“No thanks. I’ll walk.” She smiled. No need to advertise to the whole world how she was feeling. Diana went through the door another man held open for her, hardly even looking where she was going. She needed to walk around and gather her thoughts.
Tears prickled in her eyes. Obviously she was not the prize she had imagined. How it hurt to hear Jodie saying of course her man would not stray, he had no need to. But Ernie had felt that need.
What on earth could Mira Chen and Henrietta Johnson and all those other tarts, Diana thought viciously, do for her husband that she couldn’t? A sullen fury took hold of her as she marched along the street. Maybe it was the fact that she was too easy to please, always there. Surely Ernie had lied to her when he said that he liked the idea of a traditional wife. Talking to Jodie and the others, a traditional wife seemed to be one who let her husband screw around without making a fuss, while she did the same—except that their husbands were somehow exempt from this rule.
In the future she thought she would confide more in Felicity. Felicity had been through a divorce and was single now, she couldn’t triumph over Diana. Oh stop, she chided herself, they were being supportive, trying to help you. She wanted to believe that, so she told herself it was true.
Well, I’ve done my wifely duty, Diana thought, getting angrier by the second. I’ve thrown his parties and entertained his contacts, I’ve dressed perfectly, I decorated his house, hired his servants and fucked him whenever he asked for it. And I refuse to lose him to some trampy little slut. I don’t see why I should sit at home while he fakes his meetings like I fake my orgasms. I can work too, if that’s what he likes. I can get a job. I could—
Here her imagination failed her, and she stamped her foot in the street. A few Japanese tourists giggled and stared like she was a mad bag lady. Diana pouted and hailed a cab.
*
“No, of course I don’t think you’re crazy,” Milla soothed her.
The long-distance line was crackly, and there was the sound of screaming children in the background, and a hissing noise like something was cooking on the stove. What right, Diana thought, did Milla have to sound so happy and contented all the time? She weighed a good ten pounds too much, she wasn’t even married to somebody rich and she worked like a slave.
“I’ve always said you should get a job. It helps concentrate the mind. There has to be more to life than shopping.”
“I don’t see why,” Diana said mutinously.
“And Ernie may not be cheating on you after all. These women don’t sound like such good friends to me. They sound jealous.”
“They’re not jealous. I trust them.”
“Well, that’s very nice, sweetheart. Mary, stop that, please. Put it down, it’s supper in just a second. But consider how quick they were to give you all those names. Pretending to be sorry for you when actually they were just gloating.”
“Milla—”
“All right,” her big sister said gently, “just remember, you can do anything you put your mind to. You worked at Vogue. Maybe you could do something along those lines over there.”
“That’s a great idea. It would put me right back on the cutting edge,” Diana mused.
“Of course it is. Anyway, I have to go, because the potatoes are boiling over. And just don’t trust those women. God bless, darling.”
“God bless.” Diana blew Milla a kiss and hung up. Somehow she always felt better after talking to her sister. Ernie would see her differently once she was working again. And the great thing was, she could take a job at a very low salary indeed.
She looked around her husband’s den, with the extensive his-and-hers Rolodexes. Somewhere among those exclusive hairdressers and flavor-of-the-month manicurists were her old numbers from London; if she made a few calls she could get an excellent list of contacts and just go from there. Within a week, Diana exulted, I’ll have a wonderful job and he won’t be so certain of me anymore.
She pressed the kitchen buzzer and told the cook to make duck a l’orange, Ernie’s favorite, for dinner tonight. No need for a big scene. She hadn’t got her job lined up yet. Besides, Milla was probably 100 percent right. Ernie was faithful. Diana decided that maybe she’d misunderstood the call this morning. Maybe it was a business acquaintance. Ernie loved to make money, and she loved him to make money. I can’t blame him for working hard, Diana said sedately to herself. She looked around the opulent, barely used little den, and past the mahogany walking-cane case out to her flagstone-floored hallway, with its gilt-framed paintings and subtle sconce lights on the walls. She was living in paradise here. Why rock the boat?
*
“But I don’t understand,” Diana protested. The managing editor’s office was immaculately decorated in tasteful white, with framed covers and black-and-white photographs of models. “You’ve seen my portfolio of work for Vogue. Why isn’t there anything for me?”
“I keep trying to tell you, Mrs. Foxton.” Kathy Lybrand leaned forward, her long-nailed bony fingers folded one over the other. “We prefer single girls here at City Woman, and besides, you’re about five years too old for our magazine.”
Diana swallowed both her anger and her pride. She was getting the run-around, and it had been the same way at American Vogue, Glamour, Marie Claire, Elle and all the other major fashion mags that she had targeted over the last fruitless week. She, Diana Foxton, was “too old.” At twenty-nine! She wasn’t about to go crawling to some old dowdy Redbook-or Family Circle–type thing. Besides which, Diana had a sinking feeling that, even if she changed her mind, the answer there would still be no.
“Can I be frank?”
“Certainly,” Diana snapped. “Why stop now?”
Kathy gave her the smile of a feeding cobra and plowed right on. “You’re a society wife, Mrs. Foxton, and that’s just great for you. At City Woman we like our assistants to be hungry, ambitious and driven.”
“I’m driven,” Diana said, annoyed.
“Yes—by your chauffeur.” Kathy chuckled at her own joke. “It’s hard to find a girl who’s excited about sweating her way up to a contributing editor position on thirty to forty thousand a year when that’s about your yearly budget for clothes.”
My yearly budget for clothes is a lot more than that, Diana thought, rather spitefully.
“In conclusion, if you want to find something to fill your time, might I suggest that you do whatever the other Fifth Avenue wives do—volunteer to organize charity balls and luncheons and write letters to Town & Country,” the businesswoman added with a sneer. “Although I never saw why they didn’t just give away the money to charity and add on the cost of hosting the thing. Perhaps that’s because of the lack of paparazzi involved in just writing a check.”
“Thank you for your speculations,” Diana said crisply. “I’d rather you kept them to yourself.”
“I dare say you would.” Kathy tapped her long nails on the desk. “I’d rather you didn’t waste my time in the office just because you once had my boss to dinner. Lots of people need the job you’re asking for to put bread on their tables—and they have a passion to work. That’s the kind of people we’re looking for.”
Completely discomfited, Diana sprang to her feet.
“I’ll show myself out,” she said in her coldest, crispest tone, the one she used when personal shoppers were late for an appointment or some hapless maître d’ couldn’t fit her and Ernie in at the last minute.
“You do that,” Kathy said, ignoring her rage completely. Diana paused at the door to her office, hoping that some snappy quip would spring to her lips; something really cutting and harsh. But nothing suggested itself, and the managing editor was already busy with the papers on her desk.
Diana marched out of her office, barely able to stop herself from slamming the door, which would have been childish, and given the bitch more satisfaction. The only difference between this interview and the others was that in this one the insults had been open. In the other ones, they had been veiled. But D
iana knew when she was being mocked.
The elevator ride down seemed eternal and depressing. The sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach matched the sinking feeling in her life. Diana gazed at the well-put-together, slim, curvy figure that gazed back at her from the shiny elevator inner doors. It was a beautiful reflection, no two ways about it. But how long would it stay that way? She was trembling on the threshold of thirty; and she hadn’t felt this depressed since she turned twenty and could no longer call herself a teenager. Too old to be a fashion assistant? But that was—unfair. Ridiculous. Ageist. Diana wanted to hit somebody. She felt a few tears prickling at the backs of her eyes, and that was unforgivable, because they would make her mascara bleed and her foundation would go all gray.
I’m supposed to be the hottest new bride in town, Diana thought. So why do I suddenly feel so abandoned and useless?
*
By the time she got home it was four P.M. The sun was still high in the sky, and yet she felt exhausted. Right now all she wanted to do was to get into a hot bath and then go to bed.
“Buenos dias, senora,” Consuela said, giving her a bright, fake smile. “Senora Felicity and Senora Natasha call for you. They say to ring them. Also, Senor Cicero waits in the guest room.”
Diana steadied herself against her dark oak balustrade, trying to process this information. She certainly didn’t want to deal with Natty and Felicity in her present mood. And who in the name of goodness was Senor Cicero?
“Mr. Cicero?”
“Si, si. Ees friend of Senor Foxton.”
“Oh. Let me go and say hello.” Diana said faintly. She searched her memory, trying to figure out exactly which of Ernie’s myriad business contacts this man was. And why had he come over to the house?
She hurriedly smoothed down her skirt, and slapped on a smile she didn’t feel, and pushed open the door.
“Oh hell,” Diana said, “it’s you.”
TEN
A month earlier, Michael walked purposefully down Seventh Avenue and people got out of his way, as they always did in New York. He was young, true, but he carried himself like a much older man. Most thirty-year-olds didn’t wear heavy-cut, dark suits and sober paisley ties. And most thirty-year-olds weren’t built like a Giants linebacker. But then again, most thirty-year-old males in this city weren’t running their own companies out of a midtown skyscraper.
In bars, at night, Michael had sometimes been mistaken for a stupid guy. Some men—weaker men—took one look at the hard, thick chest, and the muscular arms and strong thighs, and assumed he was a jock, an idiot. Michael didn’t mind. It was human nature to be jealous. Like a beautiful blond woman, he was thought to have no brain. It was more enjoyable to cut down sarcastic remarks with words than with fists, of course. Besides, when Michael asked another guy to step outside, he usually took one look at him and then backed down.
Since he started wearing suits, he got a little more respect. But he didn’t care about the thoughts of lesser people, he would force them to respect him. Actions spoke louder than looks.
Green Eggs was his ticket out. As he strode along the sidewalk, looking up at the towering buildings on either side of him, Michael felt the headiness of it. A week ago he was driving around trying to hawk tiny print runs of his books to libraries. Now, suddenly, it was the big time.
I could have had it before now, though, Michael thought. If I had sold out. He congratulated himself. What a fucking awesome buzz this was. He had held onto his baby company, had refused to take a salary. Now he was actually in partnership with Ernie Foxton. Independent control and mainstream money. It was a dream, and it was his.
The Blakely’s building loomed up ahead of him. Michael stopped dead, leaving the businesswomen in their tight suits and the workmen clutching their Styrofoam cups of coffee to push forward around him, waving down the yellow cabs that crawled along the semi-gridlocked roads or diving into the subway stations. He looked upward. The tower was magnificent, covered in opulent black polished granite. It glinted in the morning sunlight, sparkling like marble in some Venetian palazzo. The name of the firm was etched on a large brass plate in royal-blue lettering. Michael noticed that Green Eggs had not yet been added to the list of companies housed there. He’d have to remedy that.
The thought gave him an electrifying thrill.
Revolving doors made of solid dark glass provided an entrance to the lobby. He could see his reflection in them. The young man facing him was heavyset, in a smart suit, with an intense look of concentration on his face. Michael resisted an impulse to wink at himself. He grinned, and pushed into the lobby. Time to get to work.
*
Ernie was looking out of his window as Michael Cicero arrived, but he didn’t see him walk in off the street. He was staring out at the billboards for the movies and DKNY Jeans balancing amid the concrete forest of midtown, but he did not see them either. Small red lights blinked in and out of focus on his telephone bank as Marcia dealt with them. Right now he was distracted. He was talking to Mira Chen.
“You like the job then…?” he asked nervously, fiddling with the tie on his thousand-dollar Armani jacket. The costly clothes never seemed to hang quite right on Ernie, not that he gave a fuck. He dressed in the most expensive suits and shirts of the season. Top of the range, whatever it happened to look like. Ernie thought this gave him a sophisticated air.
“You like the job then, what?” Mira demanded, in a low hiss.
“I mean … you like the job then … Miss Chen,” Ernie half whispered. He didn’t dare to call her Mistress on an open phone line, even though Mira was now his employee. He imagined her tiny, boyish body, her long legs tapering down to pointed, cruel stilettos. Mira was the first time he had cheated on Diana. Ooh, she knew how to treat a naughty boy like he deserved, Ernie thought. He had the first stirrings of an impressive hard-on.
“It’s barely adequate. I need more money and a bigger office.”
“It’s the best I can do for now … Miss Chen,” Ernie whimpered.
“It’s not good enough. You need to be punished for even thinking I would accept this,” Mira snapped, hanging up on him.
Ernie gave himself a second to contemplate what tonight’s punishment might be. It was a delicious picture.
His buzzer sounded, snapping him out of it. Ernie felt his hard-on wither and die.
“Yeah, what is it?” he barked at Marcia.
“Excuse me, sir,” his assistant said, nervously. “I saw you were done with Miss Chen … you asked me to let you know when Michael Cicero got into the office.”
Ernie switched his focus. He felt a surge of adrenaline. The fly had finally crawled into the web.
“Reception said he just signed in, Mr. Foxton.”
“Excellent. I’m going to take a little orientation meeting,” Ernie said. “You can route my calls to Peter or Janet.”
“Yes sir,” Marcia said.
*
Ernie rode down to Michael’s floor in the regular elevator, the peasants’ elevator, as he thought of it. Normally, he rode in the brass and velvet, air-conditioned president’s car, which only he and his guests could use. It was non-stop from the lobby to the sixteenth floor. But Michael Cicero didn’t get offices up near the executive suites of Blakely’s. He had a basic set of rooms on the fourth floor. At this stage, there was no point in putting any more cash into Green Eggs than they had to.
If the children’s book sector wound up profitable for Blakely’s, Green Eggs would get all the cash it needed, but by then, Michael Cicero would not be a part of it.
Ernie smiled as he thought of Jack Fineman’s cleverness. The back-door deal with Grenouille and Bifte had made sure that the contract was badly presented to Cicero. There were plenty of outs for Blakely’s and few outs for Cicero. He would learn that nobody walked out on Ernie Foxton.
Of course, Michael didn’t have to learn that just yet. A happy employee was a productive employee. Ernie wanted to get the best out of him, to pick his brains be
fore he kicked him out.
Michael Cicero was thirty and self-made and he thought he knew everything. It would be a pleasure, Ernie decided, to show him how wrong he was.
*
“So what do you think of it?” Ernie asked loudly.
He pushed through the plain wooden door without knocking, and was pleased to see a young woman, presumably Cicero’s assistant, jump out of her skin. The space was boringly decorated, clean and functional. There was nothing of the black leather and gilt-clock elegance of the other Blakely’s offices, not to mention any trace of the opulence on Ernie’s floor. Cicero had no Eames chairs, no hand-woven Persian rugs. He had secretary cubicles and swivel-back chairs from an “economic” office supply place.
But Cicero was walking around his small space as rapt as if Ernie had assigned him a wing at Versailles.
“It’s amazing.” He glanced into the corner office, slightly larger than the two beside it, where he would sit. “You even got us our own kitchen.” Michael laughed. “Susan is thrilled she won’t have to go on a bagel run twice a day anymore.”
“And you’ve hired your new people?” Ernie asked. He really didn’t care what Susan thought. She was pretty enough, but girls like her were two a nickel in New York. He didn’t promote women up from assistant positions and he didn’t want to fuck her, so she didn’t show up on his radar.
“Yeah. I spoke to Felix last week. Everybody will be coming in today, making changes to the run we have ready to go. Of course, they will have to get used to all this.” He waved a brawny arm around his offices, and Ernie realized the bitching about luxury wasn’t going to come. To Michael Cicero, this was luxury.
“You have to bring your illustrators up to meet Janet and me.” Ernie smiled warmly at the younger man. His lawyers had told him he had to make sure of each piece of talent, individually, to really fuck Michael over. Last thing he wanted was Cicero walking out before he had got hold of his talent. “We take pride in really getting to know a team we work with.”
“I’ll do that.” Michael repressed his distaste. He hated corporate therapy-speak that called workplaces “teams” and “families” and then didn’t hesitate to fire a guy who was underperforming. Plus, the limey was thin and had manicured hands and what looked like a fake tan. He was a million miles away from Michael’s idea of a guy. But he was the one coming up with the money. So far, there had been no memos, no corporate interference. Just production dollars, meetings with finance guys and lots of checks.
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