by Judith Gould
“You will answer to the name Vanessa,” the woman said. “We once had a ba . . . Never mind.” The white-white shark’s teeth gleamed and the straight-combed blond hair swayed like a curtain. “Vanessa. Now, say it. Va-nes-sa. And you will call me Ma-ma.”
Edwina stared at her with loathing. She wanted to run away on the spot.
Three days later, the opportunity presented itself. In the middle of the night she sneaked into the master bedroom, stole a twenty-dollar bill, and showed up at Al and Joe’s at five in the morning.
Her “uncles” knew their priorities. Al fled with her to a midtown hotel while Joe stayed behind and pleaded innocence to the social-services people. Less than a week later, a new apartment in a different neighborhood was found, no forwarding address was left, and the movers came with the pedestals, the plaster bust of Madame de Pompadour (now Day-Glo green), and all the Indian fabrics.
Life went on happily for another three years, during which time Al and Joe taught her all about style and doted on her shamelessly. They dressed her up like a princess, took her to art openings and the theater, and even to the Pines for the summers, where she was quickly dubbed “The Princess of Fire Island.”
Then, just as Al’s fashion photography was taking him into the big time, Joe fell head-over-heels for a handsome model Al was using, and vanished with him. Al was heartbroken for months, and to keep his misery at bay, he threw himself into his work.
Before long, Alfredo Toscani broke through the last of the barriers and became New York’s most celebrated fashion photographer, earned gobs of money, and lived and worked out of a brownstone in Murray Hill with his “niece.”
By this time Edwina had long been infected with fashion fever. It was Al who sent her to the Fashion Institute of Technology, from which she had dropped out to become Duncan Cooper’s wife and Hallelujah’s mother.
“Ma!” Hallelujah said sharply, giving Edwina a poke. “Like, are you here or what?”
Edwina jerked herself out of the past. “Of course I’m here, darling,” she said in a startled voice. “I was thinking about when I was your age.”
“Oh, Ma,” Hallelujah said despairingly, “I bet you were born old.”
Chapter 4
Slam, slap, hump hump hump.
Gasps of pleasure.
Grunts of pain.
The smacks of bare thighs pounding against bare buttocks.
The sounds were music to Antonio de Riscal’s ears, and he was as close to heaven as he could get on earth. The kid he had picked up earlier was worth every penny of the three hundred dollars he’d promised him. He was hung like a stallion and his couilles were those of a bull, which came as no surprise—he had surmised that fact from the bulging jeans.
Stifling a moan, Antonio gripped the edge of his glass-topped desk for dear life. He shut his eyes in ecstasy. He was completely bent over the clear two-inch-thick slab, his torso still flawlessly clothed in jacket, shirt, and tie, but his trousers and briefs were gathered around his ankles, and his naked, hairy round buttocks were raised, exposed to the air.
Grimacing, he twisted back and forth as the muscular boy gave him the ride of his life. No one, ever, had been that deep inside him. At first penetration, it had hurt terribly, but now that his sphincter was relaxed, it felt like the giant penis was thrusting against a silk lining.
An animal! Antonio thought as he spun out of reality’s orbit. The kid is a dirty, low-class animal. A sex machine!
Even Antonio’s contortions didn’t open him up far enough. The kid had to grab his buttocks and lift him straight off the floor as he rammed, and the angle of the thrusts set everything inside Antonio singing and buzzing. With every thrust Antonio could even feel the delicious crunch of pubic hair against his buttocks. “Yes!” he whispered, spurring the kid on. “Oh, yes—”
He opened his eyes just as straight ahead, barely twenty feet across the room, the door to his office burst open.
He stared in horror.
Doris Bucklin! His ten-fifteen appointment!
Under him, his hard penis deflated, shriveling to nothing. His squirming buttocks went dead. His face turned red.
He thought he was going to die.
Doris Bucklin stood there, mouth gaping like a dead fish’s, staring at the kid still humping away at Antonio de Riscal, Seventh Avenue’s premier designer, like it was his last fuck on earth. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Liz Schreck was looking in over Doris’ shoulder.
Antonio dropped his chin down on the glass, shut his eyes, and whimpered painfully. He wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. Or, better yet, that a bolt of lightning would sizzle and strike both Doris Bucklin and his damn secretary dead.
And the kid’s sudden orgasmic groans only added to the surreality of the situation. “I’m coming!” he shouted. “I’m coming! I’m coming! I’m—”
The office door slammed shut. Cautiously Antonio opened one eye to make sure the women were gone, and only when he was certain they were did he dare open them both.
With a plop the kid pulled himself out, but Antonio hardly even felt it. Wearily he pushed himself up from the desk.
The kid casually pulled off the condom that had sheathed his penis. “Tip’s all full,” he said proudly, holding it up to the light. “See?”
Antonio didn’t look. He was too miserable, and only vaguely aware of the rubber plopping into the wastebasket beside him.
Behind him, the kid pulled up his jeans and zipped his fly. “Hey, I’m pretty good, huh?” He was grinning from ear to ear. “Anytime you need a fuck, you just tell me.”
Slowly Antonio turned around. He stared at him bleakly. “Get out!” he whispered.
“Huh?” The kid scowled, suddenly angry. “Hey, man. You owe me. You said three hundred.” He held out his hand, palm up. “You got fucked, now you pay.”
I got fucked, all right! Antonio thought miserably. I fucked myself.
The kid advanced toward him threateningly. “Three hundred dollars, man,” he growled.
Like an automaton, Antonio pulled up his trousers, reached for his wallet, and took out three crisp hundred-dollar bills. “Now, get out,” he whispered.
“Whassa matter?” The kid leered at him. “You didn’t like it?”
“Just go!” Antonio pleaded. He sank down into his swivel chair and clutched his head in his hands. Then his head suddenly whipped up. “Not that way! The back door!”
“Okay, okay.” After a few seconds he heard the door slam and he was alone.
For a long time he sat there unmoving. He had no desire to face the world. Not after this. He didn’t know how he would ever hold up his head in front of Liz or Doris Bucklin again.
For once he just didn’t know what to do.
The thought came out of the clear blue.
Anouk. His wife. He had to call Anouk.
He rubbed his hands over his sweating face.
She would know what to do. Anouk always knew just how to take care of any situation.
With trembling fingers he reached for the phone and stabbed his home number. He listened to the rings. One. Two.
“Anouk . . . Anouk . . .” he willed aloud, drumming his manicured nails on the glass slab.
Maybe she’d gone out already.
“She’s got to be there,” he murmured. “Anouk . . . come on. Oh, please, dear God,” he prayed, “let her be there. She’ll know what to do.”
Four rings. Five. “Come on, come on!” he moaned as the telephone rang a sixth time in his apartment on Fifth Avenue.
Chapter 5
“One of these days,” Anouk de Riscal warned sweetly as she glanced at the hairdresser in the tortoiseshell mirror, “someone, someplace, is going to cut off your pecker. And when they do, don’t come to me for pity.”
“Oooo!” Wilhelm St. Guillaume shrilled in mock horror as he teased a handful of Anouk’s gleaming soft raven hair with extravagant flourishes. “Bitchy, bitchy, bitchy! Didn’t we sleep well?” His voice
had an unplaceable, vaguely Continental accent.
“We slept perfectly well, thank you,” Anouk said archly. She was seated in queenly splendor in her luxurious aubergine velvet, nineteenth-century Russian time capsule of a bedroom, and smiled at the reflection of her spidery hairdresser, who, when she was in town, came every two days to work his magic on her in the privacy of her apartment.
Wilhelm leered suspiciously at her and flapped a limp wrist. “Or is it because I, who know every beautiful square inch of your lovely head, and who has not seen you in a month—”
“Of course you haven’t, dear Willie. I was in Careyes and Las Hadas.”
“I would have thought Brazil, also.” His fingers crept spiderlike along her skull. “You see, I have a marvelous memory, and these itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny new scars behind your pretty little ears were definitely not there before you left.” Triumphantly he lifted a whole handful of her hair and made a production of examining the backs of her ears closely. “Definitely Dr. Ivo Pitanguy, I would say!” His eyes glowed at Anouk in the mirror. “Madame has had another face lift!” he announced in a stage whisper.
She didn’t miss a beat.
“And William S. Williams, late of Chicago, Illinois, has a big mouth,” she said succinctly, “which he will keep firmly shut. Or else Madame is not only going to find herself a new hairdresser, but she’ll also spread the word about town that that phony accent of yours, as well as that minor title which you conferred upon yourself— both of which are highly suspect as it is—are really just the imaginings of a butcher’s offspring from the South Side.” She raised her eyebrows significantly and her pupils took on a hard topaz-chip brilliance. “Do I make myself clear, Willie, darling?”
His jaw clicked open and snapped shut. “How did you know?” he hissed, forgetting himself momentarily and dropping his accent.
“I’ve known for rather a long time, actually,” Anouk said casually, drumming her fingertips on the velvet arms of her chair. Then her voice grew irritable. “Now will you get on with it? I do not have all day, you know.”
Wilhelm St. Guillaume, a.k.a. William S. Williams, knew when he was beaten. He hung his head in shame and, without another word, got busy snipping, crimping, teasing, and combing.
Anouk sat back and smiled coolly. She enjoyed the resulting silence and his pouting discomfiture equally. As the acknowledged queen bee of New York society, she wielded a great deal of influence: one word from her could make or break far more important men and women than Wilhelm St. Guillaume, and she did not suffer fools gladly. Nor was she an enemy to be taken lightly. If need required, she thoroughly enjoyed dragging out every considerable weapon in her arsenal.
Once again she idly wondered why she bothered to put up with Wilhelm. But of course, she knew very well. What Mozart was to music and Van Gogh was to paints, Wilhelm St. Guillaume was to hair dye. He alone, of the legions of hairdressers she had summoned over the years to her vast apartment, was so gifted at dye jobs that her hair came out a pure, rich, gleaming raven black that even in the brightest sunshine never reflected so much as the slightest hint of telltale red or purple.
That was why she put up with him. Because in his field he was the absolute best there was.
A malicious smile hovered at the corners of her full, sensuous lips. Of course, that still didn’t make him indispensable. No one knew better than she how stars rose and fell daily in New York: Manhattan was a shooting-star gallery, with destinies rising and falling constantly. Today’s “in” florist or hairstylist could easily become yesterday’s news and be totally forgotten. It happened all the time. And invariably, she was the one who first discovered these little treasures, just as she would be the first to discard them in favor of someone new. After all, what was the use in having power if you never wielded it?
Deep down, hidden by all the laughter and wit, surgery and dye, Anouk de Riscal had the heart of a street fighter and the soul of a drug pusher.
Anouk was five feet, ten inches in her stocking feet and her beauty was breathtaking—and timeless. Her profile was that of a classic South American beauty, and head-on, with those alluring eyes the color of smoky, tiger-striped topaz, and the complexion which seemed carved from splendid honey-stained ivory, she put many a younger beauty queen to shame. Her hair was thick, glossy, and no matter how she wore it—in a severe chignon, or loose and straight, or, as had become her latest rage, in a big wispy Belle Epoque Gibson-girl style—it was invariably stuck with scintillating antique diamond pins, one of her trademarks. And her thin-boned, 110-pound body made her the perfect mannequin for her husband’s extravagant creations.
She was also perpetually thirty-nine years old, had never celebrated birthdays, and kept even her zodiac sign a secret worthy of the KGB. Let other women blow out candles and hanker for gifts. She, Anouk de Riscal, had wanted only one present—ever—and that was one which she had given herself, a girl’s real best friend, a passport in which her age had been doctored and which had, so far, passed scrutiny at every major border. In fact, she had lied so proficiently and for so long about her real age that reality had blurred around the edges and she had honestly forgotten how old she really was.
Anouk believed in many things—money, power, and even the tooth fairy—but she did not believe in growing old gracefully. She fought it every inch of the way, and saw nothing wrong in doing everything conceivable to stay as young-looking as possible, as long as she didn’t end up with a perpetual ear-to-ear grin like some women she could name. Which was why, when it came to plastic surgery, it was so important to choose the very best surgeon available.
Last month’s visit to the famous Dr. Ivo Pitanguy had been her sixteenth.
You name it—over the years, Anouk had had it.
Rhytidectomies, the normal face lifts which included tightening the slackening jowl and neck muscles.
Malar implants, which helped dramatize her cheekbones.
Blepharoplasty, in which excess skin was removed from around her eyes.
The coronal lift, for those horizontal worry lines.
Dermabrasion, which removed superficially wrinkled skin.
And last, but certainly not least, blemish correction, through which spider veins and those telling age spots were destroyed by argon laser.
Willie was right, of course. She hadn’t been only to Las Hadas, which was in Manzanillo, and Careyes, which was tucked between it and Puerto Vallarta. She’d recuperated in Manzanillo and Careyes, but first she’d spent a week in Rio at Dr. Pitanguy’s clinic, where the world-renowned surgeon had performed not only his usual facelift magic, but also his specialty—a forehead lift.
She smiled coolly into the mirror. But you don’t know that, do you, Willie?
So now her facial skin was taut and smooth again. The signs of age had been kept at bay for a little bit longer, though no matter how hard she tried, it was a losing, downhill battle. Lifts, contours, tightening, the clever use of cosmetics—there was only so much that could be done. Still, she wouldn’t have it any other way. She would never, ever let aging get the better of her. Not if she could help it.
And she could.
The telephone gurgled softly, interrupting her reverie. Two rings. Three. Four.
She felt the rise of irritation. Why didn’t someone answer it?
The telephone quieted. Wilhelm, still chastised, continued to snip in silence. A moment later, the butler knocked discreetly and cleared his throat. “Madam,” he intoned in sepulchral tones, “it’s Monsieur.”
Anouk looked at him and sighed. “See if I can call him back, Banstead, would you?”
“Very well, madam.” The redoubtable Banstead disappeared soundlessly, and then returned again. “I’m sorry, madam. Monsieur says it is extremely urgent.”
“Oh, all right.” Imperiously Anouk extended her hand, and before the butler could reach for the extension, Wilhelm, trying to ingratiate himself, snatched it up with the eagerness of a puppy and handed it to her. She gave him one of her “l
ooks” and gestured him away. Then, flicking a length of hair behind her right ear, she held the receiver close. “Darling, Banstead tells me it’s important?” She used her brightest, cheeriest manner, which immediately told Antonio that she was not alone.
Antonio’s voice, despite traveling for a mere thirty-some blocks, sounded like a distorted squawk. “Anouk, thank God you’re in!” He breathed shakily. “You’ve got to help me!”
She was fully alert now, her brows knit together, a headache tightening in her temples. She placed a hand over the receiver, eyed Wilhelm sternly, and said, “Abracadabra for five.” Then, when the door shut behind him, she removed her hand from the mouthpiece. “Antonio! Darling, what is it?”
“I need your help,” her husband said miserably.
“Well?”
“I . . . I can’t talk about it! I’m so ashamed!”
“Darling, I can’t help you if you don’t pull yourself together and tell me exactly what happened.”
“I know. I know.”
“Well, out with it, then,” Anouk ordered. “And you needn’t sound that dejected. It can’t be that bad. . . . Antonio? Can it?”
“It is.”
She sighed. “I’m listening.”
“It’s Doris Bucklin. She had a fitting this morning ...”
“And?”
“Well . . . we didn’t have it.”
“Oh-oh. There was trouble? . . . Antonio! Will you speak up!”
“She . . . she walked right past Liz and barged in when she was supposed to wait.”
“So? Oh, I see. Don’t tell me, darling. You were doing something naughty. Is that it?”
“Yes.” His voice was a bare whisper.
“Well, what were you doing?”
“I got . . . horny this morning.”
“And you picked someone up. Merde! Will you never learn?”
“How was I supposed to know she’d barge in like that?”
“And you, I suppose, were bent over the desk?” Anouk could be uncannily psychic.
