraid I’ve over-stepped.”
Neither of us responded to her. Instead, we just stared at her.
“Well, I’m sure it was beautiful,” she said. “In the office and all. With that questionable lighting. You probably had lovely flowers. And ribbons. Festive things.”
“The sentiment was beautiful,” Alex said. “And it remains beautiful. I’m a lucky man, Tootie. I’m married to the love of my life. Going forward, I hope you’ll understand just how much Jennifer means to me. As for the ceremony, you’re actually wrong—it really was quite plain. But it got the job done, didn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it did.” She looked nervous for a moment as she finished her champagne. Then, she flicked her gaze over to me. “May I ask what you wore, Jennifer? I assume it was white since tradition really doesn’t matter anymore. Was it something casual? You know, like a pantsuit?”
Did this woman never stop?
“Actually, Tootie, I wore pasties,” I said. “And a thong. It’s all the rage in Paris. You should have seen it. But, oh, the struggle I had with my clitoria.”
“With your what?”
“My clitoria. It’s a rare flower that hails from the warm, moist environs of Southeast Asia. You can imagine where I held the bouquet, and what the flower looks and smells like.
But they’re such a fragile flower, you need to handle them with extreme care or the petals will fall away from the buds.”
“That sounds oddly sexual and weirdly grotesque.”
“That’s just your upbringing talking,” I said.
“Anyway,” Alex said. “It was nice seeing you both. And don’t worry about Wenn’s stock, Tootie. Things are going to be just fine.”
“I still can’t believe there’s a flower named ‘clitoria’,” Tootie said to me.
“Then you should join a garden club,” I said. “Some people say they never can even find their clitoria—which leads to frustration, depression, and a life unlived. But that wasn’t the case for me. In fact, it never has been—I’ve always been able to find my clitoria. Good night, Tootie.” I turned to Addy, who was trying to stifle a laugh, and gave him a kiss on each cheek. “And thanks for being such a good sport,” I said in his ear. “I really do try with her. I promise, Addy.”
“Why bother?” he said quietly to me. “Besides, I like the show. Talk later?”
“Of course.”
“Dance later?”
“I’m all yours.”
Addy gave me a peck on the cheek, and then I waved my fingers at them and into the crowd Alex and I went.
CHAPTER TEN
“CLITORIA?” ALEX SAID when we moved into the crowd. “Pasties? A thong?”
“I hope I didn’t embarrass you, but she deserved that.”
“She did deserve it, and you didn’t embarrass me—I actually like it when you give it back to her. It’s kind of a turn-on.”
“A turn-on?”
“You don’t take any bullshit from anyone, Jennifer. That’s one of the reasons why I love you. Hell, even Addy digs watching you two spar—you can see it on his face, which doesn’t say much about how he feels about his wife since it’s generally been you who’s walked away the winner. That said, I just don’t know where you come up with things like ‘clitoria’. Is that really a flower?”
“It is. And I’m here to tell you that it was accurately named.”
Annihilate Him (Volume 1) Page 8
