by Judith Gould
First Anouk: “Darling?” she asked Edwina curiously.
Then Antonio: “Is everything all right?”
Edwina stopped in mid-pace. “Why shouldn’t it be?” she asked sharply. “I mean, this is the perfect dinner party, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know.” The hint of a frown crossed Anouk’s face and then vanished. “You seemed to be ... ah . . . stalking out rather angrily.”
For a moment Edwina merely stared, filled with incredulity.
Antonio picked up where his wife had left off: “Edwina, if something has upset you, we would really like to know what it is.”
Edwina’s mouth dropped open. She couldn’t believe her ears. Did he know? Of course he did!
Anouk, pleading: “Darling, please. Tell us what is wrong.”
Antonio: “If it’s something we have done . . .”
Suddenly Edwina’s anger reasserted itself. She had had enough. She was sick and tired of being toyed with, of being a pawn in the de Riscals’ manipulative games. “You mean you really don’t know?” she said, her voice choked with rage. “Somehow I find that hard—very, very hard—to believe.”
“I see that we must talk,” Antonio said smoothly.
“Talk!” Edwina spat, shooting him a look of undiluted thunder and lightning as she renewed her furious pacing.
Anouk turned to R.L., who was himself marveling at the de Riscals’ interaction.
“Darling,” Anouk sighed, laying a hand of seeming concern and sincerity on his arm, “we’re not kidnapping Edwina. We just need two minutes with her.”
“That’s up to her, isn’t it?” R.L. responded tightly.
“Edwina,” Antonio urged smoothly, “may we talk inside?”
Edwina stood her ground. “I’m not going back in there.” She was quivering with rage. “If you want to talk, we can talk here.” She crossed her arms across her chest.
Antonio exchanged fleeting glances with his wife.
“Darling?” Anouk looked at R.L. questioningly. “Would you mind terribly waiting . . .” Her voice trailed off and she was already sliding an arm through his in order to lead him back into the apartment.
R.L. hesitated and looked at Edwina. “Eds?”
“It’s all right, R.L.,” she said from between her teeth.
“You’re positive?”
She nodded.
“Remember, I’m here if you need me. Just don’t leave before—”
“I won’t.” Her fingers were digging in at her elbows, as though preparing for flight.
“Now, then, darling.” Anouk smiled sweetly up at R.L. “Have you taken a close look at the pair of Canalettos hanging in the foyer? They’re really quite superb.” She led him back into the apartment, her every movement one of supreme self-possession. She smiled sweetly once he was inside and adroitly slid her arm from his. She gestured fluidly at the pair of smallish paintings, one hung above the other, which glowed in the candlelight. “Beautiful, aren’t they? Now, off I go. We won’t be long, I promise.” She floated out, shutting the front door softly, leaving him standing in the domed foyer.
“Now, darling,” she said brightly, returning to her husband and Edwina with a rustle of black silk and velvet. “Please, do tell us what is the matter.”
Edwina stared daggers at her through narrowed eyes. Then she turned to Antonio. “You two really know how to use people,” she said bitterly, “don’t you?”
Antonio raised an eyebrow. “Please?” he said, reverting to the quizzical expression of the non-native-born, an almost certain indication of stress.
“I suppose you’ll register additional confusion and surprise when I tell you that it’s about all those hints you kept dropping. The ones about my becoming your number two when Rubio died.” When Antonio didn’t respond, she couldn’t help the ugly laugh that rose in her throat. “Well, I’ve got to hand it to you, Antonio. You really had me fooled.”
“Ah. Now I think I understand,” said Anouk, taking over. She placed a soothing hand on Edwina’s arm.
Edwina shook her off and continued to glare accusingly at Antonio. “How dare you?” Her voice was oddly quiet. “How dare you dangle bait in front of me, only to jerk it away at the last moment.” She turned to Anouk. “And you. Did you invite me only to provide the evening’s entertainment?”
Anouk didn’t so much as blink, but something under her smooth skin subtly rearranged itself. It was almost as if a monstrous being that inhabited her body was struggling to contort itself into its real form. “Really, darling,” she said calmly, “there’s no reason to upset yourself like this. As you know, Klas has been employed longer than you, and you must admit he does have seniority.”
Edwina wasn’t mollified. “How,” she demanded of Antonio, her voice shaking, “how could you promise Rubio—practically on his deathbed!—that I’d take over for him, and then, the moment he’s dead, go back on your word?”
Antonio didn’t reply, and his eyes shied guiltily away from hers.
“Rubio?” asked Anouk, feigning surprise. “He told you that?”
“He did. And in no uncertain terms, I might add. He did not hint about it, he came right out and told me he’d talked it over with Antonio and that it had all been settled.”
“Then that explains your . . . misunderstanding!” Anouk exclaimed. She looked positively stricken. “No wonder you’re so upset. Oh, darling, I am sorry. You see, Rubio was so ill, the poor darling, that we simply didn’t have the heart to add to his worries by telling him otherwise. We know how fond you were of each other, and what high hopes he had for you. Surely you can’t blame us for humoring him at the end?” Anouk paused. “Or would you rather we had upset him?” she added softly.
Trust Anouk to have an answer for everything. Well, let’s see if you have one for this, she thought grimly, and pounced.
“Then what about Antonio’s constant hints to me? Did I, who incidentally, was not then—and who am not now—on or even near my deathbed, need to be humored as well?”
The split-second silence thrummed with bad vibrations.
Then: “Antonio,” said Anouk, “did seriously consider you for the position. Didn’t you, darling?” Anouk glanced at her husband, who nodded. “Both of us discussed it in detail—”
“And let me guess! Decided that Klas Claussen, whose sales record is nowhere near as outstanding as mine, and who happens to be a cokehead to boot, fits the bill best? Were those the kinds of details you discussed? Were those the deciding factors?”
Anouk’s face was expressionless, but her voice was a blade. “What you and Klas do for recreation is neither my business nor Antonio’s. It isn’t up to us to pry into your private lives—not so long as they don’t impede your performance at work.”
Edwina laughed. “And you think Klas’s drug-taking doesn’t?”
Anouk chose not to answer that. “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” she said, continuing smoothly. “We do not condone drugs, neither in the workplace nor elsewhere. Quite the contrary.” She eyed Edwina shrewdly. “But who’s to say Klas really does take drugs? Have you actually seen him take them?”
Edwina suddenly felt weary. She raised both hands in defeat. “There’s no winning, is there?” she said bitterly. “You’ve got an answer for everything.”
“Why, yes!” Anouk said with bright satisfaction. “I suppose I have.”
“Only, this time you’ve misjudged one minor detail.”
“Oh? And which is that?”
“You’ll have to find another victim for your little games. In the future, it won’t be me, Anouk.”
“And what, may I ask, is that supposed to mean?”
Edwina’s head swiveled, her eyes flashing lasers at Antonio. “I’m tendering my resignation, effective as of this moment,” she said with dignity.
Anouk’s voice was whisper-soft, but her eyes were hard as diamonds. “I would think that over very carefully first, were I you. Don’t be a stupid, selfish little reactionary who thinks too highly of
herself! Do you think plum jobs such as yours grow on trees?”
Edwina stared at her. “I’m selfish? I think too highly of myself? You’ve got it all turned around, haven’t you? Do yourself a favor, Madame de Riscal. The next time you need a victim to toss to the wolves, feed them your precious Klas Claussen. You won’t be sorry you did.” That said, she turned and stabbed the button to summon the elevator.
Anouk caught her by the wrist. “We’re not quite finished,” she hissed from beneath clenched teeth.
Edwina’s chin went up. “Oh yes we are,” she said stubbornly.
“You ignorant fool!” Anouk’s talons dug in, and fury contorted her face into a mask. “What makes you think you are so deserving and special?” she went on relentlessly. “People are passed over for promotion all the time—for reasons of seniority, because they haven’t proved themselves, whatever.” She paused, her eyes aflame in their hollows. “But if you do indeed quit, be warned. You’ll be finished in this business. You know that, don’t you? I do not need to remind you that the fashion community is a small one. Word spreads quickly when employees are . . . undependable.”
The challenge stung in Edwina’s ears. “Anouk,” she demanded quietly, “are you by any chance threatening me?”
“Darling, I never threaten. Shall we say I’m simply enlightening you?”
“Then listen, and listen carefully,” Edwina said through clenched teeth while staring right into those blazing old, old eyes. “I’ve always done as I liked, and I’ll keep doing as I like. In a word—fuck off.”
“Really!” Anouk tinkled with amused laughter. “You’ll give up your enormous salary, lavish expense account, generous bonuses, and liberal employee’s discount? Not to mention the social cachet that comes with the position? Darling, don’t make me laugh!”
“I’m not trying to, darling.” Edwina mimicked one of Anouk’s venomously sweet smiles with perfection. “We wouldn’t want to stretch that lifted-to-death old skin of yours too much, would we?”
Anouk let go of Edwina’s wrist as if she’d been scalded. “You bitch!” she hissed. She was trembling with rage and her neck cords were as tense as metal cables. “You’re through!” she added in a trembling whisper. “Through!”
“And now,” Edwina said tightly, “if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave.”
“Yes,” Anouk said glacially, “I think that would be very wise. I shall inform R.L. that you are going. Come, Antonio! This young lady and we have nothing more to say to one another.” Head held high and features frozen, Anouk slid her arm through her husband’s and together they imperiously swept back into their glittering time capsule of an apartment.
Trembling, Edwina waited for the elevator, fighting to hold back her tears. Everything she’d worked for all these years was suddenly gone. In minutes.
R.L. found her looking like a collapsed rag doll, her head bent back, her eyes shut, her back slumped against the wall.
He had an overwhelming urge to envelop her protectively within his arms, but wasn’t sure how she’d react to it. He pushed the urge away. “Eds.” His voice was gentle.
She opened her eyes, turned toward him, and tried heroically to smile and square her shoulders. But it was like fighting gravity. The moment her lips and shoulders rose, they sagged pathetically again. Her smile was bleak. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me on ruining a perfectly good evening?”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said. “You must have had a damn good reason for behaving as you did.” His voice suddenly turned angry. “What the hell happened in there?”
She swallowed convulsively. “I ... I can’t talk about it now, R.L.” Her eyes were pleading.
He looked at her wordlessly.
“Go on back in, R.L.,” she said wearily. “I’ve done enough to ruin your evening. I . . . I’ll be okay.”
“No!” he whispered with soft vehemence. “You’re not okay, and you haven’t ruined anything.”
Quickly she turned away. She, Edwina G. Robinson, the born soldier of female equality, the lady executive who’d proudly stomped into the everyday dog-eat-dog world of male-dominated business and had stood on her own, who had always prided herself on swimming upstream and whose single most cherished possession was her own fierce independence; she, more than anyone, didn’t want concern and pity—or help. Not now or ever. Not from anyone. Not even R.L.
“Eds. Hey . . .” He took her face in both his hands and with forcible gentleness made her turn back around to face him.
By reflex, her hands flew up and scrabbled to remove his.
Ignoring her grasping fingers, he kept holding her face.
Her fingers clawed at his.
“Hey,” he said, “it’s me—R.L. What are you trying to do? Break my fingers?”
His words unexpectedly soothed. Her fingers stilled. For a second, not a muscle in her body twitched, not an eyelash so much as blinked.
“That’s better,” he said, and kissed her chastely on the forehead.
The touch of his lips threw her into a new state of confusion. Conflicting emotions collided, fought for supremacy within her. His hands, still cupped around her face, were something she didn’t want, yet something she desperately needed and craved.
Suddenly the unbearable pressure inside her was expelled in a long, slow sigh. Her skin tingled and it was as if she were seeing him—really seeing him—for the very first time.
Moments of weakness can be times of reckoning.
The longer she stared at him, the more her feelings underwent a metamorphosis.
From experience, she had categorized men into two distinct groups. There were studs and there were gentlemen. But R.L. broke the mold; he was both. There was something about him that was strong and at the same time gentle. Vital and yet soothing. Sensuous and sexual, but still somehow brimming with kindness.
It would be so easy to depend on him, she thought. A surge of futility and anger shot through her. Too easy. Hasn’t experience taught me that the only person I can depend on is myself?
“I don’t know about you,” he said softly, “but I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy. You know, the kind who leaves with the girl he came with?” Then he smiled that lopsided boyish smile that lit up his face and brought sunshine to rainy days. “Anyway, there’s no room for argument on that point.” As though to emphasize his words, the elevator arrived.
He ached for her as they rode down in the gleaming cage. His heart had not only gone out to her—it had been neatly kidnapped. For under all Edwina’s glossy makeup, extravagant bouquets of Botticelli hair, and extroverted sophistication, there was a vulnerable core that he, a kindred spirit, recognized instantly—and which plucked at his heartstrings.
Once outside on Fifth Avenue, Edwina’s waning composure abruptly burst. Sagging against R.L. under the creamy canopy, she hugged her bare arms tightly around him and leaned her head sideways against his chest. “Oh, R.L.,” she moaned softly, “just hold me. For a moment?” Her arms tightened into a bear hug of surprising strength.
“I’m holding you, baby,” he murmured into her ear, all the while stroking the back of her head. “I’m with you all the way.”
Suddenly she raised her head, and the tears that had welled up in her eyes now trickled down her cheeks in rivulets. Winter’s icy wind tugged at the ruffles of her emerald-green skirt, lifting the edges to reveal a delicate pale pink lining as fragile as her own taut nerves. “I need you,” she breathed up at him, oblivious of the assaulting cold and her chattering teeth.
“First things first.” Smiling, he gently extricated himself from her and took off his dinner jacket. He draped it around her bare shoulders. “You forgot your coat,” he said softly. “You can wait for me inside the lobby. I’ll be back in a flash.”
“No!” Edwina’s voice was sharp. “Don’t leave me.” She caught him by the wrist and wouldn’t let go. “Ruby can pick it up tomorrow.” Then her face clouded over and she gave a humorless snort of a laugh. “No, come to thin
k of it, she won’t have to. Anouk will probably have it delivered by one of her minions first thing in the morning. Maybe even tonight. Just another one of the caring hostess’s many little personal gestures, you understand.”
“You could use a drink,” he said decisively. “We’ll pop over to my place. It’s not far.”
She nodded and he gestured to the white-gloved doorman, who had been standing at a discreet distance. They watched as he rushed between the train of limousines and flagged down the first of a fleet of cruising taxis.
R.L. led Edwina over to it. She was no longer moving stiffly, no longer leaning heavily on him for support. R.L. helped her in and pressed a tip into the doorman’s hand. Then he got in beside her and pulled the door shut. “Seventy-first between Park and Lex,” he instructed the driver.
Chapter 23
“Blizzard,” muttered the mayor of New York City sourly. “I can smell it coming.” He sniffed and tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger. “A couple more hours, and it’ll start. The Sanitation Department’s on alert, but only sixty-five percent of the plows are in working order. But what can you do?” Resignedly he shoved the papers on his lap aside.
He and the police commissioner sat in opposite corners of the backseat of the mayor’s dark blue town car as it zipped smoothly up the FDR Drive to Gracie Mansion. The flexible, long-necked reading lamp behind the mayor spilled soft light onto His Honor’s lap, and from the oncoming lane at the other side of the car, bright headlights glared and grew and whooshed! past; in contrast to the swift traffic, the towers of Manhattan were a slow-moving, glittering, movie-set backdrop.
Detective Koscina sat twisted around on the front passenger seat. He was looking backward, past the two men. Through the rear window he caught the rising and dipping headlights of his own unmarked police car following, driven by Carmen Toledo.
The matter of the snowplows momentarily filed away, the mayor focused his eyes on Fred Koscina. “Bad business, this murder,” His Honor said unhappily, the corners of his mouth tightening. He had a halo of sparse unruly hair and held his head stiffly tensed. “Why did it have to happen on the Upper East Side, of all places? A lot of powerful people are going to come down hard if this isn’t solved fast.” He signed heavily and rubbed his balding head. “I wonder why I ever ran for this thankless job.”
