Best Enemies

by Jane Heller

  Stuart didn’t speak for a minute. Our waiter took the break in the action to hand us menus and tell us the specials.

  “What do you want from me?” he asked impatiently. “Tell me and get it over with.”

  “I want a divorce,” said Tara.

  “My pleasure,” said Stuart.

  “First things first,” said Tony. “What we want most of all is for you to make things right with your family. Your parents are worried sick about you, although why they should care is beyond me. They don’t have any idea what happened to you, because Jimmy didn’t want to upset them any more than they already are.”

  “My bro is such a sweetheart,” he said sarcastically.

  “I wouldn’t be so cavalier about him,” said Tony. “He cares enough about preserving Lasher’s reputation that he’s willing to pay off your debts and not press charges against you. Of course, you’ll have to sell the house in Mamaroneck to cover some of the debts.”

  “Yeah. Fine. But what’s the catch?”

  “That you come back to New York and have a nice long talk with your folks. Tell them they were right to put Jimmy in charge. Tell them it’s taken you a while to face it but now you understand that you’re not cut out for running the company. Tell them you sulked at first, made mistakes, left town to clear your head, but that you’ve gotten yourself together and are starting a new business in Florida. Say you’re sorry, Stuart. Get it now?”

  “Yeah, yeah. What else?”

  “Put in an appearance at my publication party,” said Tara.

  He laughed. “Why in the world would I do that?”

  “Tony just told you why,” she said. “It’s either a nice long prison sentence or a half-hour cameo at my party, during which you’ll play the part of the loving husband I wrote about.”

  “I’m not that good an actor, hon.”

  “No? You fooled your own family. I think you can fool a few reporters.”

  “If this party of yours is getting so much publicity, how do I know Sergei won’t find out about it and cause problems?” asked Stuart.

  “It’s a private party at her editor’s apartment,” I explained. “Strictly invitation only.”

  “And I highly doubt Sergei reads Page Six of the Post,” Tara said dryly. “I don’t know about Ho and Miguel, but he barely spoke English.”

  “So let me get this straight,” said Stuart. “All I have to do is go home, make nice to Jimmy and my parents, be irresistible at the book party, and then I can come back to Florida? Free and clear?”

  “Don’t forget the divorce,” said Tara. “Once my book tour is over and I’ve hit the best-seller list, I’m filing the papers and you’ll have to sign them.”

  “And you’ll have to stop peddling Caspian Classics,” added Tony. “Jimmy won’t drop the charges against you unless you set yourself up in a legitimate business.”

  “Caspian Classics is legitimate. A legitimate moneymaker.”

  “Sell caviar if you want to,” said Tony. “Sell quail eggs, cow’s udders, who cares what. Just do it legally.”

  “Okay. Okay. But I don’t have time to sit here,” he said. “I have things to do.”

  “Just two things,” said Tony. “First, you have to talk to the cops outside and tell them your disappearance was just a silly misunderstanding. Then you have to pack. You’ll be on the plane with us tomorrow.”

  “I can’t leave tomorrow,” he said. “I need to—”

  “Run away again?” Tara said. “I don’t think so. We’re not letting you out of our sight until you show your face at my party.”

  “But I have to make arrangements, tell people I’ll be gone.”

  “What people?” I said, having been fairly quiet up to that point. “Mandy?”

  Stuart turned to me. “What do you know about all this, Amy?”

  “I know that you’re selfish,” I said. “You were selfish four years ago and you’re selfish now. The only difference is that Mandy is the one on the short end, not me.”

  “What’s with the Mandy stuff?” he said. “She used to be my secretary. Big deal.”

  “Oh please,” said Tara. “She’s done a lot more for you than type your letters. We paid her a visit this morning.”

  He looked surprised. “You saw her here? In Palm Beach?”

  “Well, she wasn’t in China,” said Tara.

  “Then I guess she told you about the baby,” he said.

  Tara and I locked eyes—it was our turn to be surprised—but it was she who spoke. “The baby?”

  “Yeah. We’re expecting. Since you’re so keen on a divorce, I might as well marry her.”

  “Now that you mention it, your girlfriend did look rather thick around the middle. I just figured she’d been overeating, given the strain of living with you.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Tony, “you and she are moving into her aunt’s house?”

  He wrinkled his nose with distaste. “Not right away. We’re renting a condo until the house is habitable. It needs major renovation, as you must have noticed.”

  Tara laughed. “You’re such a prince, Stuart. Nothing but the best for you.”

  “The best?” He looked at her, then at me, and his expression became uncharacteristically somber. Even regretful. “I had the best and I threw it away.”

  As the busboy arrived to refill our water glasses, I couldn’t help wondering whether he meant Tara or if he meant me. Which of us had been his “best?”

  Before I could give the question a single second more than it deserved, Tony reached under the table and squeezed my hand, as if to remind me that none of that mattered anymore.

  38

  Julie Farrell’s apartment was the perfect spot for a publication party. It was three times the size of mine, so that even if everybody who’d RSVPed actually showed up, there would still be plenty of space for them to mingle, talk to Tara, and line up for signed copies of the book.

  At two o’clock on the day of the party, the star author met me at Julie’s. I had brought along my new assistant, a young woman named Lily, who was polite, efficient, and, above all, discreet—the anti-Scott, in other words.

  Our plan was to bring the book to life by transforming Julie’s apartment into a shrine to Tara. We created a total environment, complete with the candles, the scented oils, the incense sticks, the multicolored paper clips, and the volumes of poetry Stuart “wrote.” There would be Enya on the stereo and flowers in little vases and waiters in aprons passing our special Simply Beautiful cocktails, which were basically white wine spritzers garnished with a truckload of herbs. And for an additional decoration, we hung posters of Tara’s picture, a dozen of her suggestions for a simply beautiful life listed underneath. These included: “Hug a child”; “Grow a plant”; “Invest in a good moisturizer”; “Wear fuchsia when you need a lift”; and “Buy the man you love a musical instrument so he’ll serenade you after work.” When I’d mentioned to Tony that I was thinking of buying him a harp, he’d told me to save my money.

  About two hours before the party, he called my cell phone to see how things were going.

  “Everything’s fine here,” I said. “The bigger question is, How’s our hostage doing?” Ever since we’d dragged him back from Florida, Stuart had been under a veritable house arrest at Jimmy’s, keeping a profile low enough to deter Sergei from camping out at the door and pummeling him.

  “He’s had the big talk with his parents, confessed his sins to Jimmy, and worked out some sort of financial settlement to avoid going to jail. All that’s left is this party tonight.”

  “I’m ready,” I said. “How about you? I know how you love L and T parties.”

  He groaned. “Like I love a bad cold. But I promise to be charming if it’ll help you.”

  “I appreciate that. What will really help me is if Jimmy brings Stuart early, in case Barbara Biggs and her Today’s Woman crew are the first to get here.”

  “Today’s Woman. Now that sounds like hard-edged television. I
s there a Today’s Man you could get me on?”

  “Don’t be a wiseass. The show airs all over the country, and it’ll be great exposure for Tara—if I can make Barbara buy the act.”

  “If anyone can, it’s you, Amy. You’ll get your publicity, and everything will work out better than you think.”

  “I hope you’re as good a forecaster as you are a writer. See you later.”

  “Can’t wait. I love you.”

  “And I—” Say it, I scolded myself. Say it back to him. Just say it already. “I—” Nope. Not yet. “I can’t wait, either.”

  At five o’clock, Julie came home and was clearly impressed with what we’d done with her apartment. After she gave us a pep talk, we went over the guest list. It included a mix of L and T executives, book reviewers (even the snobby ones who wouldn’t deign to review a book as mundane as Tara’s but who’d never turn down a free drink), magazine and newspaper reporters, and the handful of opinion makers who seemed to show up for every publication party in New York.

  “If these people all come, the word of mouth for the book will be tremendous,” she said. “You and your husband will be the toast of the town, Tara.”

  “Either that or he’ll just be toast,” she muttered.

  “What?” said Julie.

  “A little joke,” Tara said, flashing her big teeth, which were so white, they were blinding. In preparation for the party, she’d had them bleached.

  She looked her usual gorgeous self, by the way. Her hair was up in an ultrasophisticated chignon. Her outfit was a red dress that went all the way down to her ankles (hiding the knock-knees). And her jewelry was exquisite—straight out of a fashion magazine. She really did have a talent for pulling herself together, and I defied anyone to guess that her life wasn’t as beautiful as it seemed.

  The guests started arriving just after 6:00 p.m., one of them Tony. He kissed me in full view of Betsy, whose eyes blazed with resentment.

  “Break a leg,” he said.

  “Break your own leg,” she told him.

  “I was talking to Amy,” he said.

  “Good, because my legs are no longer any of your business,” she replied. “And that goes for the rest of my anatomy.”

  “Why don’t we let your husband worry about your anatomy,” I said. “Right now, I have a job to do. You must have one, too, Betsy, although for the life of me, I can never figure out what it is.”

  Nostrils flaring, she wheeled and stormed off. Like my nerves weren’t jangled enough.

  As more and more people filled the apartment, I spotted the reporter from New York magazine and another from the Post, both with photographers, and went to play hostess.

  “Where’s the husband?” they both asked after getting a shot of Tara sipping her Simply Beautiful cocktail.

  “He’s stuck in traffic,” I said, winging it. “He’s on his way.”

  Where is the husband? I thought as I checked my watch. Jimmy should have had him here by now.

  At that moment, Lily hurried over to tell me that Barbara Biggs and her crew had just walked through the door.

  “Okay,” I said, trying to stay calm. “I’ll introduce them to Tara, give them all a drink and an hors d’oeuvre, and by the time they’ve set up, Stuart will be here.”

  I hoped I wasn’t wrong. I’d turned myself inside out to snag Barbara’s show for Tara, and I was not about to let that twerp ruin everything.

  With a phony smile plastered on my face, I greeted Barbara and brought her over to meet Tara, who was in the middle of telling the Post reporter that one of her favorite tips for a simply beautiful marriage was to watch sunsets and sunrises with the loved one.

  “Speaking of the loved one, Amy, where is he?” asked Barbara, a blow-dried redhead who looked like she’d just graduated from TV Anchorperson School. “My understanding was that he’s part of the interview.”

  “Of course he is,” I said.

  “Fine, but I can’t keep the crew here all night,” she said, starting to act pissy.

  “Let me see what’s keeping him,” I said, and slipped away to find Tony.

  “We need Stuart,” I whispered to him. “Can you call Jimmy and ask where the hell they are?”

  “I know where the hell they are.”

  “Where?”

  “On the Bruckner Expressway. Jimmy’s car had a flat.”

  I felt my throat close up. “How flat? Like flat where it’s got a huge rip in it and the car has to be towed and there’s no way Stuart will get here in time?”

  “No. Like flat where it’s got a small leak in it and you take it off and put the spare on and Stuart will get here a little late.”

  “Okay, but what am I going to do about Barbara Biggs? She said she has to leave soon.”

  “I’ll stall her.”

  “You? Usually, you just sit by yourself at these parties and growl at people.”

  “I know, but I told you I’d be charming if it would help you. So I’ll go over there and rock her world.”

  Barbara was on her second cocktail when I introduced Tony.

  “The mystery writer?” she said, putting down her drink so she could shake his hand. “I totally love your books.”

  “And I totally love your show. Never miss it,” he said, giving her his sexiest smile.

  “You’ve never watched Today’s Woman in your entire life,” she said, realizing she was being teased.

  “Actually, I did watch it once,” he replied. “You were doing a segment on women who take stripping lessons and feel empowered once their clothes come off.”

  “You saw that?” she asked.

  “I saw them,” he said. “I couldn’t tear myself away.”

  “You’re bad,” she replied, enjoying their banter. While he kept her talking, I took Tara aside and broke the news about Jimmy’s flat tire.

  “Swell,” she said. “If I hadn’t made such a big deal about Stuart in the book, we could be doing all this without him.”

  “You can leave him out in the sequel.”

  “There won’t be a sequel if this one doesn’t sell.”

  We were interrupted by the Post reporter, who was getting fidgety. “Is the husband coming or not?” she asked.

  “He had a flat tire,” I said. “Just give us another few minutes.”

  Then, the New York magazine reporter said she couldn’t wait anymore.

  And finally, Barbara Biggs announced that she’d have to leave if Stuart didn’t appear soon. “I’d love to stay and chat with Tony Stiles,” she said, “but business is business. I thought we had this all arranged.”

  “We did,” I said. “We do.”

  “He’ll be here,” Tara assured her. “Why don’t you have another one of our delicious—”

  Before she could ply Barbara with more alcohol, Stuart and Jimmy finally trudged in.

  “Stuart!” Tara cooed as she raced up to him and threw her arms around his neck. His hair was still orange, but the Hawaiian shirt had been replaced by his customary Brooks Brothers suit. “I was so worried.”

  “I’ll bet,” he said, letting her kiss him on the cheek. “Sorry we’re late.”

  “Sweetheart, don’t apologize,” she said. She turned to Barbara. “That’s one of the tenets of Simply Beautiful: Saying ‘I’m sorry’ too often can make for a sorry relationship.”

  “Very interesting,” said Barbara. “Now, let’s get the two of you set up for the interview.”

  “Here,” I said, rushing over to pull up a couple of extra chairs so the three of them could sit together for the taping of the segment.

  While the crew positioned themselves, I took a deep breath, glanced around the room, and smiled at Tony, who was standing nearby. Somehow, it was all coming together. Stuart was playing his part and allowing Tara to play hers, and L and T would sell lots and lots of books.

  The interview got off to a promising start as Barbara asked Tara to talk about her hints for keeping the romantic fires burning. And then she turned to Stua
rt and asked, “Do you really write her poetry and read it to her at bedtime?”

  I was leaning in to hear his answer, when a waiter carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres nearly collided with me. He mumbled an apology and slunk away, but after a second or two, it dawned on me that I knew him. Well, not knew him, but recognized him. Yes, I’d seen him before, but I couldn’t remember where. Oh, who cared, right? At least he hadn’t collided with the camera and disrupted the taping.

  “Yes, I do write Tara poetry,” Stuart was saying, “and she returns the favor. She leaves me these amazing little love notes in my toiletry case, so that when I travel, she’s always with me.”

  “That’s special,” Barbara enthused.

  “It’s the element of surprise that keeps things exciting in a relationship,” Tara added. “It’s the wonder of what might happen next that—”

  She was in mid-sentence when the waiter, the one who’d nearly knocked me over, suddenly lunged at Stuart right in front of the camera.

  My God, it’s Sergei, I thought as the party guests screamed, scattered, or froze. Yep, it’s Sergei, and he’s wrapping his hands around Stuart’s throat.

  And then before anybody could react, another man entered the melee—an Asian man. At first, I thought he was coming to Stuart’s defense, but he, too, wanted a piece of my ex-fiancé.

  “Lasher is mine,” he said to Sergei in broken English. “He owe me money and I collect.”

  “Who are you?” Betsy yelled at him from several feet away.

  “Ho!” shouted the man.

  “Well! I beg your pardon,” said Betsy, clearly offended. “I will not be called names like that by you or anybody else. Now get out.”

  The Chinese truffles vendor ignored her and threw a punch at Stuart’s head that landed instead on Sergei’s torso.

  While he and Sergei went after Stuart, a Latino man suddenly shoved them both out of the way, muttering, “Nobody forgets to pay Miguel, eh?”

  Now we had an actual free-for-all going on, and it was pure bedlam. While the three interlopers clobbered Stuart and one another, the guests made a mad dash for the door. Some grabbed copies of Tara’s book to use as shields. Some tore down the posters of her and stomped on them in their frantic efforts to get out. And some just threw up their hands as they fled, dropping their Simply Beautiful cocktails on the floor, soaking Julie’s carpet, and leaving a trail of sprigs.