For All the Wrong Reasons

by Louise Bagshawe

  “And when will that be?” Diana demanded, one hand on the door. It was so hard to see with water in your eyes.

  “Whenever I fucking feel like it,” Ernie snarled, “maybe after I’m done with Mira. Tell you what, Di. Don’t wait up.”

  Diana burst into tears and ran from the room.

  She rushed out onto the street and tried to get a cab, but it was rush hour and nothing was free. Diana fought to stop herself dissolving into a messy puddle. No cabs, and now she had to walk down to the Park in her broken, achy high heels. She caught sight of herself in a shop window. Her hair was blown into messy strands, her ankles looked swollen, her eyes were reddened and her make-up had run. Oh please, Diana thought, don’t let anybody I know see me now.

  A horn was blaring loudly in the traffic. Diana tried to ignore it and moved forward, tightly gripping her handbag.

  The horn blared louder.

  “Diana!”

  She spun on her heel, and saw Felicity Metson, leaning out of the window of her BMW, looking trim and polished in a new pink hat and shades that reflected the early evening sun. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “Oh Fee, thank God you’re here,” Diana sobbed. She ran forward into the traffic and Felicity leaned over to unlock the passenger-side door.

  “Darling, hop in. Whatever can have happened? Were you mugged?”

  “Nothing like that. Oh, Felicity, I can’t go home,” Diana said weepily. “Can you take me to your place? Could I stay with you tonight?”

  “Of course you can, sweetie. Although I can’t think why you would want to.” In the driver’s seat, Felicity’s fist curled into a cruel little ball.

  Something had obviously happened. Something bad. The perfectly pulled-together Diana was crying in the street. Felicity had been on her way to pay her a visit, ask her out to lunch tomorrow, try and dig up some more dirt on their shaking marriage.

  Felicity had looked like this the day she found out her husband was gay. It was the face of a woman in the pit. A girl who felt utterly, completely betrayed. And she was going to want Felicity to pick up the pieces.

  Terrific, she thought. I got her.

  *

  The rain had started up again by the time they got downtown. Diana lay curled up on Felicity’s uncomfortable leather couch, swathed in an enveloping white toweling robe. She had taken a long, hot bubble bath at her friend’s insistence—“absolutely nothing feels quite so bad after a hot bath, sweetie”—and felt a tiny fraction better. She was still crying, but at least her face was washed, her wretched shoes had been kicked off, and Felicity had provided her with a mug of hot chocolate and a large box of Kleenex. The hot chocolate was fat-free and taste-free, but at least it was warm. Right now, Diana thought, she would take what she could get.

  Darling Felicity. What a trouper she was. Diana smiled gratefully at her friend and listened to the rain drumming on the roof.

  “I don’t want to rush you, darling,” Felicity said, kindly. If you took off all the make-up and the smart dress and towering heels, Diana Foxton looked—well, beautiful. Unfortunately. But she also looked very soft and vulnerable. What had happened? Felicity tucked a straying platinum strand behind her diamond-drop earring and leaned forward, trying not to look too much like the vulture she was. “Tell me whenever you’re ready. Or don’t tell me at all! Whatever makes you comfortable.”

  “It’s Ernie.” Diana looked down and reached for another wad of Kleenex. She was bitterly ashamed, but there was no getting past this, and anyway, Felicity was an angel. She’d swooped down and rescued Diana, she’d run a blessed warm bath, she’d fetched slippers and made up her tiny guest room. Diana could trust her. She was divorced herself, she’d understand the pain of a cheating bastard. “I—I walked in on him.”

  “Walked in on him?” Felicity pretended that she didn’t understand, but her whole skin was prickling with thrilling anticipation.

  “Yes. He—he was—having sex.”

  “With someone else?” Felicity did a good impression of somebody shocked. “Oh, Diana! I thought you must be wrong about him, at lunch. Who on earth could he prefer to you?”

  “Do you know who?” Diana said painfully. “You won’t believe it. Mira Chen. It was her. To think, she’s been to dinner with us. And there she was, the little hooker—”

  “Oh, no. What a tragedy. What on earth did you say?”

  Diana sobbed and blew her nose loudly. “I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you. Fee, could I possibly stay here? Just for a couple of days? He won’t leave the apartment and I can’t face going back there.”

  “Of course you can.” Felicity reached forward and stroked Diana’s damp hair. “Stay with me, dear, and don’t worry about a thing.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Diana woke up before her alarm. She glanced at the glowing numerals of Felicity’s bedside clock and saw that it was only six fifteen, but she still got up. There was no way she would be able to sleep now.

  Felicity had lit a comforting, crackling little fire in her wood-burning stove last night, and now, in the dawn light, it was ashen and cold. The empty bottle of Chardonnay they had shared lay on her eat-in countertop. Nobody had cleared it away. Diana looked around Felicity’s apartment. Decent, above average for Manhattan, certainly. But it could not compare to the exquisite life of servants, interior decor and fine furniture Diana had carved out for herself with Ernie. Her husband.

  Diana groaned. She felt groggy from the alcohol, and there were small blisters on her feet. Plus, she had no clothes. Unless she wanted the guys at Green Eggs to see her in last night’s clothes, there was nothing for it. She’d have to go back home.

  She regarded her reflection in Felicity’s mirrored kitchen cabinets. There were dark circles under her pretty eyes, and stress and alcohol seemed to have aged her ten years. Panicked, Diana dived for her handbag and retrieved her Gucci sunglasses. They were tinted pink, so that you looked at the world through rose-colored lenses. Very funny. What was rosy about her life?

  Outside, in SoHo, New York was already awake and bustling. Diana watched a Chinese vendor bicycling through the streets, intent on buying the freshest stock at the market stores before his rivals. Manhattan was one big Darwinian experiment, and up until yesterday, she’d welcomed the competition. In her particular pond she’d been one of the biggest fish. Survival of the most stylish. Which nobody could say she wasn’t.

  The hired-help mafia would, of course, have her now. The doormen had seen Mira enter; Ernie hadn’t even had enough respect for her to keep Mira out of their home. It would take about a day for the news to leak up through the ranks of Manhattan society, maybe three before veiled items appeared in the gossip columns. The triumph of her enemies would be bad; the pity of her friends even worse. And, of course, word would reach England. Oh hell.

  Diana pressed her neat nails to her throbbing head. There was no help for that. The question was, what would be her most dignified response? Live with Ernie and pretend it never happened? Out of the question, he hadn’t even fired Mira Chen yet. Stay here? She glanced back across the neat little oyster-white apartment to Felicity’s bedroom. Thank heavens for one good friend, but she couldn’t impose and, besides, how humiliating to have to share the details every night of her lousy job and cracking marriage. No, the best thing was to rent a luxurious, fully furnished place with Ernie’s money until he came to his senses. Diana allowed her anger to start to build up in her stomach. She would not let him get away with this. Think of the gorgeous fairy tale wedding that darling Daddy had paid for!

  The bustle of the early morning was increasing. I don’t want to be seen out like this, Diana thought. She tiptoed back into her room and dialed her chauffeur’s number. Luckily, Richard was right there and promised he’d be down to get her in twenty minutes.

  She dressed and fixed herself a cup of coffee and tried to concentrate on more important things. What was she going to wear today? Diana was suddenly very grateful to have her shitty little job. It meant that s
he could hide from Ernie, Consuela and even Felicity. She could make her calls from the office, and maybe Felicity or Natasha would know of a suitable place where she could stay. Then Diana would have Consuela deliver her things, and hey presto, she could glide elegantly, temporarily, out of Ernie’s life. Until he came to his senses.

  She clenched her fists as she stared out into SoHo. Where was her driver? Quietly, Diana picked up her bag and tiptoed out of Felicity’s place, gently shutting the heavy door behind her. The corridor in her friend’s building was gray and actually cold, not even heated. Diana shivered. The sooner she resolved this with Ernie, the better. She punched the elevator button; better to wait in the lobby for Richard, avoid any more questions Felicity might want to fire at her. It was too much to have to sit around in dirty clothes. She sighed; Felicity was kind, but she wanted to know everything. Of course, that was her way of being supportive, Diana guessed. But she didn’t want to dissect every tiny thing in her marriage. She wanted to fix it, and go on as they had before.

  She sat down on the functional black leather bench in the lobby and watched the street outside. What would it take to win her back? Mira’s exile, a promise never to stray again, and a really substantial present. There was an emerald and diamond necklace with matching earrings at Cartier’s, a beautiful set that glittered like drops of the sea set around with stars, African emeralds that were pale green like the shallows of the ocean washing onto a Greek beach.

  Diana jumped into the car when it pulled up, giving Richard the kind of frozen nod that told him not to ask any questions. She hadn’t worn last night’s clothes since she was a teenager. Richard moved the car smoothly through the morning traffic and acted as though he didn’t even notice her.

  She suddenly had the nasty feeling that he’d done this before. Probably lots of times. Dropping Ernie off, or picking Mira up? Or maybe even another girl?

  He held the car door open for her as he pulled into the underground garage. Luckily, all the husbands in the building had already left for Wall Street and none of the wives were up yet. Diana summoned the elevator and managed to tilt up her head and ignore the attendant. How I’m dressed is my business, she thought resolutely.

  She stepped off at her floor and went into the apartment. Consuela bustled her plump ass over to open the door and cooed at Diana’s exhausted look.

  “Meees Foxton, where you been? I was worried…”

  “Staying with a girlfriend downtown. Nothing to worry about. Is Mr. Foxton here?”

  The maid shook her head. “Oh no, he is gone one hour.”

  Diana breathed out with relief. At least there would be no more embarrassing scenes this morning. “Consuela, I am going to visit with a friend of mine for a little while. I want you to pack up my summer clothes and my make-up and shoes and call Mrs. Felicity Metson.” She grabbed one of the Mont Blanc pens that Ernie kept piled by the phone and scribbled the number down for her. “My jewels, too.”

  “Yes, senora. You will be here to supervise?”

  “No.” Diana checked her watch. “I’m jumping in the shower, then I have to go to work. If you could bring me some breakfast up to the bedroom?”

  “Si, senora.” Consuela looked as though Diana was in imminent danger of losing her mind, but she thought the Anglos were mad anyway, and did not argue.

  Diana ran upstairs, flung her dress into the dry-cleaning basket, and gratefully jumped in her shower. As she scrubbed and rinsed, she ran her fingers across the embossed gold stars embedded in the metal. She’d miss this place. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be away for long. Just enough time to crack the whip on her errant husband.

  The hanging clock on the wall outside told her it was seven thirty already. Diana towelled off roughly and blasted the hair dryer at maximum as she searched through her wardrobe. OK, there was a neat green Prada jacket she matched with an on-the-knee Joseph skirt of the same color and Ralph Lauren black pumps, plus the lightest, sheerest Woolford hose. There was really no time to make-up, so she buzzed Richard again and used nothing but colored moisturiser and neutral gloss.

  Diana wanted to be at her job early today. Ernie wouldn’t expect her to show up nor would Cicero. She’d be on time, and she’d show them both.

  Consuela opened the door and nearly dropped her tray.

  “Meees Foxton! Are you all right?”

  Diana had never got ready so fast in the entire time Consuela had known her. Was she visiting a baby? Was someone sick?

  Diana nodded and swooped down on the mahogany tray. “I’m fine, Consuela.” She lifted the crystal flute of orange juice, downed it, and then took the croissant, still in its napkin, and marched out to the lift.

  Consuela waited for her to come back, crazy lady. When she did not, the older woman sighed, plopped down on the bed, and started to eat Diana’s pain au chocolat. Packing was hungry work. There was no point in wasting it. And that coffee smelled too good for a mad Englishwoman to pour away.

  *

  Michael looked down at Iris’s sleeping form. Her skin was still mottled from the way he had left her earlier, gasping and bucking underneath him. She was responsive, sure, but then, Michael thought all women were responsive—once they found the right man.

  Thank God she had rolled away out of his arms in her sleep. He couldn’t stand to be crowded, but he hadn’t wanted to wake her up and tell her that. Sometimes he liked the warmth of her body, when she rubbed that curvy butt up against him and got him hard, and he would nudge up her leg and take her just there like that. Iris had nice breasts, too, surgically enhanced, maybe, but firm and nice. She was skinny, but she refused to eat, although she sure did love to fuck. He remembered the night before, when she’d booked the restaurant and turned up in that short little purple number, the fringed dress, and underneath it, nothing but skin, nothing but her neatly trimmed little bush, already all slick and fired up for him.…

  He glanced over her sleeping form. Her tits stood up like hard melons when she lay on her back, but he didn’t knock her for that. The girl took care of herself. A good sign. That dress was slightly cheap, though it had turned him on … maybe he could get her some more suitable stuff to wear for eating out.

  He swung his thick legs out of bed and walked over to his dressing area. Definitely the worst part about having a girlfriend was that he couldn’t bundle her out of the apartment in the mornings. Iris slept the sleep of the dead unless his cock was nudging at her. Maybe she was the perfect woman: she never got in the way.

  He bent down and picked up a couple of forty-pound free weights and did a few sets of curls. The blood and lactic acid sang through his biceps and rushed around his skin. He felt the cobwebs lift from his head. Outside, TriBeCa was barely stirring yet. He thought he could shower, shave and get into the office by seven thirty today. It was an important week for the company. He wanted to be able to think.

  Ernie Foxton was an obnoxious little limey fuck, Michael thought, then grunted and hefted his iron weights and told himself not to be biased. As long as the business was good, who cared? Let the Blakely’s guy run around in his dandified suits and fake tan. He had provided Michael with an amazing distribution chain, and professional, cheap printing works. Their sales force was eager to go with new products, too. Cicero thought maybe they had the sleekest sales force in the business, possibly because Ernie had upped the quota and was firing the men who didn’t produce.

  Jean Fellows was the Blakely’s head of children’s fiction. She was a fat, hairy woman who didn’t seem bothered by the sprouting mole on her chin or the dark mustache nestling above her upper lip. Gossip in the publishing world about Jean wasn’t too good. Six secretaries had resigned in eight months. But again, she’s not my problem, Michael thought.

  He had a mission for Green Eggs, and Blakely’s was going to help him get to it. Yeah, it was truly aggravating having to go up to the sixteenth floor every Monday morning and give an accounting of his plan, but what the hell, there was no getting anything for free. Michael was ab
out to execute his first serious line of books. Seth had been working overtime on them and had drafted in a couple of friends, as well. Michael had a line on a guy with a new font that looked like easy-to-read handwriting, and an old woman from Queens, who specialized in intricate initial letters that reminded Michael of the ones he’d seen in medieval manuscripts. He’d investigated paperweights, covers, photographic processes and he’d investigated every aspect of producing a series of stories that would look like nothing kids had seen before—not unless they’d been born around the turn of the century.

  He laid down the weights, stretched for a second and jumped in the shower. Five minutes later he was washed and shaved. His suit and notes for the bookseller presentation were laid on the chair. Michael dressed, and debated whether he should stop for a pot of coffee. He thought not, on the whole. The warm scent of it might wake Iris, and he couldn’t wait this morning, not even for the wet sensation of her lips sliding up and down his cock. Stop that, Michael. He grinned at his reflection and ran a hand across the newly smooth surface of his chin. It would be stubbly again by mid-afternoon, but now he was dapper and ready to go.

  He felt the adrenaline in the pit of his stomach. He left the apartment quietly and walked across the street to the subway, hardly seeing all the other commuters as he shoved his way onto the crowded train.

  He could no longer think of these books in the way that he’d dreamed them up with Seth, crammed in Seth’s tiny walk-up studio in Alphabet City, eating pizza and attempting to ignore the roaches, deciding if Cinderella was the way to go or whether to choose more out-of-the-way stories, like the Billy Goats Gruff, getting blasted on German beer and trying to remember what it was like being a kid.

  “People think kids are stupid, is what it is.” Seth was cramming pizza into his mouth and gazing lovingly at a picture of his recently departed boyfriend, which used to freak Cicero out, but he’d gotten used to it. Seth was unapologetic, and you had to respect that. As long as he didn’t kiss any guys in front of Michael. He didn’t take tolerance that far. Fuck that.