Best Enemies

by Jane Heller

  “Mine’s herniated, too. Which disks of yours are affected?”

  Which of my disks? I was clueless on this subject, since my neck was just fine, but I knew that “floppy disks” would not be the correct answer.

  “I’ve got C-five/C-six degeneration,” he volunteered.

  “Same here,” I said gratefully. “Who knew we’d have something in common?”

  “Who knew.” He sounded underwhelmed. “So why are you really calling? I’ve got a feeling you want me to appear at some garden club luncheon. Or are you trying to work up the courage to ask me to be a centerfold in Playgirl?”

  “Oh Tony, you have such a great sense of humor.” I laughed a little too giddily, because I sensed that Connie was on target: This guy hated me. Still, I was far from giving up. “Actually, I do want a favor from you.”

  “Thought so.”

  “I want to invite you to dinner at my apartment. Monday night, eight o’clock. I know it’s kind of short notice, but I’d love it if you could make it.”

  “Ah. A command performance. Are any other trained seals coming, or am I the only author being pressed into service? This is one of those soirees where I mix and mingle with all your number crunchers and their spouses, isn’t it?”

  “For starters, my apartment isn’t big enough for a party with all our number crunchers and their spouses. For another, you’re the only author I’ve invited. And thirdly, it’s not a business dinner. It occurred to me this morning that after three books together, it’s high time we got to know each other. One-on-one. In a quiet setting.”

  “Interesting. What’s the catch?”

  “No catch. Well, except the catch of the day. I was thinking about barbecuing some fish on my George Foreman grill.”

  A reluctant chuckle. “What I meant was, why the suck-up? I’m not in the middle of a contract negotiation with L and T. I’m perfectly happy with Connie as my editor. I don’t have any plans to move to another publisher. So why is the publicity director romancing me?”

  Because I have to stick it to the woman who used to be my best friend, and you’re going to help me do it. “Because I’d like to get to know you better, as I said. More accurately, I’d like to get along with you better. You and I haven’t had the smoothest working relationship, and I want to change that, pure and simple. So come Monday night, Tony. It’ll be fun, you’ll see. Please come.”

  “On one condition.”

  “That I don’t talk business?”

  “No, that you don’t grill fish. Real men don’t eat fish.”

  “Oh? And what do real men eat?”

  “I was kidding. Fish will be just fine.” Well? He was always so sarcastic, it wasn’t easy to separate the kidding from the not kidding. “Now, why don’t you tell me where you live, so I don’t have to wander the streets calling your name.”

  “Then you’ll come?”

  “Sure I’ll come. Far be it from me to turn down an invitation from a beautiful woman with a hidden agenda.”

  Well, he was right about the hidden agenda. But beautiful? He thought I was beautiful? Tara was the beautiful one. Everybody knew that. No matter how much satisfaction I hoped to derive from being able to play her for the fool this time, she’d always be the beautiful one and I’d always be the runner-up. Tony would realize that the instant I introduced him to her.

  I gave him my address and confirmed the time of our “date.”

  “Got it,” he said. “Now, what should I bring? My mother taught me that it’s not polite to show up empty-handed.”

  Remembering that he was a wine expert, I suggested he bring a bottle. “You might go with either a Chardonnay that’s not too buttery or austere, or you might consider a Pinot Noir that’s been well aged in oak. Both are intensely versatile and will marry well with the flavors of the fish.” I was a complete zero when it came to wine, but we’d published a book by a woman who owned a vineyard in California, so I’d had to learn the lingo. That’s the thing about being the publicity director at a publishing house: You have to know a little about a lot.

  “I had no idea you were into wine,” said Tony, as if he had suddenly gained respect for me. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Amy?”

  You have no clue, I thought, then wished him a nice evening.

  I spent the weekend preparing for the big seduction. Sorry, the big befriendment. I cleaned the apartment. I did all my food shopping and prep work. I got my hair trimmed and blow-dried, and had a manicure. I even swallowed my pride (and disdain) and followed the advice in Tara’s book about buying a bunch of scented candles and placing them strategically around the apartment.

  As it turned out, the candles came in handy. About ten minutes before Tony was due to arrive Monday night, there was a complete and total power failure in my building, caused by an explosion at the Con Ed substation that serviced my neighborhood. I panicked. How would I feed him if I couldn’t use my stove or oven, not to mention my George Foreman grill? How would I put him in a simply beautiful mood if I couldn’t use my stereo and my new Enya CD? How would he even make it up to my apartment if he couldn’t use the elevator?

  Damn. He wasn’t gonna show up. I just knew it. He’d hear about the power outage on the radio and turn right around and go back to his place. And then what was I supposed to do?

  I was pacing, wondering if he’d come, not come, call, something, when the doorbell rang.

  “Would you believe I just walked up ten flights of stairs in total darkness?” he said as he stood there in my hall in his snug-fitting black sweater and blue jeans, his face drenched with sweat. He was in great physical shape, as I’ve already indicated, but he was out of breath and steadying himself against the wall.

  “I was sure you’d cancel,” I said.

  “Why?” he said between gulps of air. “Even when you booked me on the five a.m. farm report on that TV station in Kentucky, I didn’t cancel.”

  “No, you didn’t.” He was ornery about appearing on talk shows to promote his novels, but he was right: He wasn’t a canceler like some of the authors I worked with. He could have used his cell phone to call me from the lobby when he saw that the electricity was out, could have blown the dinner off and gone home, but instead he’d schlepped up all those stairs. A good omen, I thought.

  And I have to say that there was something almost sweet about his state of disarray—the sweating, the windedness, the damp lock of hair that fell across his forehead. It put a dent in his tough-guy, “I’m a best-selling mystery writer” persona and made him seem vulnerable for a change.

  “Come in,” I said, taking his arm. “I lighted some candles, so there shouldn’t be any more collisions between us.”

  He half-smiled, which also gave me hope for the evening. He didn’t smile very often, at least not around me.

  “I brought a 1987 Carneros Reserve Pinot Noir,” he said, handing me the bottle he’d lugged up the stairs. “It was nicely chilled when I left my place, but it was so hot in that stairwell, it’ll probably turn to vinegar any second.”

  “Then we’d better drink it right away,” I said. “It’ll be the perfect accompaniment to the meal, which was supposed to be grilled swordfish with sautéed spinach and roasted potatoes but will now be Brie and crackers.” I shrugged. “I’m so sorry about this, Tony. I had planned what I’d hoped would be a delicious dinner for you.”

  “Hey, this isn’t your fault,” he said, nodding up at the useless ceiling fixture in my kitchen. “There are some things even you can’t control.”

  “Oh, so you think I like to control things?” I asked as I opened the wine by candlelight. The cinnamon the candle was giving off was making me hungry for all the food we wouldn’t be able to eat.

  “Control is your middle name,” he said. “In the three years we’ve worked together, I’ve never seen you leave anything to chance.”

  “Sometimes leaving things to chance isn’t a good idea.” Like when you assume it’s safe to run out to the dentist while y
our fiancé is sleeping, only to come home early and find him in bed with your maid of honor.

  He cocked his head, then narrowed his blue eyes at me. “All I know is that there’s a reason you invited me here tonight. I just haven’t figured out what it is yet.”

  I smiled and poured us each some wine. “I already told you: I wanted us to get to know each other better. So how about relaxing and enjoying my company?” I held up my glass. “In fact, let’s make it official with a toast: to getting to know each other better.”

  Tony looked skeptical, but he clinked his glass with mine. “To getting to know each other better,” he echoed as the candle flickered and went out, leaving us both in the dark.

  10

  “Here. Take my hand, Tony, and I’ll lead you back into my living room,” I said, afraid he might crash into something in my pitch-black apartment and then bark at me. “The cheese and crackers are already out there, so all we have to bring is our wine.”

  “I research my books by prowling around crime scenes. I think I can navigate my way out of this kitchen,” he said, taking my hand nevertheless. It did not escape me that his grip was firm, his hand meaty and warm, and that making physical contact with him in a nonbusiness context did not feel as awkward or unpleasant as I’d expected.

  Once in the living room, where there were candles galore, thanks to dear Tara and her “simply beautiful idiom,” we let go of each other and sat on my sofa, which was upholstered in a nubby beige fabric and accented with too many toss pillows.

  “Do you mind if I move these?” asked Tony, referring to the pillows. “They’re nice, but they don’t leave space for an actual person.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said, tossing the pillows onto the carpet. I’d never really liked them, but they’d been part of the display at Pier 1, and I’d bought the whole package off the floor. Still, leave it to him to complain about them.

  “So how long have you lived here?” he asked, once we had settled into our respective corners at opposite ends of the sofa.

  “Four years,” I said. Ever since I’d moved out of Stuart’s and started my life all over again. “It’s very comfortable, and the location is convenient to everything.” I paused for a minute, recalling one of the tidbits Connie had slipped me about Tony, and decided that this was the perfect moment to dazzle him with my supposed knowledge of his favorite hobbies, to make him think we were astonishingly in sync. I’d done my homework. Now it was time to put it to use. “What’s especially lucky is that I’m only minutes from Madison Square Garden for Ranger games.”

  He swallowed his sip of wine and blinked at me. “You’re a hockey fan?”

  I nodded, straight-faced, as if to say, Of course. Isn’t everyone?

  “I wouldn’t have guessed that about you,” he said. “Most women find the sport too violent or too fast-moving or too—I don’t know—unglamorous.”

  “I think hockey is full of drama, passion, and precision,” I said, parroting some commentator. “I’m not crazy about the fighting, it’s true, but I love the fast pace. And who needs glamour? Hockey players aren’t high-priced crybabies like other types of athletes, and that makes them endearing, as opposed to glamorous. They’re sort of blue-collar in their work ethic. They get creamed out there on the ice, skate into the trainer’s room for a few stitches, and then come right back out and score a goal. And the Rangers! Well, I live and die by that team. Ever since I was a child, I’ve been a huge fan, because my father told me all about the glory days of Gilbert, Ratelle, and Hadfield. The ‘goal-a-game line,’ they were called. I myself remember the Rangers’ great battles against the Islanders in the early eighties. But I have to say that when we finally won the Cup in ‘94 after the fifty-four-year drought, it was one of the most exciting moments of my life. Seeing Wayne Gretzky in a Rangers uniform a few years later was icing on the cake.” I giggled, tried to look embarrassed. God, I was good. A natural liar. “Sorry to ramble on about this, but I’m such a fan.”

  “Don’t you dare apologize,” said Tony, his blue eyes shining with a newfound admiration for me. And speaking of his eyes, I had to hand it to the guy: He really was great-looking when he wasn’t scowling. Yes, the blue eyes were hard to be blasé about. But his mouth had an appeal of its own. There was a boyish quality about it, maybe because his two front teeth stuck out just a little and hung up on his bottom lip, and the result was kind of sexy. Well, I mean, if you liked grown men with overbites. “I’m a Rangers fan, too. I’m just sort of amazed, because I’ve never met a woman who’s as obsessed with the team as I am.”

  “How is that possible?” Boy, this is going well, I thought, giving myself a silent pat on the back for reading all those long, boring articles from Sports Illustrated‘s archives.

  “It just is. So who’s your favorite Ranger?” he asked as he spread some Brie on a cracker, took a bite, and drank more wine. He did these things gracefully for a man so sturdily built, with none of the bull-in-a-china-shop obliviousness you often see in men as muscular. I hadn’t noticed that about him before—that he moved as smoothly as he wrote.

  “That’s a tough one,” I said, “because I’ve had lots of favorites over the years: Ron Duguay, Phil Esposito, John Davidson, Mark Messier, Eric Lindros.” I felt like a complete fraud as I spit out the names of these men. They might as well have been pole-vaulters, for all I knew.

  “Yeah. They were all terrific.” Tony went on to tell me about the first time he saw a game at the Garden when he was a kid, and as he related the story and as I pretended to listen, my mind drifted off to Tara and Stuart’s grand estate, the setting for my even grander plan. I nearly salivated as I imagined Tony and me sitting at their antique Louis the something table for twelve in their banquet-size dining room. I imagined all four of us munching on pheasant or elk, or whatever poor wild animal was now in food fashion, while an army of uniformed servers, hired especially for the occasion, attended to our every need. I imagined us dipping the tips of our sauce-stained hands into finger bowls between courses. (Tara devoted a whole paragraph to finger bowls in Simply Beautiful, even though no normal person our age used them, not in this century anyway.) I imagined Stuart peppering Tony with questions about his books and Tara peppering me with questions about my engagement. I imagined her staring at me with her tongue hanging out, her beautiful face contorted with envy, her gorgeous blond locks limp with regret, her magnetic personality blunted by her shock at my ability to rebound from her treachery. Most tantalizingly, I imagined her turning to Stuart, after Tony and I had left their manse and gone back to the city, and thinking that her happiness with him couldn’t begin to compare with the intellectually stimulating, financially rewarding, sexually satisfying, and, above all, profoundly unbreakable bond she suspected I shared with Tony. Yeah, I enjoyed that notion immensely.

  After hockey, Tony and I moved on to sports cars, another area Connie had suggested I cover. He mentioned that he’d driven up to my apartment from his loft in SoHo instead of taking a cab, and I asked what kind of car he owned.

  He chuckled. “You name it, I own it. Cars are my one real weakness, other than women.” As you can see, he had started to loosen up a little. “I’ve been pretty conservative with all the money I’ve made from the books, except when it comes to cars. I can’t help indulging myself.”

  He explained that not only did he spend a fortune on cars but that he paid handsomely to house them in a private garage in lower Manhattan.

  “So which one did you drive tonight?” I said, feigning massive interest.

  “The Ferrari.”

  I pretended to go orgasmic. “Oh God. You don’t have the three fifty Spider, do you?” Connie had tipped me off to this factoid.

  “Yeah. You know the model?” He appeared stunned by my apparent psychic powers.

  “Know it? I dream about it,” I said with the sigh of a lovesick teenager.

  “No kidding,” he said, actually grinning. “That’s quite a coincidence. You’re a Ranger fan. I’m a Ran
ger fan. You like Ferraris. I like Ferraris. We must have been separated at birth.”

  It was my turn to grin. “Incredible what two people can learn about each other over a nice bottle of wine, isn’t it?”

  “Absolutely. So what is it about the Spider that speaks to you? Those twelve cylinders under the hood?”

  “You got it.” He was making this so easy that I almost felt sorry for him. All it took was a quick flip through Road & Track magazine, and I had him thinking I was a gearhead.

  “I can’t believe that you know about this stuff,” he marveled. “I’ll be honest with you. I never expected to have a single thing in common with you.”

  “Well, I had a feeling we’d hit it off. I sensed that all the friction between us was strictly about the promotion of your books, not about who we are as people.” Whatever that meant.

  “Then you’re more perceptive than I am.” He drained his glass and reached for the bottle to pour himself more. “So tell me, since we’re becoming such buddies, is there a man in your life? Someone to take you to Ranger games, for instance?”

  “Not anymore,” I said. “I was engaged once, but it didn’t work out.”

  “Sorry. Was the breakup awful?”

  “Yes. It was awful, and I thought I’d never get over it, but it’s all behind me now.” Sure it was.

  “I’ve never been engaged. Or married, for that matter.”

  “Why not?”

  “The usual reason. I haven’t met the right woman.”

  “Oh, come on, Tony. We both know you date zillions of women. Surely, there’s been a ‘right woman’ in there somewhere.”

  He laughed again. He really was mellow now—so mellow, I began to worry that he’d fall asleep at some point. He’d consumed most of the wine, without any real food to absorb it, and I noticed that his words were beginning to slur and that his eyelids were droopy. “First of all, I don’t date zillions of women. Billions, maybe.” Another laugh. “No, seriously, my reputation as a sheikh with a harem is greatly exaggerated. Do I enjoy women? Yes. Do I shy away from involvement? Yes.”