The Benefactor

by Sebastian Hampson

  ‘What are you doing tonight?’

  Timothy had followed him out onto Commonwealth Avenue, somehow remaining nonchalant even as he hurried to pull on the last of his clothes.

  ‘I have to study for a test,’ Henry lied.

  ‘Come to dinner. You been to Marliave? No? Oh, my man, you’re in for a treat. Oysters and martinis. My treat—I feel bad now.’

  A lopsided, searching grin accompanied this offer—as if saying no would have unknowable, devastating consequences.

  Henry couldn’t remember much more of how that evening had progressed, though it was the happiest he’d ever been to make a new acquaintance. Whatever had happened, it had been enough to solidify his strongest friendship—and that was a process he could never repeat. Now, at the Chelsea Piers, he stopped at the pool’s edge with a towel around his neck and observed the other swimmers. Realising he couldn’t make friends with a stranger in that sort of context ever again.

  In the changing room, the other swimmers hurried into their suits and took out their phones, already due at the office for early meetings, caught up in their own importance.

  With no such pressing appointments, Henry left the sports centre in his own time, finding a cab out the front. Drained after his swim, he was able to forget how little the day ahead would hold if he didn’t visit the wine bar. Sometimes he could even kid himself into believing he was glad to be unemployed. A convenient lie, that one. He missed everything about Her. Mock-ups of the new issue spread across his desk, each page covered in his corrections, his colour-coordinated Post-it notes. Having an excuse to fly first class and rake in the air miles. And the money—or rather the feeling that he’d sacrificed some part of himself for it, instead of luxuriating in the residuals, as he was now.

  Henry often forgot how hard he’d worked, forgot the midnight conference calls and the drafts he’d brought home to pick apart on his Barcelona sofa, next to Martha and her hurricane debris of papers.

  The thought of taking another job had, of course, crossed his mind. But he couldn’t; not when he knew it would never be the same. Going on with what he’d done at Her would inevitably turn out flaccid by comparison—even assuming that somebody out there wanted a fifty-seven-year-old magazine editor to begin with. Editors were put out to pasture at this age—unless they’d established themselves so firmly that nobody would dare try to oust them.

  Where had these despairing thoughts come from? Traceable to Timothy, perhaps—his friend’s reappearance had dredged up a few other ideas. Reasoning with himself, Henry thought of how Timothy would react if he were in the same situation and quickly decided he was happier to preserve his reputation, let the world remember him as he had been. Worthy of recognition. No embarrassing footnotes.

  Once he was home and the day drew on, closer and closer to Timothy’s arrival, Henry made a concerted effort at cleaning up, going through every detail on his mental checklist at least twice, aligning each Henning Koppel sculpture and polishing every surface. The maid wasn’t due until later in the week, and despite her good intentions he always had to straighten up after her anyway. He couldn’t make her understand how he wanted the apartment arranged.

  It was hard, when you were used to having a team of writers and designers who knew your taste and could anticipate precisely what you wanted, sought only to please. Like Timothy, with whom he’d always spoken a private language, scheming together in the back seats of cabs on their way home after dinner, or over scotches and cigars at Club Macanudo—how best to manipulate their audience, whose half-naked body on the cover would create the biggest stir. He’d never had to work at Timothy, never found their opinions to be at significant enough odds. And yes, he did miss that.

  So when Henry saw the text saying Timothy was on his way, and then later heard the buzzer ring, he couldn’t help the palpitations. Timothy cut an imposing presence, even though he was naturally slimmer than Henry. But his eyes, framed by a bushy pair of brows and feminine lashes, couldn’t have done more to counteract that first impression. Still wide open, still dark and wet, they searched for contact, in a way that suggested an innocent boy trapped in a man’s body.

  With his talent for running a fashion shoot and for strong-arming clients over vodka-fuelled meals at Le Cirque and Per Se, Timothy’s irrepressible, hungry charm (and his ability to switch it off in an instant) won him an equal share of admirers and sworn enemies. Yet he managed to pretend the latter didn’t exist. He painted over every crack in a conversation, his style both hyperactive and self-centred but always warm enough to win over an audience. The love-child of narcissistic personality disorder and good taste, as Henry had always put it to people who hadn’t known his friend for long.

  ‘Buddy,’ he said, grinning stupidly and giving Henry a tight embrace. They’d worn the same cologne for years, but it smelled different on Timothy. Henry had never been able to match it, most likely because Timothy had an athletic, virile sort of body odour that mixed with the cologne and pulsed through the air. ‘You holding up all right?’

  ‘Just fine, Timothy. Thanks. What’ve you got there?’

  ‘A little grappa never hurt anyone.’ Timothy pushed past Henry and held up the bottle, spinning it in his hand like a baton, as he walked through to the main room. ‘Glass of this in your hand and you’ll be transported to a Tuscan villa.’

  Timothy hadn’t been in this apartment for at least three years, yet he chose to search the kitchen for glasses rather than asking where to find them. His friend needed to feel relaxed. And, more pertinently, it was always easier with Henry Calder to create a false sense of security before the moping bastard could start making his own half-hearted stabs at it.

  He’d stayed here many times, over the years. Henry and Martha had insisted he use the guestroom when he was in New York for company meetings, never allowing him to pay for a hotel, and they would often indulge in a post-dinner whisky and cigar together out on the terrace. Now those evenings were so distant, Timothy couldn’t help but feel a little uncomfortable, not to mention cheated, as he searched around for some indication that he was welcome here.

  ‘How was Milan?’ Henry said.

  ‘Honestly? Best year of my life. Vogue loved the work. Started out covering Fashion Week and caught up with Inez and Vinoodh—remember how they did that feature for us in ninety-six, but you decided it was too avant-garde? I ended up with my own project as well—channelled Irving Penn, shot Roberta Mancino with butterfly lighting as though she’s Dietrich in a von Sternberg film. Made a series of it, been nominated for some awards. You’ll approve, I know you will.’

  ‘You don’t say. And Milan wasn’t a dull place to live? Always thought it wasn’t much beyond Fashion Week.’

  ‘Oh no, you don’t understand…lifestyle’s straight out of a Valentino spread. History, art, food, wine—girls, of course. Real girls, Calder. Wild girls. They invited us to all their parties. And I mean real nineties parties: setting off like fireworks, dancing to Ryan Paris till dawn parties, not the wet fizzles you get here. You would’ve fit right in. Shame Gloria didn’t take it so readily. We’ve split up.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

  He avoided eye contact, perhaps searching for a new piece of furniture Timothy mightn’t have seen yet to show off, while Timothy came around the kitchen island and handed him a grappa. They clinked glasses sombrely.

  ‘It’s been coming for years,’ Timothy said. ‘Soon as you’re stuck together in another city without the kid, the implosion feels pretty damn natural. Must say, Calder, you’ve done terrific things to this place. When did you put the second staircase in?’

  ‘Couple of years ago. Martha’s idea.’

  ‘I have to get this off my chest: I’m so sorry I didn’t call earlier. It all happened so quickly, and I had so much going on.’

  Henry waved one hand dismissively, which Timothy took as an invitation to sit in the living room. He hadn’t wanted to say much more about Martha anyway, relieved to find that Henry didn’t eit
her. He had no intention of pushing for it.

  ‘Always liked your view,’ he said, crossing his legs so the sharp point of his alligator shoe tapped against the coffee table. ‘And the location, of course. I’m not in California anymore. Ran off with the Palm Springs property between my teeth, but seriously, who could live there? Park Slope is a riot. My brownstone is a few doors down Sterling Place from Sarsgaard and Maggie Gyllenhaal’s, been seeing them—you ever met them?’

  ‘Of course,’ Henry said. ‘But not in Brooklyn. Can’t remember the last time I left Manhattan voluntarily.’

  ‘Well, if you ever decide to leave the island, the parties are off the chain. SJP and Broderick last week. Young people too, new talent. There’s this twenty-five-year-old vegan who makes documentaries about animal cruelty—you’ve got to meet her. So real, so happening. You’d fit right in. We’ll take the Hamptons next summer. Didn’t you know someone with a place on Fire Island?’

  Henry offered no return of enthusiasm. So strange. The old Calder would have been frothing at the mouth over any mention of a social event—especially if he’d missed out on that event. Perhaps he needed to push harder, make up even more fantastical stories about what had happened and whom he’d met, to get this lethargic lump of a man fired up again.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Henry said.

  ‘Right.’ Timothy paused, disheartened to feel, for the first time in as long as he could recall, that the natural flow of their conversation was somehow interrupted. ‘So…what are you doing with yourself, Calder? Swore I wasn’t going to pry, but…what exactly happened? I’m sure it’s not true, what they’re saying.’

  ‘Depends on what they’re saying.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s exaggerated. These things always are. Something about an editorial you wrote—that’s all I heard.’

  Henry sighed and gazed out the window for a moment, hand curled near his chin as though he were about to pull on an imaginary cigarette. Timothy wished he would hurry up and deny it. This wasn’t the pace they were supposed to move at.

  ‘I don’t know what story’s floating around,’ he said at last. ‘What I can tell you is that Michelle Darrow wanted me out—and she made no bones about that when she talked to the board of directors. She’ll be trying to keep her hands clean in their eyes, especially if she’s insecure about what sort of a job she’s doing. I’m getting some work as a consultant.’

  ‘Now I feel bad,’ Timothy said. ‘I’m being nosy. Let me make it up to you later, buy you a drink. But are you sure you’re done with publishing? I could try and line something up for you at Vogue, if you’re interested. Maybe a step or two down from editor-in-chief this time. Believe me, we all wish our clout extended that far.’

  ‘Thanks, Timothy. I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Well, don’t think about it for too long. Gets harder the longer you leave it—you can’t afford to be a recluse in this business.’

  Even as Timothy said it, he was aware that it wasn’t entirely true. Reserve had always worked for Henry in the past, unbelievably. Celebrities liked him, trusted him, because he valued his privacy as much as they did. One of the few areas where Timothy hadn’t been able to excel, no matter how swollen his Beverly Hills address book became.

  ‘Oh, and on a happier note,’ Timothy said, ‘I just bought myself this new golden retriever pup, purebred so he cost me a fortune. I get him next week. Arthur. Here,’ he moved onto Henry’s sofa, pushing right up next to him and presenting his phone, ‘I’ve got to show you the photos. He’s a little monster.’

  Timothy flicked through the pictures the breeder had sent him—Henry had always responded better to visual illustrations than anything verbal. But today he’d gone stiff, gulping down the generous pour of grappa Timothy had given him and spitting out staccato affirmations. He’d seen this poisonous side of Henry before, as on that one occasion his friend had dragged him along to a boring party at a club in SoHo when they were just out of college, and Timothy had made the mistake of voicing his objections to the crowd. Or when, that same summer, he’d bailed on Henry’s plans to meet for a drink because their mutual friend had offered Timothy a spare ticket to a Billy Joel concert.

  In fact, he’d seen Henry like this many times. And while it had always taken him a while to figure out the reason, this occasion was somehow different. He was doing his level best and getting no sort of reciprocation.

  Fortunately, Timothy had prepared for this eventuality, and he soon said he had a dinner date at La Esquina, with somebody he referred to as the girl from Ipanema. Even that didn’t get a rise out of Henry.

  There was a time when they would have both been glad to spend hours on end with each other, drinking and smoking and trading dirt about their clients. And Henry would have done his share of the talking, engaging in the competition he knew it to be rather than sitting there passively.

  While he could have chosen to worry about his friend’s state of mind, Timothy decided it was easier, wiser, to ignore this behaviour. After all, he reasoned, Henry had brought it on himself. He didn’t want to think about the last time they’d seen each other. Nor could he silence the little echoes of that meeting, still resounding after two years of silence.

  LIGHT rain pattered against the windows as Henry went to bed a few hours later. He lay spread-eagled across the king mattress, trying to shrink it to his own size. He’d done his best to keep this room neat, when he and Martha shared it. Smoothing down the linen until it was creased with the shape of the bed underneath. These days it was the one room in the house he couldn’t bring himself to tidy, piles of the shirts he’d once carefully ironed and hung now thrown across the carpet.

  He managed no more than a few hours of sleep before he was wide awake again in a tangle of sheets, sweating, his heart palpitating, as he went through every word he’d exchanged with Timothy and its potential ramifications. The silence with which he’d reacted to the news of Gloria’s departure—the strange desire to side with Timothy, to tell him he knew she’d been no good from the day they’d met, even though he hadn’t thought that at all.

  And then there was the disappointing lack of anything concrete or reassuring on the professional front. Henry hadn’t appreciated how far he’d fallen from grace until Fogel alluded to it. The woman in the bar last night must have heard the same stories, if not worse. Snubbing Inez and Vinoodh might be the only thing he was remembered for, one day. The poisonous gossip must have already seeped across the country and around the globe, tainting everyone he’d ever known.

  Still too drunk to take the Ativan his psychiatrist had prescribed, Henry decided to get up and go downstairs, scavenging the fridge for old cheese and bread, which he ate messily, using the day’s paper instead of a plate and letting the crumbs fall on the countertop. From the open-plan kitchen he could look out over his whole living room, which swam in a still darkness cut through only by the moving lights from the city.

  An article jumped out from the Times as he skimmed it by the light of the distant skyscrapers. Chico Hamilton, the jazz drummer, dead at ninety-two. Older than Henry would have expected. There was no tragedy in having lived a long and influential life, but still it affected him, somewhat maddeningly, irrationally.

  He imagined his own obituary in the Times, if anyone remembered him by then. The achievements they would celebrate. The wellwishers they would quote. Oh yes, Henry Calder. One of those imperial editors-in-chief: big ego, small personality. Distant, mysterious. So certain of his vision that its failure was cast in sharper relief. And that wife, the one who appeared on his arm—hadn’t she been someone too? What was it she’d done?

  Though he’d been consciously avoiding it, Henry acknowledged that he needed to include her in the memoirs. Scrunching the newspaper into a ball that he dunked in the trash somewhat more aggressively than usual, he opened the file on his computer to where he’d left off. Another description of the New York society scene—a 1989 Oxford University fundraising dinner with Tina Brown, Harry Evans and
Nigel Dempster at the Plaza exaggerated out of proportion, pretending he’d spent the whole night with them. In truth, they’d barely exchanged civil introductions, and he’d gone around the room, lost, fishing for other contacts.

  That was before he’d found his feet in the industry—true. Before he’d moved to Her and reconnected with Timothy. But he’d never been able to rid himself of the past, of his shaky beginnings. The nobody he’d once been—the nervous young man with the hanging head who drank too many straight vodkas to try and stay lubricated—followed him to every Met Gala, every power lunch.

  Of course, Martha had been with him at that fundraiser, and a number of other events. He had a handful of photos. And he’d resisted examining them, because her style hadn’t matured at that stage. Striking, sure. But everything she wore, including her expression, was slightly off. Unstudied. If he hadn’t seen it as an imperative, he wouldn’t have thought either of them belonged there.

  They’d found this apartment in 1992, around the same time Henry took the job at Her and Martha received her first big salary increase at UNICEF. He tried to remember what it was like, being so unselfconsciously happy with any outcome because they had a well-padded bed of opportunities and connections to lie on every night.

  That time had a place in the memoirs. A vivid description of watching SoHo and the Village changing from his top-floor vantage point. Closings, then openings, then more closings and openings. First dealer galleries, then vanguard restaurants, then the more generic boutiques appearing in the same spaces, each uneven street getting a facelift year after year. A frenetic, restless need to reforge the area according to some new identity, but nobody knew what it was, how to commit. Artsy faux-European, or all-American corporate?

  He tried putting this into a few paragraphs. But there were so many obstacles. As he began to describe how he’d chosen to rehabilitate a run-down old loft on Bleecker Street before that idea became fashionable, he had to lift his fingers from the keyboard and pause to interrogate himself. It had been fashionable. Ever since the AIDS epidemic, when Martha’s Wall Street fundraising targets got the tip-off and started buying them for relative peanuts.