Any Given Moment (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 3)

by Laura Van Wormer

  "Monday is an excellent day for a publicity event," Becky Tom­linson announced. "Newspaper readership is always high on Tues­days."

  "We've got enough star power in this group to hit the front page of every paper in the country," Millicent said with conviction.

  "President Truman once held a news conference on a Friday," Becky Tomlinson continued, to no one in particular. "I don't think anyone in the world even knew about it. Very few people are in­terested in the news on Saturdays."

  "We'll use all of our press connections to get your protest cov­ered," Montgomery promised the group. "As a matter of fact, Geor­giana's on the phone right this minute with Alexandra Waring of DBS News!"

  There was an outbreak of applause. The meeting was a success. They were a success. The Hillings & Hillings clients were going to be able to do something for Dorothy and Henry, two people who had done so much for all of them.

  Elizabeth could only hope that she herself wouldn't have a heart attack before all of this was over.

  19

  On Sunday afternoon, the day after the clients' meeting, Henry Hillings asked Elizabeth where Millicent Parks was. They were standing in the corner of Dorothy's hospital room, keeping to them­selves while Dorothy talked to a visitor of hers.

  "Do you want the truth or the company line?" Elizabeth whis­pered.

  "The truth, please."

  Elizabeth winced. "She's in an absolute snit at the Plaza. She says it's either Montgomery Grant Smith or her, we have to choose, there's no room for both."

  "Josh says there's no room for either one," Henry sighed.

  "From my view," Elizabeth said, "we must have Montgomery Grant Smith on the front lines."

  "But what do I do about Millicent?" Henry murmured. "I'm the one who asked her to start all of this in the first place."

  "You could tell Millicent that you're at wit's end about how to get Dorothy out to Water Mill without her hearing about any of this," Elizabeth suggested. "You could ask her what to do, tell her you don't know how to keep Dorothy under control out in Water Mill so she'll recover."

  Henry smiled. "That's not a bad idea." His smile widened. "No, that's really rather good, Elizabeth. I'll try it." He turned to look at his wife, sitting up in bed, talking with David Aussenhoff sitting in a bedside chair beside her. "And how is that going?" he asked Elizabeth.

  "I went numb about an hour after I first saw him," she said, "and that seems to be working."

  "If you want, I'll speak to him."

  "No, Henry," Elizabeth said, giving his hand a squeeze. "It's better we see each other, put it behind us." He looked doubtful but didn't say anything. Elizabeth felt more than doubtful, but didn't say anything either.

  "David, dear, how long will you be in New York this trip?" Dorothy asked.

  "Not long," David said. "But I wanted to make sure to see you."

  Dorothy smiled and her eyes traveled across the room to Eliz­abeth, as if to ask a silent question.

  "It was purely accidental, our running into each other," David said. "Then, um, we decided maybe it was time we talked. I have a lot to explain to her. About what happened. There was a lot more that went on than anyone knew. I'd like to explain it to you, too, but it's very personal, and I'm afraid I'm having a hard enough time trying to explain it to Elizabeth."

  Dorothy looked at him. "And we will not raise the past in order to play upon the present, will we, David."

  It was not a question. He looked at her for a long moment. "I didn't know she was here, honestly, I didn't."

  "Be genuine, David, or leave her alone."

  He leaned forward, dropping his voice. "I wouldn't hurt her again for anything, I swear."

  She held his eyes as he straightened up. "I will hold you to that." David swallowed, nodding.

  "Henry," Dorothy said after Elizabeth and David had gone, "would you be so kind as to tell me what in Sam Hill is going on?"

  "What?" Henry said. "Why, nothing."

  "Nothing," she repeated, drumming her fingers on the bed covers, the diamond of her engagement ring sparkling. "Elizabeth suddenly appears with David Aussenhoff and you say nothing is going on."

  "Apparently they ran into each other yesterday," Henry said, picking up the New York Times and pretending to peruse the front page.

  "Where, Henry? Where did they see each other?"

  "I'm not sure," he said, eyes still on the papers.

  "Did you tell everyone I'm dying?"

  "What?" he said, finally meeting her eyes. "Good heavens, Doe, what is the matter with you?"

  "Well then, why are they all here? Millicent never leaves Bridge­hampton. Elizabeth hasn't left England in two years. David, who wouldn't dare show his face before, is now suddenly running into people on street corners. Georgiana appears last night out of the blue. Flowers arrive with a note from Jordan and Louise saying they're in town and hope to see me soon. Monty's show is suddenly being broadcast from Penn Plaza. Don't try to deny it—I heard it with my own ears on Friday on that Walkman Elizabeth gave me."

  "These are all people who find themselves in New York on occasion. This is the cultural capital of the Western Hemisphere, Doe."

  Dorothy pursed her lips and, after a moment of silence, said, "And why can't I go home first before we go to the country?"

  "Because all of your things are already out in Water Mill," he said. "Elizabeth and Sasha packed everything, the medical transport is all arranged, and Bernadette, the aide we hired, is corning with us. Besides," he added, "Elizabeth is staying at the apartment and you need complete quiet, the doctor said so." He went back to reading the newspaper.

  "I don't like this a bit, Henry!" Dorothy said, irritated.

  "Don't like what, darling?" he asked.

  "Being treated like a child. Playing the role of father is most unbecoming in a husband, Henry, if I may say so." She resettled herself against the pillows of her hospital bed. "I know you're up to something, Henry Alfred Hillings," she added, "and as soon as I have that angioplasty procedure, I'm going to find out what."

  Henry smiled. For the first time he knew for sure his Doe was really going to get better.

  20

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Smith," the clerk at the front desk of the Re­gency said, "I have no idea when she'll be back."

  "Has she picked up her messages?"

  "I'm sorry, but we are not allowed to tell you that, sir. And I think you would appreciate the same kind of discretion."

  "Yeah," Montgomery sighed, leaning against the desk. A beau­tiful spring Sunday in New York and he couldn't find anyone to spend it with. Well, there were lots of people, actually, but he wanted Georgiana. He thought they could eat at Tavern on the Green, then walk through Central Park, maybe watch the skaters, and later go to Lincoln Center for a matinee, or to the Plaza for tea. But he couldn't even find her to ask her.

  Depressed, he went back upstairs to do what he always did on the infrequent Sundays he was not on the road doing speaking engagements: watch the political shows and major sporting events, and sift through the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Chi­cago Sun-Times, and the Times of London.

  "I really appreciate this, Buzz," Georgiana told her mother's old friend, wiping her face with a towel. She was glistening with per­spiration after working out in the gym in Buzz's loft.

  "The masseur is here, lovey," Buzz said. "You can shower in there and then throw yourself down on the table. His name's Dom and he's great."

  Buzz had been a very successful choreographer who had helped Georgiana convincingly stumble through a jazz film years ago. De­cades before, he had done the same for her mother. Like many of Lilliana Bartlett's oldest friends, Buzz had transferred his affection to her daughter, if for no other reason than because he could rea­sonably count on Georgiana's staying alive until the next day.

  A panicky call to Buzz the night before had gotten Georgiana an invitation to hide out in his Tribeca loft all day Sunday. It meant a workout, a massage, and a nap—all witho
ut having to worry about Montgomery Grant Smith stalking her.

  "Thank you so much, Buzz," she said, kissing him on the cheek as she left.

  "And thank you, darling girl, for being you. You're gorgeous and wonderful and I want you to be happy. God knows, it would do my heart good to know that one of you found what you were looking for in this life."

  Buzz was referring to her mother, she knew. And Georgiana thought to herself that drinking was something that absolutely had to go in her own life. If she had had any doubts, Friday night with Montgomery Grant Smith should have clinched it.

  Monty called two names in his address book, planning to see if one of the women would like to go out with him, but he hung up before he finished dialing. He simply wasn't in the mood for anyone but Georgiana.

  He knew his behavior was stupid, but he couldn't help wanting to pursue her. Georgiana was so bright and beautiful and talented and funny and sexy.

  Not to mention the fact that his track record with women was abysmal. So why did he think he could do better with Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres, of all people? he asked himself. Why did he think this could be the one?

  Because Georgiana was different, for starters. Unlike the Hol­lywood pack, she brought class and breeding to her profession and this appealed to Monty enormously. In fact, Georgiana made hang­ing out with the movie jet set seem like a fun thing to do. It wasn't that he didn't have the confidence to do something like that on his own—he had become friends with President Bush on his own—it was just that with Georgiana by his side, it would be fun. And with her on his arm, he could really be a part of it.

  On his own, they all hated him out there, of course. On the Left Coast.

  And he supposed if he dared show his face he would become the brunt of a lot of jokes, just because he didn't have a build like Arnold Schwarzenegger (although Monty had nothing against Ar­nold, and heartily approved of his political views). But Georgiana Hamilton-Ayres found Monty sexually attractive, he knew that for a fact!

  Suddenly he was no longer the smart and funny fat kid who would have done anything short of murder to get out of gym class and avoid the showers! He had been the class clown, forever grateful to Sarah Skyler for not laughing at him when he asked her to the senior prom. Though she had accepted and carried out her part as if she had en­joyed it, he had made a joke out of the whole affair, dressing up like Oliver Hardy, with a bowler, spats, and mustache. It had been too scary to play it straight. And dancing—oh, God—he had not danced since Miss Mott's ballroom lessons in sixth grade. Still, though, Sa­rah had made him get out on the dance floor, and he had done okay and no one had laughed at him. That was the night he had thought he might be able to win a lady love for himself after all.

  Sarah had let him kiss her good night, but he had only the courage to peck her on the lips. In college, all of that changed. With the help of beer and fra­ternity life, he learned how to get laid. "You don't have to fuck her face, Mont, get with it" had been the advice he had taken. And when he realized that he had something most of the guys in the house envied—namely, a big dick—he had the courage to try and do something about the rest of his body, too.

  One of the guys in the frat house, a junior named Luke, had also been fat as a kid. In between bouts of throwing up Purple Pisser Elixir (the frat's specialty cocktail) one night in the bushes, he told Monty the story of his life. Since Monty had looked after Luke that night, Luke felt as though he owed him, and so one day he invited Monty up to his room to see his weights. Luke showed him a few simple exercises and Monty kind of liked it, and he stuck with it, working out every night that semester and, by the end of it, seeing an incredible difference in his body. Girls did, too.

  The only problem was that one night, at the end of the semes­ter, Monty was lying on his back doing bench presses when Luke came in drinking a glass of Purple Pisser Elixir. Monty had barely gotten the barbell back up onto the rack when he sighed in a way that Luke clearly misinterpreted. Setting his drink aside, he came over, unzipped his pants, and pushed his fully erect penis in Mon­ty's face. "Come on, suck it, boy, you know you want it," Luke insisted. Monty screamed and fell sideways off the bench before scrambling out of the room, never to so much as look at Luke again.

  Monty had never told anyone about the incident. He was hon­orable that way. After all, Luke had shown him what he could look like if he wanted.

  "Well, you have to admit it, when Alexandra Waring breaks a dinner date, she does it with great flair and style," Jessica Wright, the DBS talk-show hostess, said over the phone.

  Georgiana laughed. "What on earth was she doing in Iraq?"

  "Oh, interviewing guerrillas in the hills or something."

  "I don't think there are hills in Iraq, Jessica."

  "Well, whatever. Anyway, Alexandra Eyes asked me to tell you she's on her way home."

  "Hi, Mom, it's Monty," he said, stretched out on his bed, watch­ing the Weather Channel with the sound off.

  "Hello, Montgomery, how are you?" she asked distractedly.

  "I'm just fine. Is that company I hear?"

  "Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Woolster from next door are here."

  "Oh, well, I won't keep you then.”

  "Call me tomorrow night," she suggested. "Oh, wait, that's not very good, I've got the girls coming for bridge."

  "I'll just call you later in the week," he promised.

  He smiled as he hung up, thinking how his mother's social life had changed for the better since he had bought her that condo. And, too, it seemed to give her standing as a single woman a boost to have a celebrity as a son. Couples usually liked to socialize with other couples, but everyone, it seemed, enjoyed counting Mrs. Smith as a very good friend now.

  He called room service and ordered a porterhouse steak, me­dium rare, a baked potato with sour cream and butter, a salad, a bottle of red wine, and two pieces of chocolate cake. He hoped it would arrive before "60 Minutes" started. He liked to have his food all set up before a show began.

  21

  It was strange to be with David again.

  After visiting Mrs. Hillings, they left Lenox Hill Hospital and walked west, crossing Park Avenue and Madison Avenue, and then heading north on Fifth Avenue toward the old Stanhope Hotel. David wanted to have dinner there.

  As they passed the beautiful town houses and apartment build­ings facing Central Park on Fifth, Elizabeth thought of the house in Laurel Canyon where she and David had lived together in Califor­nia. And, for some reason, she thought about how one of them had always been coming down with something and was forever giving it to the other.

  They had kissed a lot.

  Affection had been one of David's greatest charms—how often he had wanted to kiss her, hold her, touch her—but this was not something Elizabeth wished to think about right now. Frankly, she couldn't. Not and keep going.

  The Stanhope was not an accidental suggestion on David's part and Elizabeth hadn't had the presence of mind to veto it. Six years before, after the publication party for a Hillings & Hillings client, where they first met, they had come here for a quiet drink. At the time Elizabeth had been rather flattered and amazed and astounded by David's attentions; she had never been approached by a playboy before. ("But you're so beautiful," David had said that night, "you must have guys coming on to you all the time.")

  The Stanhope, as regal and elegant as ever now, had suffered one horrendous financial crisis after another in recent decades. It was still valiantly carrying on, exuding the quiet, old-world charm Elizabeth so loved. The only thing that had changed was the old men's saloon in the front, which years ago had been converted into a tiny but exquisite tea room. Dorothy Hillings was the only person Elizabeth knew who could obtain a reservation there.

  A reservation in the spacious restaurant was more obtainable, and they were shown to a lovely table immediately. Over a glass of wine they talked about New York and London and Elizabeth's research; they had not even looked at the menus yet when David reached across the table to
take Elizabeth's hand.

  The numbness inside Elizabeth vanished and was replaced by fear. Real fear. Touching David again felt like deliberately choosing a descent into madness.

  She excused herself and went to the ladies' room. She smiled at the attendant, went into a water closet, and, behind the full-length door, slid to her knees, afraid she might be sick. She wasn't, though. And when the nausea had passed and the perspiration on her fore­head had cooled, she closed her eyes, trying to force her mind onto one of the many meditations Dr. Hettington had taught her.

  In therapy it had come as a shock to Elizabeth to discover how extremely undisciplined her mind actually was, how it was apt to go sailing off in whatever emotionally alarming direction it cared to with little or no resistance from her.

  Dr. Hettington had told her that learning to harness her emo­tions, to not let them run off unchecked, would do a lot toward getting her stabilized. Life would hand her enough unchecked mad­ness to deal with; she did not have to create any more on her own.

  Not any more. Not even if she felt it creeping up on her, like now, that awful sensation at the back of her neck. I just can't deal with this, she thought. I just want to get out of here! It's going to happen all over gain.

  She could see Dr. Hettington's gentle face. And so she knew what she should do. She needed to talk herself down. She needed to recognize the knee-jerk reaction of old feelings, feelings that were not real today. That she was all right, really she was, and there was nothing to fear.

  The meditation she chose worked. She repeated it in her mind, over and over again: I am completely safe because I am here with me, I am taking care of me.

  Slowly she felt the fear and shaking leave her. For good measure, she said a quick prayer, the same one she had said about seven times that morning at the Fifth Avenue Presbyte­rian Church, asking to be protected from all the hurt she associated with David.

  Washing her hands at the sink and smiling at the attendant again, Elizabeth wondered how many of the Stanhope's elegant patrons had to kneel by the toilet to meditate and pray in order to get through their dinners.