Four Blondes

by Candace Bushnell

  Comstock told her that she had “vision.” He said he’d make her movie a hit. That he could promote the hell out of anything, that, hell, he could strong-arm an Oscar if he had to.

  “I can do anything, Janey,” he said. “You’ve got to remember, I’m from Jersey and my father was a plumber.” He was lying in her bed naked, smoking a cigar. He wasn’t a big man, and he had (rather disconcertingly) skinny little legs, but he had a barrel chest and his voice was deep and impressive. It was a voice that Janey could listen to forever. “Being a successful movie producer is better than being president,” he said, twirling the tip of the cigar in his lips. “You have more impact on the lives of the people, and you—hey hey—have a hell of a lot more fun.” He winked at her leeringly.

  “You naughty man!” Janey squealed, throwing herself on him. He grabbed her and twisted her around, kissing her face. “Who’s naughty?” he asked. “Who’s the naughty one?” His cigar fell to the floor as he spanked her bottom.

  Mostly, though, they had serious discussions about life, with a capital “L.” Janey loved those evenings when he’d turn up at her house around midnight, after he’d been out at some business dinner. During the evening, Janey would usually be at some stupid party at a store, and she’d get a message from him: “Chicken, Chicken Little. It’s the Big Bad Wolf calling to huff and puff down your door—hey hey—your back door! See you later?” And Janey would make her excuses and rush home to greet him in lingerie. “Am I the luckiest guy in the world or what?” he said.

  “You don’t know a thing about fairy tales.” Janey giggled. “It was the three little pigs who had their door huffed down.”

  They almost always got around to sex, but not before they talked for a couple of hours. They would sit around her glass coffee table, snorting tiny amounts of cocaine and drinking neat vodka. It was not at all like Janey to snort cocaine, but then again, since she’d met Comstock, she felt like she was discovering parts of herself that she didn’t know existed. He was opening her up. To life. To sex. To the realities of her own possibilities.

  It was dizzying.

  They talked about his movies. “What did you think of that one?” he asked her again and again. “What’s your opinion?”

  “I like the way you don’t think you’re too smart or too good to talk to anybody,” Janey said.

  He told her about his success—how he’d imagined it, struggled for it, finally won it—and how it was important to do something that had meaning, not just for yourself but for others as well.

  “You’re the only person who understands me,” Janey said. “Who doesn’t put me down for what I’m about and what I think.”

  “It’s important for people to feel free even if they’re not free,” he said.

  Then he’d lean over and put his hand under her shirt, pinching her nipples until she thought she would scream in agony.

  He would watch her, his breathing getting heavier and heavier.

  And then he would come at her from behind, spreading her cheeks and ramming her asshole with his penis.

  “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” he’d say.

  Luckily, it was small, so it didn’t hurt too much.

  Even her sister was impressed.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Comstock Dibble,” she squealed into the phone one morning at the beginning of summer.

  “Why didn’t you ask?” Janey said. A light rain was falling, slowly darkening the dirt in the flower beds outside her door.

  “Gosh, Janey. He’s only the man I want to meet most in the world.”

  Janey couldn’t help rubbing it in a little. “Why?” she asked.

  “Because I’m a producer? Because I want to make movies for him?”

  Janey moved around her little house, plumping up the cushions on the couch. “But I thought you were a television producer,” she said. “Isn’t it . . . I mean, it’s my understanding that those two things are completely different animals.”

  “Goddammit, Janey. You’ve only known that I wanted to be a movie producer since I was eight!” Patty screamed.

  Janey smiled, picturing Patty gritting her teeth in frustration, the way she had when she and Janey were kids and they would fight, which was basically every minute they were in a room together.

  “Oh, really?” Janey said. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t know that.”

  “Christ, Janey. I’ve only been working my butt off for five years. I need a break. I’ve been trying to meet Comstock Dibble for-ever . . . Janey,” she pleaded, “If you told him I was your sister . . .”

  Janey went into her tiny bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. “I don’t mind introducing you, but as a matter of fact, he’s already helping me.”

  “He is?”

  “I’m writing a screenplay for him.”

  There was silence.

  “You’re not the only smart one in the family,” Janey said viciously.

  “I think that’s . . . awesome,” Patty said. She spoke to someone else in the room. “Hey Digger,” she said. “Janey’s writing a screenplay for Comstock Dibble.”

  Digger got on the phone. “Janey?” he said. “That’s way cool.”

  “Thank you,” Janey said primly.

  “Hey,” he said. “Why don’t you come over to our house for dinner.”

  “I’m in the Hamptons,” Janey said patiently.

  “So are we. We’ve got a house here. Where’s that place we have a house?” he called to Patty.

  “Sagaponack,” Patty yelled back.

  “Sagaponack,” Digger said. “Shit, who can keep up with these Indian names?”

  Janey winced. Sagaponack was only her favorite area in the Hamptons. How had Patty gotten a house in Sagaponack?

  “Come this Saturday,” he said. “I’ve got the guys from the band staying here. Oh, and, hey, if you do this thing with Comstock, you should think about making Patty a producer. And bring Comstock on Saturday night too.”

  “I’ll try,” Janey said. She should have been pissed off, but she was actually pleased.

  Janey wrote twenty-five pages, then thirty, then thirty-three. She wrote in the morning, and in the afternoon, around one o’clock, she would hop on her bicycle and pedal to the beach. She knew she made a pretty picture cycling down the tree-lined streets with her blond hair flying out behind her and her bicycle basket filled with books and suntan lotion. One afternoon she ran into Bill Westacott. He was standing in the middle of the beach, looking troubled, but then again, that was probably his normal state. Janey tried to avoid him, but he spotted her anyway.

  “Janey!” he called. She stopped and turned. Christ, he was good-looking. He was wearing a wet suit, tied around his waist; he certainly kept his body in good shape. He’d behaved stupidly the summer before, but on the other hand, he was a screenwriter. A successful one. He might be useful down the road.

  “Hello,” Janey said.

  He marched over, looking sheepish. “I should have called you. After last summer. But I didn’t have your number, and I didn’t want to ask Redmon for it—I called information and you weren’t listed—”

  “How is Redmon?” Janey asked.

  “He hardly talks to me, but that’s okay. We’ve had these things before. Over women. He’ll get over it.” He moved closer and Janey felt the heat between them.

  “How’s your wife?” she asked, swinging her hair over her shoulder. “Will she get over it?”

  “She hasn’t gotten over it for fifteen fucking years. And I suspect she won’t get over it anytime in the future. I could be a fucking monk and she wouldn’t get over it.”

  “That’s too bad,” she said.

  “Janey,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “I . . . I haven’t stopped thinking about you, you know?”

  “Oh Bill.” Janey laughed. “I’ve definitely stopped thinking about you.” She began to turn away, but he grabbed her arm.

  “Janey, don’t. Don’t do this, okay? I’m
pouring my heart out to you and you’re stomping all over it. What is it with you women? You want us to fall in love with you and then we do and then you kick us in the teeth and won’t stop kicking.”

  “Bill,” Janey said patiently. “I am not kicking you in the teeth. You’re married. Remember? Your wife is insane?”

  “Don’t torture me,” he growled. “Where are you staying?”

  “I have my own house. In Bridgehampton.”

  “I have to see you. In your house.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Janey said, laughing and pulling away. “You can’t come over. I have a boyfriend.”

  “Who?”

  “Someone famous.”

  “I hate you, Janey,” he said.

  She finally agreed to meet him later, at the bar in Bridgehampton. When she turned up, he was there, waiting. He was freshly showered, wearing a worn yellow oxford-cloth shirt and khakis. Damn, he looked good. He was talking to the bartender. Janey slipped onto the barstool next to him.

  “Hiya.” He kissed her quickly on the mouth. He lit up a cigar and introduced her to the bartender.

  “So. What do you do?” the bartender asked.

  “I’m a writer,” she said.

  “Puh! A writer,” Bill said, choking on his drink.

  “I am,” Janey said, turning to him accusingly. “I’m writing a screenplay.”

  “For whom?”

  Janey smiled. She’d been waiting for this moment. “Oh, just for Comstock Dibble.”

  Bill looked relieved. “Comstock Dibble? He’ll hire anyone to write a screenplay.”

  “Will not,” Janey said playfully.

  “Will too,” he said. “I heard he once hired his doorman. It didn’t work out, though. It never does with amateurs.”

  “You’re jealous,” Janey squealed. She loved the way Bill made her feel like a little girl. “You probably thought I was just a dumb model. I’ve written thirty-three pages!”

  “Is he paying you?”

  “What do you think?” Janey said.

  “I’ll bet he’s your lover too,” Bill said slyly, poking her in the ribs.

  “He is not my lover.”

  “He isn’t?”

  “Well . . .” Janey said. “Let me put it this way. If he were my lover, he’d be my boyfriend.”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” Bill said.

  “Why not?” Janey said.

  “Because he’s married,” Bill said.

  “Is not!”

  “Is so!”

  “He is not married,” Janey said. “I would know.”

  “Hey, Jake,” Bill said to the bartender. “Isn’t Comstock Dibble married?”

  “I dunno.”

  “You ever see him in here with anyone?”

  “Only that socialite. Whasername. The one with the face like a horse.”

  “See?” Janey said.

  “He is married,” Bill said. “To the horsey socialite. He keeps her in a barn and only lets her out on special occasions when she has to race other horsey socialites. And the grand prize is . . . one million dollars for charity! Whe-e-e-e-e-e-e.”

  “Oh Bill,” she said.

  She let him walk her home, and she let him kiss her on the stoop. She hoped that Comstock wouldn’t drive up at that moment, but it was unlikely, as he only came to the Hamptons on weekends. “Go away,” she said after a while.

  “Janey,” he said, smearing kisses over her face. “Why can’t I be your lover again? If you can sleep with Comstock Dibble, surely you can sleep with me.”

  “Who said I’m sleeping with Comstock Dibble?”

  “He’s so ugly.”

  “As a matter of fact, he’s the sexiest man I’ve ever met in my life, but you don’t need to know that.”

  “I’ll never understand you women,” Bill said.

  “Good-bye, Bill,” Janey said.

  “I want to see you again,” he whined.

  She poked him in the chest with her index finger. “Only if you help me with my screenplay.”

  “What’s it about?”

  She turned to go back into the house. “What do you think it’s about?” she called over her shoulder.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Me!”

  She closed the screen door and flopped onto the couch. She laughed. She picked up the phone and left Comstock a sexy message.

  This was going to be the best summer ever.

  VII

  On July Fourth weekend, Patty announced that she and Digger were getting married. The papers were full of the news. Over on Parsonage Lane, where Patty’s house was, Janey sat in Patty’s antique-style kitchen, poring over the clippings and trying not to be jealous. Patty and Digger had immediately been proclaimed “The New New Couple” of the Millennium. They were good-looking (that was really pushing it on Digger’s part, Janey thought), creative, successful and rich. They weren’t from conventional “society” backgrounds. And they were under thirty.

  “Look at this,” Janey said, turning over the pages of The New York Times style section, which featured a two-page story (with color pictures) about Patty and Digger, their careers, lifestyle, and who they hung out with and where. “You’d think they’d never heard of anyone getting married before.”

  “It’s crazy, isn’t it,” Patty said. “Especially considering that Digger’s such a goof.” She looked out the window affectionately at Digger, who was pacing around the pool, wearing black sunglasses and what appeared to be a dish towel wrapped around his waist. As usual, he was talking on his cell phone and smoking unfiltered cigarettes. He looked, Janey thought, like he had cold sores, although she had never actually seen one. He usually had bits of tobacco in his teeth, however. “I mean,” Patty said, “he can’t even swim.”

  “He can’t?” Janey said, thinking, What a waste. In fact, she couldn’t help thinking the whole house was wasted on Digger, who, she’d found out, had grown up in a tiny ranch house in Des Moines, Iowa. Every time she pedaled up to the house, she felt nearly dizzy with envy. How had Patty managed to get it right, while she was still struggling? Patty’s house was one of the nicest in Sagaponack—a big, lazy shingled farmhouse with charming outbuildings, a long gunnite pool, and a huge green lawn that opened out into a field of wildflowers.

  “Oh yes,” Patty said. “You know his best friend drowned in a quarry when he was a kid. He named his first album after him. You remember? Dead Blue Best Friend?”

  “Hey!” Digger said, coming into the kitchen. He leaned over and wrapped his skinny arms around Patty; he stuck his tongue in her ear. “Don’t I have the most beautiful chick in the world?” he asked Janey, and Patty giggled and pushed him away. He pointed a long, bony index finger at her. “Just wait till our wedding night, ba-a-a-a-by,” he said.

  “Haven’t you had sex yet?” Janey asked primly. This prompted Digger to make a humping motion with his hips, which was disgusting since he had one of those stomachs that looks like it contains a small melon, like a starving child’s in Africa. Then he got a beer out of the fridge.

  “Don’t you think it’s kind of . . . weird . . . the way you and Digger come from such different backgrounds?” Janey asked after he’d left.

  “No,” Patty said. “We don’t, anyway. We’re both middle-class.”

  “Patty,” Janey said patiently. “Digger is white trash. I mean, just that name: Digger.”

  “He made it up,” Patty said.

  “Why would anyone make up a name like Digger?”

  Patty looked up from her list-making. “He used to dig a lot in the dirt when he was a kid.” She chewed on the end of her pen. “Anyway, who cares? He’s a genius and the voice of his generation.”

  “Patty,” Janey asked. “Has anything bad ever happened to you?”

  “Well,” she said, “there was that time you went to the Mick Jagger concert when you were sixteen and didn’t come home all night and Mom and Dad interrogated me for three hours, but other than that, no.”

  “Th
at’s what I thought,” Janey said.

  “I thought you were so cool back then,” Patty said. “I wanted to be just like you.”

  Janey had taken up with Bill Westacott again. She had promised herself she wouldn’t, but it was a meaningless protest. She wondered how could she be with Bill when she was in love with Comstock, and justified it by telling herself that both men flattered her in different ways. Comstock believed that she could do anything, while Bill seemed surprised that she could do anything at all—which was, in itself, a sort of triumph. Comstock would ask her how many pages she had written and encourage her to write more; with Bill, she would tell him how many pages she’d written to rub it in. He had been so lofty when she’d met him, she loved pulling him down and pointing out that really, he was no better (if not worse) than she was.

  “You see, Bill,” she said. “I’m just like you. I’m going to make a million dollars and buy a big house.”

  “You damn women!” Bill said grumpily, sitting on her couch in his boxer shorts, smoking a joint, and leaning back to display his still nearly-washboard stomach. “You all think you’re just as good as men. You think you deserve everything that men have but that you should get it without working for it. Christ, Janey. Do you know how long I’ve been writing?”

  “Twenty years?”

  “That’s fucking right. Twenty years of hard fucking labor. And after fifteen years they maybe stop jerking you around and start taking you seriously.”

  “You’re saying that I shouldn’t even try just because I haven’t been doing it for fifteen years.”

  “No. I’m not saying that. Why don’t you fucking listen? I’m saying that if you think you’re going to do this and you think it’s going to be a success, you’re out of your fucking mind.”

  “You’re jealous,” she said. “You can’t stand the fact that I could do this and it could be a success, because then where does that leave you, Bill?”

  They would banter like this almost every time they saw each other, but one day it got out of hand.

  “Janey,” Bill said. “Why the fuck do you want to write a screenplay? It’s an impossible business, and even if you do succeed, you’ll end up making a lot less money than you thought you would, because it’ll be spread out over five years.”