by Tracy Quan
“He’s in some sort of trouble. That’s all I know. They called me and left a message—they want to ask me some questions.”
“They? Who? The police? The IRS? Did you call them back?”
“No! It was someone from the D.A.’s office. I’m going to see my lawyer first.”
“Thank goodness for that. Very sensible, dear. And thank you. Maybe this is a good time to take a minivacation if they’re bothering Etienne’s…personal friends. I appreciate the warning.” She paused. “I know this is none of my affair, but how are the wedding plans going?”
“How can you talk about my wedding at a time like this?” I pleaded.
“How could I not, dear? The sooner you marry that young man, the better. I don’t know what they want from you or what you could possibly tell anyone about Etienne—probably nothing. But you and I both know that it’s troubling when official types ask personal questions. They’ll want to know how you met him. If you were already married to your fiancé, you’d be in a much safer position—and you’d be less frightened.”
“I don’t see how—if I were married now—and he found out—”
“A man will protect his wife if she finds herself in trouble. In fact, the trouble may bring them closer together. He may well abandon the same woman if she’s his mistress or his girlfriend or his fiancée. It’s just another excuse for a man to jump ship. Marry him yesterday!”
Of course Liane doesn’t know about Elspeth. Would that put a different light on her theory? Perhaps not.
FRIDAY. 5/19/00
Yesterday, I arrived at Barry’s office twenty minutes early. A young Asian-looking guy with a goatee sat at a desk in the waiting room. He picked up the phone the minute I walked in.
“Ms. N. to see you,” he remarked quietly. He looked up, nodded toward the armchairs, and said, “Barry will be out shortly. Nice to see you again,” then returned to his keyboard.
He recognizes me from last year, but I suppose “How are you” is not a question he likes to ask because he knows that people basically come here when they’re already in trouble.
Barry appeared in the doorway and ushered me past two rooms in midrenovation. “Excuse the architectural bullshit,” Barry said. “The contractors are favoring exposed plank this week. Welcome to my temporary office.”
Barry was wearing a rather foppish red bow tie, irreverent but expensive suspenders, and his signature mustache. He sat at a small conference table that was littered with take-out cups, Patrick O’Brian novels, paper bags. Then he steepled his hands, just below his bow tie, and said, “What seems to be the trouble? And how are you? I see that you’re wearing a very nice ring.”
“I’m engaged.”
“You don’t look so thrilled about it.”
“Well, the guy I’m engaged to has a sister who’s a prosecutor.” And then I told him what I had hesitated to tell Jasmine and Liane about the phone call I’d received.
“Okay,” Barry said, “I wasn’t prepared for that. And this potential sister-in-law, shall we call her, has no idea that she called you?”
“Right. And I can’t tell the girls—anyone in the business—that I’m being hunted down by my boyfriend’s sister. I would be—I’m sure I’d be seen as a person who’s in way too much trouble. Nobody would want to work with me!”
“You may have a point there. But we’re not so sure she’s hunting you down. Are we? Maybe she’s just casting her net to see what she can find out about your client.”
“Well, I can’t operate on that assumption.”
“No, you can’t. But we can hope that Mr. L__ P________________ has thousands of numbers in his Rolodex. And he should if he’s running the _____________ department at ____________________.”
“I think he knew he was in some kind of trouble,” I told Barry. “He told me he was going to drop out of sight to get his knee worked on. And he didn’t seem to be feeling well when I last saw him.”
I paused, wondering if Barry—a guy—would know immediately that Etienne had been having performance problems. But Barry gave me one of his most unreadable looks.
“When was this?”
“A little over a month ago. He was complaining about his boss.”
“Aha. And do you remember what he said? What was his complaint?”
“Well, that he seemed to be having in-law problems!”
“So many people are,” Barry observed dryly. “I think I’ve heard about this guy—not your client but his boss. A number of his relatives work at _____________, which is a good thing in some ways and bad in other ways. Legally speaking. And your potential sister-in-law? Who is she?”
“Elspeth Mackay.”
“Oh, yes. A piece of work.” Barry raised his eyebrows. “I know someone who went to law school with her. She’s married to a really good-looking guy, can’t remember his name, but he’s supposed to be quite a decent lawyer. Elspeth’s working on some aspect of an auction fraud case.”
“How do you know this?”
“It’s well-known in certain circles—and it’s about to become front-page news. There are at least two auction houses involved. And she’s trying to see if a third auction house—that would be _____________, where Mr. L__ P________________ works—has anything to offer.”
“To offer?”
“Well, nobody at _______________ has been charged with anything, but there are a lot of subpoenas out there.”
“So,” I said, with some relief, “Etienne’s not in jail or under investigation?”
“He’s not in jail, but he is not exactly leading an entirely normal life. I wouldn’t call him if I were in your shoes. The phones at ____________, at least in his department, are of great interest to the Manhattan D.A.’s office. Did you save Elspeth’s message?”
“Yes!” I picked up the phone. “Do you want to hear it?”
After listening for a few moments, Barry hung up.
“Well, she probably got his message records from a secretary. And she thinks you could be one of his art clients. I hate to say this, but…normally people in your profession find it useful to have a sort of nom de guerre, only in this case you’d be in the clear if your usual name was linked to this phone call.”
He steepled his fingers and looked thoughtful.
“I would?”
“Well, the beauty of being an art client is that you don’t have to buy anything. Anybody who expresses an interest in selling or buying is regarded as a customer, whether or not they actually follow through. Don’t you go to gallery openings and art shows?”
“Sometimes. But what do I do now? Call them back? What happens if I don’t call them back?”
“You’re not under arrest, you haven’t been subpoenaed, and you have no obligation to contact them. But if you don’t, they might get curious. They might also forget you. Etienne L__ P_____________ is a bit of an unknown quantity. If they were asking about his boss I would have to say that avoiding Elspeth’s call is provocative. She’s definitely going after his brother-in-law. And she might get more interested in Mr. L__ P________________. We won’t know for another month or so. What’s—do you want a Kleenex? Here, use my hankie. It’s clean.”
“She—she was going to be my matron of honor!” I cried. “I just don’t know how I’m going to extricate myself from this! I can’t marry this woman’s brother! It’s insane!”
“Well, when you put it like that,” Barry said sympathetically, “it’s hard to disagree.”
When I got back from Barry’s office, I logged on—and began composing my e-mail to Matt.
Dear Matthew,
Circumstances beyond our control have
forced me to rethink our plans.
Too bureaucratic, ridiculous. He might think it’s one of those joke letters, and we’d have a big misunderstanding about that.
Matt,
You know I will always love you more than any
other—
Nobody over sixteen says or believes this. After all, you can’t k
now how much or how little you will love the next guy in your life.
Dear Matt,
You are the only man I have ever considered marrying.
A good beginning.
And there are things I have never been able to tell you.
Oh god. Then why tell him now? Postpone message. No, delete message.
I spotted some new e-mails from Elspeth entitled “Willow, Sunday brunch” and didn’t have the heart to open them. I did, however, read an e-mail from Miranda: “Looking forward—even though I really think Elspeth is vulgar and nosy! But I will enjoy seeing Allison again and meeting Jasmine. See you next Sunday. Your cousin xxx.” Her frankness was reassuring.
I haven’t said anything to Allison or Jasmine about this brunch or about Elspeth’s constant requests for their attention. Why? Because I’ve always sensed, in my heart, that it would be sheer madness to expose my best friends to someone like Elspeth. And now, with this investigation? It would be unprofessional—right off the map—to put them in harm’s way.
Liane was right—in her own way—when she told me not to mix these elements of my life. She had other reasons, but what does it matter? The outcome’s the same! And how long can Jason be a reliable nonwitness? If things begin to come out, about my other phone, my possible connection to Etienne, Jason might start wondering about my friendship with Allie. He might—as men often do—crack and confess his infatuation with Allison to Elspeth!
This wedding can’t happen, and I’ll have to—gulp—return the ring. (Unless I can somehow get him to break off the engagement. No, that could take months, maybe even an entire year. And how exactly would I do that, anyway?)
LATER
Just got back from doing a quickie with Harry at Jasmine’s apartment. But my heart wasn’t in it. Jasmine picked up the slack and did most of the dirty talking while I went through the motions of a blow job. Before we knew it, Harry was dressed and out the door, zipping downtown in his black Town Car.
“You need a vacation,” Jasmine bluntly told me. “You’re not your usual self.”
“Do you think he noticed?”
“Of course not. Harry’s oblivious. You know, I have never known a more self-centered, self-satisfied guy. You’d have to be a man-hating witch for him to notice anything wrong. Harry’s found his equilibrium, and he’s just going to stay there for the rest of his life,” she said. “You, however. You’re nowhere close to an equilibrium. Have those prosecutors called you again? What did Barry say?”
“He thinks there’s a chance that other girls will get called and—and it all depends on how interesting Etienne becomes to them. His brother-in-law is the real target, but Etienne works very closely with him.”
“So,” Jasmine said. “What’s going on with this wedding? Did you pick out your china pattern? I was thinking the other day that the sooner you get married, the better. When you’re married to a guy, he has that evolutionary agenda. He’ll fight to protect you. But when there’s no commitment, he’s less invested. And you keep having all these crises. Jason. Allison. Etienne. Maybe it’s nature’s way of telling you to pair-bond with Matt—make it legal.”
“Nature? That last crisis came from the D.A.’s office,” I glumly remarked.
“You underestimate Mother Nature,” Jasmine told me. “We are always in a state of nature.”
MONDAY. 5/22/00
This morning, Matt confronted me over coffee—not his usual style when he’s trying to make a breakfast meeting. I was barely awake, but my recent paranoia has been making it impossible for me to sleep when he’s awake.
“You’ve been very distant for the last few days,” he announced. “I want to know why. All weekend I feel like you’ve been avoiding me.”
“I can’t talk to you about my feelings when I’m half asleep,” I protested.
“Well, here, have some more coffee, and let’s talk.”
“Don’t you have a meeting to go to?”
He looked at his watch. “I do. But that’s my responsibility, not yours. Why are you trying to get rid of me?”
“I’m not!” I said vehemently. “Would you please stop—I don’t wake up as quickly as you do! I feel like I’m being tortured!” And there was a lot of truth to that, but for other reasons, of course.
“Okay.” He stepped back to avoid my wobbling coffee cup. “Listen. I do have to make this meeting. But I want you to know that I’m committed to making this relationship work and I know how important it is for us to keep talking.” He sounded very businesslike as he said this, but how else can a civic-minded boyfriend sound at seven A.M. when he’s trying to fit a listening session in before work?
I spent the morning wondering, Whatever happened to all those insensitive males who don’t know how to verbalize? Who fear communication? Where are these guys when you really need them? Maybe I just don’t know how to be with a guy like Matt.
LATER
Around one-thirty, after much pacing and contemplation—if you can call paralysis contemplation—I picked up the phone and dialed my fiancé’s cell.
“Are you busy?” I asked.
“Well, I’m on my way to a lunch meeting with a client. Why?” He sounded businesslike and gentle, a poignant combination.
“I want to see you.”
“When?”
“Now. Soon. I need to talk to you.”
“I…I can’t exactly—” he said, but I could tell that he was flattered by my urgency. “Can we talk tonight?”
“I’m sorry,” I answered. “I just—I’ve been having these conversations with myself for a week and a half.”
“I know. I can tell.” He dropped his voice. “I love you. Do you think I can’t tell when you’re unhappy?”
“I love you, too,” I said. “But—” My voice was getting weaker. I was sitting on my bedroom carpet, still wearing my pajamas, with my back against the box spring, staring at my left hand. The sunlight through my blinds hit the side of my engagement ring and seemed to follow the ring even as I removed it. “I don’t think we should be planning this wedding. I—I just can’t go through with this. I’m sorry, Matt.”
He was silent for a moment.
“Are you serious?”
“Do you think I would call you at the office and interrupt your day like this if I weren’t? Just how frivolous do you think I am? Of course I’m serious!”
I reached for a moisturized tissue.
“Please don’t cry like that. I’ve got a meeting with a client in ten minutes. If I were there, I’d—”
“Oh, Matt, don’t! It wouldn’t make any difference!”
If he held me, I’d feel better for a while, but the facts wouldn’t change. My past is what it is, and this was never meant to be.
15 Turn of the Century
WEDNESDAY. 1/31/01
This afternoon, as I was leaving the Parker Meridien, my new cell phone started buzzing in my coat pocket. I pulled it out and ducked into the Chase bank on the corner, instinctively looking around for eavesdroppers. Not that I would ever say anything incriminating in a public place—after what I’ve been through in the last year.
“Bonjour, petite mignonne,” said a long-absent voice.
“Ah, bonjour!” I said playfully yet genuinely surprised. “You’re back!” And I was glad I had kept the same number.
“Well,” Etienne said, with a hint of regret, “I am just back for a visit. But we must see each other while I am here. I really do miss my old neighborhood. And my old—my young friends.”
I smiled at this reference to our age difference.
“After my knee operation, the doctor ordered me to leave New York, and now I am running a small gallery in Paris—I live full-time in my former pied-à-terre.”
“Oh, dear,” I said, knowing full well that Etienne is extremely happy to have escaped with his pied-à-terre intact. “What happened to Sixty-seventh Street?”
“Oh, my son is living there, but he may sell it. This market!” Etienne chuckled. “So when do I
have the pleasure? I am staying at the Pierre for four days.”
I frowned. “Are you…alone?”
“Bien sûr. And at liberty during the day for the most part. My son and his wife try to keep me busy in the evening.”
We hung up, having made our date, and I called Jasmine. “You won’t believe who’s in town,” I told her. “And he’s carrying on about that fake knee operation—as if all that stuff in the newspapers never happened!”
“You’re kidding. Well, he’s a born survivor. But you know,” Jasmine said, “he did the right thing. If he hadn’t left the country, you would have been subjected to endless questions. And look what almost happened to Liane. But you just know he didn’t do it to save our skins—he must have had much bigger people to protect…”
When I got to a safe spot—Tiffany’s—I went upstairs to the ladies’ room and opened Milton’s envelope. After all these years, I still count the money—but not in front of him, of course. And it’s always correct. My only recourse, if it weren’t, would be to never show up at the Parker Meridien again. But counting the money, minutes after we’ve parted, and getting the right amount reminds me that I can count on Milton. Makes me glow with affection—and a bit of vain pride.
FRIDAY. 2/2/01
At last, a foolproof way to encrypt my diary. Sadly, I’m unable to decrypt my entries from the last six months. But if I can’t undo them, nobody else can! So I guess my secrets are safe. Up to a point. Are secrets ever safe?
I wondered about that on my way to the Pierre this afternoon. Etienne has a respectable room—not a lavish suite—with a view of the park.
“It is remarkable,” he said, “how one goes outside and feels swamped by tourists in this neck of Manhattan. Yet this hotel casts a magic spell and seems to ward off the crowds, without being haughty.”
My first attempt to work a New York hotel bar was at sixteen on the ground floor of the Pierre. I remember it well, and the room seems not to have changed much.
