“Pay would be fifteen thousand a year.”
“Sounds good to me,” Diana said, insistently.
Michael could have kicked himself. Who on earth would have thought that the woman would actually say yes? But that was fine. She’d quit in a week. A chick like that—society lady with a body of a forties sweetheart—had probably never worked an honest day in her life.
“We have new offices in the Blakely’s building. Fourth floor. You won’t be too near Ernie, I’m afraid.”
“That’s fine,” Diana assured him. “What time do you open the office? Publishing normally starts around nine, correct?”
“Correct. It normally does. But Green Eggs is a bit more ambitious than most. I like to be in the office at eight thirty. I’ll see you there at that time tomorrow. If I’m a little late, the security guard will let you in.”
He chuckled inwardly, watching her pale. Any second now she’d fling the job back in his face.
“Oh, and by the way.” He thought he’d spice up the mix for her. “I take my coffee black, and I like it fresh brewed twice a day.”
Diana swallowed hard. Insufferable man. He was playing with her. He wanted her to quit.
“See you tomorrow at eight thirty,” she snapped. “Let me show you out.”
“You do that.” Cicero was strolling out to the door. That arrogant walk he had, it was like he owned the place. “I’ll look forward to working with you.”
*
Diana went upstairs and ran herself a hot tub, shaking Floris Lily of the Valley liberally into it, and revelling in the cloud of fragrant steam as she sank her long limbs into the water. Her feet had a very unaccustomed ache from tramping around the streets of New York all day long—it was amazing how hard it was to get cabs in midtown at lunchtime—and she wasn’t used to the humiliations she’d been asked to suffer. Well, Elle and Marie Claire would regret bitterly that they hadn’t snapped up the new Diana, the new businesswoman Diana, once she’d made her mark in publishing. She was determined to be upbeat about her new job. Fifteen thousand didn’t sound very much, and, of course, it was dollars, not even pounds. But it was a start. It could be her handbag money, or maybe she’d put it in the stock market, and wind up really rich like the Rockefellers. There were consolations. Diana considered the delicious necessity of buying a completely new wardrobe full of business suits, maybe even kitsch pinstripes, who knew? There were endless possibilities, and then of course one needed work shoes and handbags to go with them. She could almost forgive Michael Cicero his coffee remark. Did he really expect her to fetch his drinks? Of course not. That had to have been a joke. At any rate, she would show him that she could not be bossed around the way he seemed to be planning.
She started daydreaming about life as a working woman. Ernie would be entranced and surprised, and he’d just have to work harder at catching her in. Then there would be so much less time for extracurricular activities. Yes, Diana thought, she had made it far too easy for him to enjoy the pleasure of her company. But all that would change.
Fuelled by enjoyable thoughts of revenge, Diana climbed out of her bath and swathed herself in her rich, navy Ralph Lauren gown. She lazily reached for her Crème de la Mer and slathered it all over her hands and body, rubbing it into her knees, her aching shins and feet. Then she sauntered into her walk-in closet and stood in an agony of indecision for several minutes before settling on her pink silk Richard Tyler number. She just managed to finish spritzing her perfume before she heard the front door open.
Ernie was home.
TWELVE
Five miles away, in Soho, Felicity Metson was considering her options.
Diana Foxton was such a little fool. Nobody liked her—who could like that combination of perfect dressing and inane naivety? It was too unfair to watch her swan into town with no reputation, nothing, only a rich husband in a city full of rich husbands and that damned accent, and just take over the social scene. Her body didn’t fit in—a good ten pounds she had on most of the girls—and her dressing didn’t fit in—such perfectly tailored, wonderfully subtle clothes, even if she was wearing Prada and Gucci she managed to make them look English. You glanced at Diana and you got an instant sense of Merry Olde Englande, with—well—castles and Labrador puppies and oh, what was that game they had that was even more boring than baseball? Oh, cricket; yes, that was it. Of course Ernie was just another rich flyboy made good, but that wasn’t the point. A rich husband was pretty much wallpaper.
Felicity moved around her pale-cream apartment, idly dusting the Moda Italia furniture that was so stylish and uncomfortable, and the stacks of How to Get a Man books she kept like bibles at the side of her bed. Because, after all, even though a husband did nothing more than provide the requisite background for a wife to shine against, he was a necessity. How could you throw wonderful, aggravatingly perfect dinners like Diana Foxton without the moolah necessary to hire just the right chef, get the perfect table bouquets of twigs and wild berries, and buy the French crystal that everyone drank out of and the Royal Doulton everybody ate off?
It was too bad, Felicity thought, pouting, that Hector, her own husband—landed after a campaign planned with military precision—had decided that, after all, he preferred the company of slender, sexy young men. It was simply embarrassing to be this young and divorced. She glanced down at her man manuals—The Rules, Getting to I Do, The Art of War for Lovers—and thought about Ernie Foxton. What on earth had Diana got to complain about? Ernie was a good worker and seemed to give her carte blanche when it came to running her home and her life. Felicity went to her wonderful 1970s bar and mixed herself a vodka martini, even putting in a jumbo olive, because style was all about the details. Diana was crazy, the silly little idiot, running around town telling all and sundry. And the faces of Jodie and Natasha saying their husbands didn’t cheat! The whole world knew that Zuckerman liked to pork the nanny whenever possible, and Natasha went along with it because if it was kept in the house it was under her control. All she did was change the model regularly, as if there were any danger her hubby would divorce her—far too much money down the drain for that. Felicity lifted her glass to Natasha, who was a wife who knew how to play the game. It suited her to be married and it suited her husband to be married. With this open admission, this senseless bleating, Diana was laying Ernie and herself open to ridicule.
In Felicity’s experience, if there was one thing men couldn’t stand, it was ridicule.
The Zuckermans and the Goodfriends would have blabbed it all over town by now. Felicity had kept quiet and congratulated herself on her subtlety. When Ernie first started hearing the rumors, he would investigate the source and find out that she, Felicity, had been the only discreet person in the whole silly business. What a fool Diana was to worry about the little oriental tart Ernie had brought into the office! That was not the type of woman an obvious social climber like Ernie would ever marry. She would never be able to mingle properly at the Met, the way the classiest Chinese and Japanese ladies did with such effortless ease. She was a cheap little slut who had no social graces, and besides which, she thought small. She was, Felicity decided, most likely just sticking Ernie up for the odd platinum watch and diamond bracelet, instead of the small gold ring that really counted. Ernie was no fool. He wouldn’t swap a Diana for a Mira. But if Diana wasn’t careful, she would most likely find herself swapped for someone else.
The phone at her bedside buzzed. It was Tom. She let the machine pick up.
“Hey babe, it’s me. Got a forty-eight-hour pass at the last minute. Wondered if you wanted to do dinner or something. I’ll try you later.”
Dinner or something? Well, that was very romantic, Felicity thought disdainfully, wiping his message with one flick of her Chanel Rouge Argent–sparkling fingernail. Tom just didn’t get it, did he? He looked good in dress whites, and he was a novelty in her circle, certainly better than nothing. A recently divorced girl could not afford to be seen anywhere unaccompanied. But the salary of a
Marine Major was never going to keep her in the style to which she’d become so very accustomed. Why, if she married Tom she’d be the richer partner and need a pre-nup. And besides, who could see her, Felicity Metson, dragging herself from base to base and deferring to the wife of a lieutnant colonel?
She squirmed with shame on the sofa as she thought of her divorce. God, what a stigma! A girl her age actually cast aside! It was no comfort to think that Hector had been a faggot. If she had somehow been smarter and let him know, subtly, that both her eyes were blind, he could have had the gardener, the pool man and the chef and she would never have batted an eyelid. It wasn’t so different from what Natasha was doing. Felicity swung her skinny legs and mentally chastised herself. What a rookie error, to try and persuade Hector that his position demanded he be straight, that he could shut his eyes and just do her instead. She’d made him uncomfortable. As Diana was most likely making Ernie uncomfortable right now.
Of course, I was married for a good five years. And silly little Miss Perfect has only been wed six months, Felicity triumphed, taking a spiteful sip of her martini. What a terribly amusing thing it was to see the beautifully put together Miss Limey with that aggravatingly classy accent take such a swift tumble from grace, and then be stupid enough to broadcast it to the two biggest gossips in town! They would be repeating this story at Bliss facial spa and Oribe’s salon on Fifth and, in fact, all over New York. She made a mental bet with herself on how long it would take to get back to Ernie that his wife had been blabbing? Not long, not long at all. And then, how he would prize discretion, and want to silence the gossips.
Felicity made a mental note to find out all she could about Ernie Foxton. Judging from his apartment, he was doing wonderfully well. And if she played her cards right, he could soon be back on the market. Just as she was herself.
*
Diana settled into the high-backed, carved oak chair opposite Ernie’s. She’d had a little love table installed at one end of the bedroom for their most intimate dinners. His favorite food, champagne, flowers, candles. It would be special for a lot of men, but she did this for Ernie on a regular basis. A pleasant home was her end of the bargain. Why couldn’t he keep his?
“How was your day today, darling?”
Now that the moment was here, she was nervous. She had no idea how to handle it.
“Not too bad. Lots of meetings. Always the same.” Ernie’s accent was starting to grate on her. “Nothing you’d be interested in. Have a good time here?”
“I might be interested in your work if you’d tell me about it,” Diana said sweetly.
He looked surprised. “I doubt it. You’ve never shown any interest in anything without a label on the back, have you?”
“I could be. I spent some time at Vogue before we got married.”
Ernie speared his lamb and shook the piece at her, smirking. “Yeah, but that was hardly a real job. You were just mucking about waiting for me to pop the question. And I didn’t mind. What were you going to say, that we now had two million and twelve thousand a year?”
He giggled in his high-pitched way.
“It’s true; I have been a bit of a butterfly,” Diana admitted, stifling her annoyance. She tossed back her silky hair to show it off to its best advantage in the candlelight, but Ernie only seemed interested in the cranberry relish. “But I think the working life has a lot to offer a woman.”
“Like a salary. Lucky for you, you don’t need one.”
“I think it’s important to be independent,” Diana said firmly. “I’ve actually gone out looking for a job. And I’ve found one. In publishing.”
That got him. Ernie lowered his knife and fork theatrically and stared at her. “In publishing? But you’ve got no experience. What are you doing? Who for?”
“I’m going to be assisting one of your colleagues. Michael Cicero at Green Eggs.”
Ernie half choked. “You what?”
“I’m going to be working for Mr. Cicero,” Diana said, sliding one long, curvy leg over the other and shaking her shoulders slightly so that her dress moved around the full ripeness of her breasts.
Ernie looked at the sensual movement of his wife, but she did nothing for him. If Diana could get a little kinky, get a riding crop and paddle his buttocks mercilessly the way Mira had done this morning, maybe he’d have some desire for her again. But Mira had squeezed out the last drop of juice from him, and he didn’t think he could get it up for Diana with a crane. Now she wanted to work for that little asshole Cicero, huh? Well, he, Ernie, wanted a spy in that office. Besides, it would mean she had less time to wonder where he was at night.
“If you want to, babe, I think that’d be a great idea.”
Diana preened. “I’m sure I’d be able to understand your business more once I get the hang of it.”
“Get the hang of it? You’ll quit in a week.”
“Why would you say that? Of course I won’t quit. I’ll be good at it. I’m sure I’ll be indispensable.”
“Rumor has it Mike Cicero’s a slave driver.”
Don’t talk to me about rumors, Diana thought. She lifted her glass. “I can handle it. Let’s have a toast. To business.”
“To business,” Ernie repeated dutifully, wondering what had got into his meek little wife.
*
He took some paperwork into his den as soon as Consuela started to clear away the dishes. If he could stay up late enough Diana would fall asleep and he wouldn’t be expected to perform like a trained monkey. I’m stressed, Ernie whined to himself. He shut the heavy oak door behind him and gleefully booted up his computer so he could log onto the Internet. He loved the Net, it was an isolating little cyberworld that kept him well away from his flesh-and-blood woman. So far Diana had never disturbed him in here. Ernie told himself smugly that she knew better.
He had just clicked his mouse onto his favorite online trading site when there was the unmistakable squeak of the door. Without glancing around, Ernie told Consuela he wouldn’t be needing anything else and she could retire.
“It’s not Consuela. It’s me.”
Ernie twisted around in his revolving chair. Diana stood in the doorway, the light from the soft sconces filtering through her dress, outlining the silhouette of her. She was built a lot like that film star, Catherine Zeta-Jones. He so much preferred Mira’s hard, tarty, boyish little body.
“I got some work to do, OK, babes?”
“Not really.” Diana took a deep breath and glanced out of their huge, six-foot windows looking downtown through the canyons of glass and concrete. Manhattan was Ernie’s gift to her, and it was glittering in the night like a web of jewels. “I think we need to talk, darling.”
“We just did talk,” Ernie said, a nasty squirming feeling in the pit of his stomach. Fuck. Was she onto him? It felt just like when his ma used to scold him, back at school, in front of the other kids. He began to feel the first stirrings of resentment.
“Who were you talking to so early the other morning? I heard you on the phone. You told the girl on the other end not to speak so loudly in case you woke your wife.”
“How do you know it was a girl? It wasn’t a girl. It was Peter Davits, he’s my head of business affairs. He needed an early morning meeting and I wanted to make sure I didn’t disturb you.”
Diana relaxed and Ernie breathed out. Well. It was easier than he’d expected to wriggle out. “Look at you, you’re all jealous. Don’t you know I got the best wife in New York? You know I need to work all the hours God sends, sweetheart. To get nice things for you. Same as it always was. All right?”
“All right,” Diana said, smiling at him uncertainly.
“I really need to finish up in here. Why don’t you go get some rest and I’ll be in as soon as I can? You’ve got a big day tomorrow. New job.” Ernie tried to finish that last sentence with a straight face.
“You’re right.” Diana padded across the study in her delicate Moroccan slippers, embroidered in golden thread, that s
parkled as she moved. She kissed him, and there was the scent of baby powder on her skin. Very clean, very wholesome, very spoilt. Ernie decided he’d have to find some way of letting her know what the score was. He hardly asked much of her. Looking the other way, it was as old as time, wasn’t it? What wife could do less?
Ernie clasped her to him and dramatically breathed in, sniffing the air. “Wow, you smell great, honey. Why don’t you go to Tiffany’s tomorrow and get yourself a little something to celebrate your new job?”
“Thanks. I will. Don’t be too long.” Diana said, pressing his shoulders and gliding off.
Ernie waited until he heard the bedroom door shut, then picked up his cell phone and dialed Mira’s number from memory. If he was lucky, his mistress would be home, and maybe order him to another early morning rendezvous tomorrow.
THIRTEEN
The alarm buzzed in the darkness, and for a few seconds Diana didn’t recognize the sound. She lay sprawled in her silk sheets, trying to work out, half conscious, why that horrible noise wouldn’t stop.
Ernie’s bare foot pushed at her, and with a start, Diana sat up. Groggily she hit the button to turn the wretched thing off. In the darkness of early morning, the luminous dials on the clock silently told her it was five fifty A.M. The bedroom was chilly, and her sheets and pillows seemed blissfully, temptingly soft and warm. For a second she hesitated, but only for a second. Diana glanced back at her husband, snoring in the sheets, and thought of Mira Chen’s nasty little smile. She, Diana Foxton, was not the type to give up so easily. She jumped out of bed and staggered into the shower.
They had separate bathrooms, because Diana couldn’t stand to have Ernie watching her toilette. A woman must cultivate an air of mystery. When she needed to floss, or pluck her eyebrows, he didn’t need to watch, did he? She loved to appear perfectly groomed and pulled-together at all times. She turned the heavy brass shower knobs to her pre-programmed temperature setting and clicked the water pressure to power. Time to wake up. The jets, steaming and brutal, hissed into action, and Diana slid aside the frosted glass doors and stepped in.
For All the Wrong Reasons Page 10
