Any Given Moment (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 3)

by Laura Van Wormer

  Only maybe it was no longer what he wanted.

  Now that was a terrifying thought.

  After talking to Henry briefly, Monty had gone off to do his show and Elizabeth had returned to the Queens storage locker to resume scouting the files. She was not a literary agent, but Elizabeth knew she had to train herself to think like one until she found out what she needed to know.

  At two-forty, she finally took a break to stretch. She saw the radio Monty had left for her and turned it on to hear the last twenty minutes of the show.

  "No, that's not the point," she heard Monty saying over the air, "the point is, the movement is trying to make everybody the same. And I don't know about you, but I don't want anyone pretending these loonies are like you and me. I don't want them out on the streets!"

  "But don't you agree that mental illness can be treated, Big Mont?" the woman caller was saying. "That just because someone has been admitted to a hospital, it doesn't mean they can't get well?"

  "Well, dear friend, if you would like to bet your life on that proposition," Monty said in a deep voice, "fine, but don't bet on it with mine. And I certainly don't want you spending my tax dollars to get them back on the streets so I have to deal with them as dangerous homeless people—the so-called normal ones are quite dangerous enough, thank you! I frankly think all these loonies can trace their problems to too much booze or drugs somewhere along the line."

  Elizabeth sat down on a metal bench that was fastened to the concrete wall and closed her eyes. Monty and the caller ranted on at each other. When the show was over, the station went on to the news. When Elizabeth opened her eyes to turn the radio off, she had tears in them. She dried them and turned the radio off.

  If mental illness was defined as not having the capacity to behave normally, as Montgomery Grant Smith seemed to think, then Eliz­abeth had been mentally ill all her life. There had not been any alcohol or drugs in her family, at least not that she knew of, but she had never been normal, not even as a kid. She had always preferred living in her head instead of in the world; she loved to read and make up stories and dream, and was usually so distracted in general that the other kids made fun of her.

  God had watched over her, though. He had made her good­-looking enough so that no one had ever really picked on her in an unkindly way. The worst the kids ever did was scream, "Wake Up, Brain Drain!" after a soccer ball had clonked her on the head or something.

  In adolescence, Elizabeth had understood romance, but not sex. What the boys wanted to do was not the least bit exciting to her, but what her charismatic, gentle-spoken, handsome math teacher might like to do did excite her. Fortunately, young Mr. Dinardo had never dreamed of exploring such a thing. And so, through junior high and then at boarding school, Elizabeth seriously and publicly pursued a life that was primarily intellectual, and just as seriously but secretly pursued a love life in the form of sexual fantasies of Mr. Dinardo.

  In college she had simply decided it was time to lose her vir­ginity, but the experience had been rather awful. A repeated exper­iment with another boy the following year was no more enjoyable. Real sex, Elizabeth feared, was awkward, abrupt, and lonely. Her senior year she had a relationship with a young professor who taught her a bit more about sex, but he still did not arouse much passion in her. At Columbia, she met Greg, a successful magazine editor who actually had very little time for her. Though he was supportive and kind and smart and well-meaning, their sex life was perfunctory—at least for Elizabeth. Months turned into years and her dissertation became a book, and the book was published to acclaim and Elizabeth was suddenly a best-selling writer.

  She had been invited to a cocktail party for one of the Hill­ingses' clients, a party Mrs. Hillings had encouraged her to attend. She always felt awkward and nervous at parties considered "hip," if for no other reason than she had been brought up to believe that people who wanted their names in the press were people best avoided in life. But Mrs. Hillings had explained how her—Eliza­beth's—presence could help her client's book, and this was the kind of favor Elizabeth, as a fellow writer, should learn to extend.

  And so Elizabeth had asked one of her trendier students to take her shopping for a cocktail dress and shoes, and she had done her best to arrive at the party looking worldly, wise, fashionable, and simply like someone who had enough going in her life that her favor was worth receiving. (This was infinitely preferable, she thought, to looking prematurely ancient and out of it.)

  Within minutes a man named David had materialized at her side and was, clearly, determined to stay there. He was everything that would make her parents nervous. He had on a very expensive suit that would quickly date; he was wearing handmade Italian shoes; his great, dark hair was too stylishly cut to be the creation of a barber shop; and when he shook her hand, he would not let go for several seconds. His smile was perfect, and his charming, seemingly sincere words came far too easily. "When I read your book," he said, looking into her eyes, "I knew you were a woman I had to meet. Now I know I was right."

  How was she supposed to have known it was a line? How was she supposed to have known that he was seeing four other women at the time? That to him she was an irresistible novelty, an ex­tremely attractive but repressed academic whose sexuality, he sensed, was just screaming to be awakened?

  What a fool she had been. But she had never had a passionate love affair before. At least not with someone real (i.e., Mr. Di­nardo). Later, she realized there had been a benefit to being that way, for Elizabeth had never been less productive than she was after meeting David. Before that, her manic energy had always been directed toward her work; afterward she had a lover who was de­termined she direct it toward him.

  They had gone to the Stanhope after the party for a long dinner. She had drunk wine and laughed and felt progressively more like someone else. David told her that he was far too ferocious to date her, that he was sure her boyfriend treated her with a great deal more care than he wanted to.

  "What do you mean?" she had asked.

  "I mean," he had murmured, his gorgeous, slightly pouting mouth seeming too long for hers, "I'm sure he doesn't want to do all the things with you that I want to do."

  At that point Elizabeth had felt her insides turn to liquid heat and she had known she was going to go to bed with him, and the sooner the better. If she got to know him better, or if he lived in New York, she knew she wouldn't be able to do it. He had correctly sensed that she was coasting along in a comfortable life, dying for passion, but only from a safe distance.

  He had a wonderful body. And great finesse. He got her through the door of his room at the St. Regis and onto the bed in a matter of seconds, deftly removing their clothes, piece by piece. He had known how to kiss her—again and again and again—and how to whisper the romantic things she had longed to hear for years. He felt and touched and tasted every part of her, allowing her to do nothing but enjoy it. He asked her to let him enjoy her, to let him make love to her, just this once, and by the time he was easing himself into her, tenderly, gently, she was half-mad with desire, desperately wanting him not to be so gentle. He started coaching her then, quietly, steadily, making her feel his every movement, making her appreciate her body and his body and the way their bodies worked together. Elizabeth gasped and flexed—hard—and a moment later she knew she was having sex like she had never dreamed of.

  So THIS is what it is all about, she had thought.

  She virtually lost the next two years of her life. She became obsessed with his body, with the sex, with this incredible world of sensation, but also with David and trying to hold on to him, get rid of the other women, make him commit solely to her. That's when all the trouble began: she couldn't bear to see how other women looked at him wherever they went, how easily he could seduce women, how bored he could get if she didn't stay on top of her game.

  And she had abandoned her career at Columbia to get him. To get him. Get him and do what? Lock him up? What on earth had she thought she was going to do
with him after she had him?

  David had fallen in love with her; that she never doubted. But how well could a man love a woman when on some level he couldn't stand himself?

  No, in the beginning, Elizabeth had no idea how terribly needy David was, and how tied into this was his obsession with sex, money, and cars.

  Oh, they had been a pair all right. Elizabeth may not have learned a whole lot about healthy relationships in her life, but she did know that two needy people didn't add up to a whole one. She and David had found that out. And it had eventually nearly killed her.

  Elizabeth gave Monty's radio a kick and it fell over on its side. Certainly Monty could never understand her. Or evidently even like her. Not if he knew everything.

  39

  When Patty arrived at ICA Tuesday morning, a woman from personnel told her that she was going to be working out at the reception desk today. This made Patty a little nervous, because she didn't know whether the switch was accidental or related to some­thing she had said or done.

  "Is Sylvia ill?" she asked the woman from personnel as they walked down the hall.

  "I don't know," she said coolly. She helped Patty get situated at the desk and pointed out the phone lines. Ah, the phones! She would answer the general numbers as well as specific office numbers if any of the secretaries put their phones on call forwarding. As soon as the personnel woman left, Patty searched the desk for a phone system manual, hoping to figure out how she could eavesdrop.

  There wasn't one. She had known it was too much to hope for.

  Being a receptionist, Patty found, was really a difficult experi­ence. All kinds of press people were trying to get past her to follow up on the demonstration from the day before, and, while they may have managed to bypass security downstairs, it was Patty's job to smoke them out and call security if they wouldn't leave of their own volition. Most wouldn't, and while she waited for security to arrive, they tried to interview her about the Hillings & Hillings demon­stration and what was going on within the company. Patty kept saying she didn't know, she was sorry, she was only a temp.

  Mixed in with the press people were legitimate visitors and aspiring actors, wanting to drop off head shots and resumes. And then one guy came in who seemed clearly out of his mind, but Patty had a system to follow, and so she had to make sure that he was not, as he claimed, the missing Osmond brother before calling security.

  Patty got more than a little nervous when one press person pulled out a hand-held video camera and started filming her re­sponse to the question, "Is it true that all hatches are battened down while ICA weathers this storm of controversy about Hillings & Hillings?”

  "I'm sorry, no comment," she said, hoping her wig was straight and wishing like hell for a fake nose and mustache. How she was ever going to reappear at ICA as an author and not be recognized at this point was beyond her.

  "Hello, Mr. Johnson," Patty said to James Stanley Johnson when he walked in.

  He stared at her, obviously trying to remember where he knew her from. "Sylvia's gone," he observed.

  "I think she's sick," Patty said.

  "She's not sick," Mr. Johnson told her.

  "Oh, no?" she said.

  He winced slightly and drew a finger across his throat.

  "They killed her?" Patty asked him.

  He laughed. "They gave her a little severance and a copy of The Perfect Resume."

  It was amazing to Patty what this wig enabled her to do. Instead of being a tired housewife and mother of three, she was acting like an attractive flirt who could wheedle information even out of James Stanley Johnson.

  At any rate, clearly yesterday poor Sylvia had been fired. Did it have anything to do with the demonstration, or was it coincidence? And how had James Stanley Johnson known the receptionist was fired?

  "I'm the lost temp," Patty reminded him.

  "Oh, right," he said. "Got a promotion, huh?"

  "I'm still just temping."

  "You can probably get this job, if you want," he said. "I'll recommend you."

  He could be a nice man, she thought. Not unlike anyone of the enthusiastic fathers who turned out for their son's baseball games. She wondered if the James Stanley Johnsons of this world went to Little League, and if their kids liked them. Did they sit their chil­dren down and explain right and wrong? Ethics? Morality? She would take Ted over any of these hotshot corporate guys.

  Patty got to cover the legal counsel phones for twenty minutes during lunch. When Miss Andersen came through on her way out, Patty commented that she had not seen Ms. Ballicutt this morning, should she tell people who called that she was away? Miss Andersen stared at Patty a moment and then said, "You take a message. That's it. You do not say anything about anything. Do you under­stand?"

  "Yes, I do," Patty said obediently.

  The phones for the legal offices actually rang quite a lot in those twenty minutes. And although the names of the callers meant noth­ing to her, Patty carefully recorded them twice, once on the mes­sage pad for Miss Andersen, and once again on the pad in her lap.

  She wished she could have answered the phones for longer, but Miss Andersen came back promptly, as promised, and switched the calls back to her.

  Around three o'clock, Mary Ellen called. "Mom, I thought I better remind you that the varsity dinner's tonight. I know Dad wasn't going to say anything, but he's going ballistic around here and so—"

  Oh, God! This was the varsity dinner for spring sports, where traditionally she played hostess. "Mary Ellen, thank you. As soon as I get off here, I'll take the train out."

  "It's at seven," Mary Ellen said. "At school. Should I tell Dad you're coming?”

  "Let it be a surprise."

  Elizabeth and Monty arrived at the Hillingses' apartment within moments of each other. As they came in the front door, Patty was clattering down the hall in a sleek black dress and high heels.

  "Wow, you look great," they chorused.

  "I have to go home for my husband's annual varsity sports dinner," she said, stuffing a piece of paper into Elizabeth's hands. "Those are the phone numbers of the people who tried to call Marion Ballicutt and James Stanley Johnson during lunch today." She clattered down the hall. "Oh, God," she added, wobbling to a halt and turning around, "I don't have a handbag."

  "I have a black one you can use. Come to my room," Elizabeth said.

  "Oh, thanks," Patty said, clattering after her.

  "You're missing an earring, Patty!" Monty called.

  "What? Oh damn"—she stopped, feeling for it on her ear­—where the heck is it? And I've got to catch the 6:05 or—" She made a little cry and crashed to the floor. Monty and Elizabeth came running. "I tripped," she said. Monty helped her up and she looked down at the back of her dress and said, "Oh, God, I've run my stockings and torn the slit in the dress and I—"

  And she burst into tears.

  Elizabeth and Monty looked at each other.

  "And now my make-up's ruined, and I'm going to miss the train—"

  "I'll help you with dress and makeup," Elizabeth said quickly, "Monty will have a cab waiting downstairs."

  "But I don't have the money for both a cab and the train!" Patty wailed, ashamed and embarrassed about it all.

  "Can you get your car?" Elizabeth asked Monty.

  "Right away," he said, moving down the hall.

  "Come on, Patty," Elizabeth said, pulling her toward her room, "I've got a sewing kit, I've got extra panty hose, and I've got a bag you can borrow. We'll fix your makeup and have you on your way, pronto. Monty's going to get a car to drive you straight there."

  Patty started to say something and then turned away.

  "What? What is it?" Elizabeth said gently.

  Patty shook her head, accepted a Kleenex, and pressed it to her face. "I don't belong here. Ted told me I wouldn't fit in and I don't. I try to pretend I do, but it's hopeless."

  "Of course you do," Elizabeth said.

  "No I don't!" Patty wailed. "I'm not like you peopl
e!" She cut herself off, clamping her mouth shut, tears burning down her face.

  "Patty," Monty said from down the hall.

  She looked at him, pressing the Kleenex against her mouth.

  "The car doesn't cost me anything. It's part of my contract. I would like you to use it tonight to go to your dinner. Listen, Patty, I've been there—so don't worry, I wouldn't offer the car if I thought it would in any way compromise you. Financially or otherwise."

  Patty dropped her hand from her mouth. "I—"

  "No argument," Elizabeth murmured, touching her arm, "just get to your dinner." Patty sniffed and said, "Thank you, Monty. Thank you."

  The limousine pulled up in front of the Stanton High School at 7:15. The traffic had been awful and she was late, but Patty felt so much better (even more so after having some of the mineral water and crackers she found in the refrigerator of the limo). When she walked into the noisy, boisterous cafeteria, a series of hellos from students and parents followed her all the way up to the head table where Ted, whipping around after he heard someone say her name, was literally dumbstruck.

  "Sorry I'm late," she said, kissing him on the cheek, "but traffic was bad." After beaming at her for a moment, Ted gave her a hug and asked everyone to take their seats. He was the master of cere­monies, and so there was the greeting to all the parents, the speech, the introductions, the giving out of varsity letters and awards, but, at least during the dinner, he had a few minutes to turn and say a few words to his wife before they switched seats for dessert.

  "I couldn't believe it when I saw you," he murmured, squeezing her knee under the table. "I thought you had forgotten."

  "I love you," she said, because she meant it but also to avoid telling him about Mary Ellen's call.

  "I want to make love to you later," he murmured, looking into her eyes.

  "Then I'll stay over," she said happily. "I'll send the car back to the city."

  "Car?" he said. But he was interrupted when Jimmy came up.