For All the Wrong Reasons

by Louise Bagshawe

  Diana crossed her legs. They were beautiful pins, strong-calved, slim-ankled, encased in very expensive looking hose … he could tell that by the way they shimmered … and they rode all the way up from her crocodile court shoes to her neat, eggshell-blue skirt. She had teamed this with a silky, milky shirt and a matching jacket, as well as a discreet string of pearls around the creamy hollow of her throat. She had a tiny dusting of freckles around her nose, and a full, slightly swollen mouth. Felix decided, clinically, that she was one of the most lovely women he’d ever seen. A trophy wife for Foxton. Surely the rumors of impending divorce could not be true. Where would Ernie get a better-looking arm ornament than that one?

  The door swung open again and Michael Cicero strode in. Felix drew himself up. There was something about Michael that made you sit up straight and focus. He had the air of a battlefield commander about him. Whenever thoughts of his age crept back to Custer, Cicero’s bulldozing manner made him forget about them again. There was simply no time to worry about his age. Michael kept the whole team too busy for that.

  “I hear good things,” Michael said. No preamble, of course. He wasn’t good on the niceties. “I’ll get to your reports individually. But give me a summary first. What’s the picture?”

  “I’ll go first,” Rachel said, with a sidelong nasty glance at Diana. The women here had taken against her worse than the men. Rachel was a pretty girl, too, mid-thirties with neat blond hair, but she was nothing to look at. Maybe Diana didn’t understand just how off-putting that whole ice-queen thing was to men. “Our sellers are fighting them off in the mom-and-pop stores, and Barnes & Noble, B. Dalton and Waldenbooks have all racked us out by the sales register. We’re just trying to ensure even distribution around the country—to be fair. I’ve been taking a lot of international calls, but we’ll need a much bigger print run to cope with that demand.”

  “The press loves us,” Jacob Harold said, jumping in, not to be outdone. “I even got a slot on Good Morning America for Ernie Foxton.”

  Michael nodded. “Excellent, but why wasn’t that given to me? It’s our line.”

  A shadow of confusion passed over Jake’s face. “You know I work the PR side with the Blakely’s people, Michael. They told me you had turned it down.”

  Cicero paused. “Maybe I did.” His large frame shifted on the chair, like he was thinking hard about something. He shook himself slightly and turned to Felix. “How are we looking, chief?”

  “Pretty good.” Custer heard his voice light up with pleasure. “You and I decided to keep the executive staff compact and multifunctional, and to cut down drastically on our projected overhead budget—”

  “You mean we only hired a handful of people and we chose simple offices,” Michael said.

  “Exactly. Combine that with the success of the first printing of the series, and what Jacob tells me about lack of returns, and I’d say the first quarterly profit margin is—”

  Felix smiled warmly and gave out the figure.

  “Wow,” Rachel said, rather endearingly.

  Michael blinked. “Are you sure?”

  “I checked the figures several times. They depend on certain variables—”

  “You’re sure, right?”

  “Yes,” Felix said, grinning. “I’m sure.”

  “Am I right in saying,” Jake asked, loosening his collar, “that that level of profitability means we will receive that bonus promised in the contract?”

  “That’s correct. Two hundred and fifty thousand apiece,” Felix said, almost licking his lips.

  “Before you start drooling, let’s go through the reports,” Michael said, dryly. “We still have work to do.”

  *

  Twelve floors above him, in his glass and chrome palatial offices, Ernie Foxton was also discussing their figures.

  “Beautiful.” Jean Fellows was turning the Green Eggs Cinderella over in her hands, but she wasn’t talking about the thick, glossy paper or the delicate watercolor pictures. Her eyes were on the sales figures projected onto the wall in front of them by Peter Davits. “I never saw sales like it in children’s fiction. It’s because of the illustrators.”

  “And you got the names and addresses?” Ernie Foxton demanded.

  Fellows turned her fleshy neck toward the president of the company. “Yes, just as you said, Mr. Foxton. I took the names and addresses and signed them all to new individual contracts with Blakely’s. Exclusive contracts, with a no-compete clause. For one year.”

  Ernie rubbed his hands. “Terrific. That’ll shut the little fuckers up.”

  He beamed at his own deviousness. No-compete clauses were normally put in the employment contracts of film presidents and engineers, but why not use them for scribblers and paint splashers, too? It meant that if they refused to work for Blakely’s, they couldn’t draw for anybody else—for example, a new firm that Cicero might be tempted to set up, once he figured out what was happening to him. The only job they would have would be to sling hash in some fast-food joint. Ernie was learning about the so-called artistic temperament. Seth Horowitz didn’t understand what he’d signed, but that was his problem. He would draw for Blakely’s, or he wouldn’t draw at all. To a guy like Seth, revolting little faggot, that’d be unbearable. Same for all the other kids Cicero had recruited.

  “You spoke to the booksellers? Amazon and the other online people?”

  “Of course,” Janet Jensen said, primly. “They don’t care about our office politics. They just want to know that the line will continue. They all saw you on TV, Mr. Foxton. They give you the credit.”

  “And so they should,” Ernie said shamelessly. “It’s a Blakely’s line, and I run Blakely’s.”

  “Very well, too,” Janet said, giving him an oily smile.

  Ernie didn’t mind. What the fuck? It was true.

  Tonight he would call Jane Grenouille at her firm and prep her on how to deliver the bad news. He had such a nice surprise planned. Of course, Diana would be getting it in the rear twice, which was more than she’d ever gotten from him. Frigid bitch. Felicity was right. He was well shot of her.

  Ernie’s thoughts drifted away from victory to the new maid Felicity had hired to tend to his personal stuff. She was neat, compact and Eurasian, with milky skin and slanted eyes. She wore stiletto heels four inches high around his apartment and tight little black dresses over her boyish body. He loved thinking about the insults which would pour out of her cruel little mouth, given half a chance. Felicity made herself scarce three nights out of five. She did what she was told, except in the bedroom where she was demanding and raked his skin with her nails. He could get it up for her, no problem. She ate next to nothing, and she sucked him with such enthusiasm and leapt to his touch which she directed. It was a pleasure to eat out her neatly trimmed little pussy. Sometimes she even braided the small strip of pussy hair she had left and affixed little bows to it. In public, of course, you’d never know. Last night he’d taken her out for the first time, and he’d enjoyed the stares of the crowd.

  Felicity reminded him that the whole of New York would be watching to see how he handled Diana. The way they watch my business, Ernie thought. But that’s OK. Let them watch, I’m going to show them how it’s done.

  “Great meeting, everybody.” His tone told them to get the fuck out. He buzzed Emma, Marcia’s replacement. “Emma, get me Sir Angus Carter on the phone. Right now.”

  *

  Michael did something he never did, and gave everybody the rest of the day off. Helen and Kara whooped, gathered up their bags, and were out of there in under two minutes. His executives were more restrained but, still, they didn’t exactly protest. It was 78 degrees and sunny outside, and they could get back to their homes before the rush hour, and eat watermelon on their sundecks, and think about the sweet two hundred and fifty K they’d get for riding along with him.

  He pretty much wanted out, too, today. He loved his job, but it wasn’t every day you found out you were about to become an instant
millionaire. His dad had been in tears when he called and told him. Right now, Michael reflected, he wanted head from Iris, a bottle of chilled Taittinger rosé champagne, and … he’d figure out the rest later.

  He was just finishing up with Diana Foxton. He resisted telling her to thank Ernie for him. He’d earned this golden-handshake bonus, he thought. They were making money because Blakely’s was making even more money. That was what he had to bear in mind.

  Diana was handing him the last set of letters that needed his signature. She seemed remarkably unexcited about today’s news, but then again, why should she care? It wasn’t like one pre-tax million dollars would rock her world, exactly.

  “Nearly done here.” He nodded at her. “I expect Susan will be back tomorrow. You did a good job today, though. Now you can take the rest of the day off to go shopping.”

  She looked at him coldly. “How do you know what I’m going to do with my day?”

  “I just assumed—”

  Diana gave a clipped little laugh. “Of course. Doesn’t everybody? But I’d rather you didn’t.”

  Cicero ignored the snub. “What will you use your time for, then?”

  Diana blinked. Was somebody actually asking her a personal question? Everybody in this bloody place had been ignoring her for weeks, much like her supposed girlfriends who’d been blanking her en masse. Diana was too savvy a social operator to ignore the signs anymore. Obviously, it had to do with the separation. Why, she couldn’t imagine. Ernie was a liability socially. She had shown these New York witches how the game was played, and now the jealous bitches were taking this opportunity to snub her.

  “Museums, actually.” She’d been planning on going shopping, sure, but why let Cicero think he had her all figured out? A wave of bitterness washed over her. She smoothed the pale-blue silk around her knees. Why the hell didn’t Ernie call her? He must be going crazy without her. Some nights it took all she had to stop herself picking up the phone.

  “Really? There’s a nice exhibition at the Met, I heard.”

  “There are several.” Diana snapped at him. Arrogant jerk. She so objected to being thought a moron. She wasn’t a little bimbo like Helen or Kara. “I’m planning on taking in the St. Francis of Assisi exhibition. They have some very important medieval works on loan from Italy since the earthquakes destroyed the church there.”

  Michael arched one of his thick brows. His chest was very broad as he leaned over her, scribbling his signature on the letters. Despite herself, Diana felt a sudden, surprising shock of desire. It had been so long since a man had touched her. Ah, but remember, honey, she told herself, you get all worked up, then he takes you to bed, and it’s nothing but frustration.

  Of course, that had been with Ernie. Diana thought about the way all the businesswomen who visited this office flirted so shamelessly with Michael. It was probably just their perception of his power.

  Susan Katz, that kitty cat, definitely wanted him. Definitely. Diana was savagely glad that he had a woman. She couldn’t stand Susan and her bullying ways.

  It was a mystery why all these girls would chase a man like Michael, a man without money or position.

  Diana breathed in the scent of his body. No cologne, nothing but a very faint, mannish musk. She held herself in, to stop herself squirming. It would be insufferable for this macho pig to get any idea she thought twice about him.

  He gave her a sidelong glance out of those dark, thick-lashed eyes.

  “I didn’t know you knew anything about art,” Cicero said.

  “Oh, I don’t. But I know what I like.”

  Michael grinned. Diana Foxton, the art critic. On a whim, he pulled out two sketches from his desk drawer: mock covers for the second wave of Green Eggs books.

  “What do you think of these two?”

  Diana tilted her head, and plain gold stud earrings caught the light. Michael wondered idly what it would be like to take his thumb and stroke it along the soft ridge on the side of her neck.

  “This is much better.” She pointed to the left-hand drawing, one of Seth’s. “It’s realistic. The other elephant looks like a stuffed toy.”

  “Interesting. What about this and this?”

  He put down two more pictures. Diana leaned forward and pointed to the right one. “This one uses color more subtly. I prefer the line detail.”

  Cicero was surprised. That was just what he thought. He pulled out his book of thumbnail sketches. “Which of these would you use to cover The Seven Little Tailors?”

  Diana sat down, unconsciously pushing him out of the way. She had forgotten how much she disliked her boss and was lost in the pictures, blocking out everything else. Michael bent over her. He could see the tops of her breasts, just subtly revealed through the open neck of her silk blouse. Instantly, his cock stiffened.

  It’s the headiness of the day, he told himself. I need Iris. I need to get laid.

  “This one.” She flipped the page, and showed him a small image, black and white pencil only. He’d never noticed that one before. Sometimes you could go crazy looking at hundreds of different cover ideas. “If it was colored, maybe a watercolor. Look at the lines, the detailing. It almost leaps out at you.”

  Cicero examined the picture closer, and was shocked. It was perfect. Exactly right for his book. He’d missed it because it wasn’t a finished image, it was black and white.

  It was better than the one he’d chosen. Better than the ones Jacob and Seth had chosen, and she’d picked it out, right away.

  “You know, I think you might be right,” he said slowly.

  “Of course I’m right.” God, how cold she was. “It’s the obvious choice.”

  “Come in earlier tomorrow,” Michael said. “I may have some more work for you.”

  Diana’s back tensed up. He grinned as he saw the aggravation writ large on her pretty face. He fantasized briefly about sliding that skirt up over the curves of her butt, bending her forward over his desk, and gently palming her until she was begging him to stick it in her.

  “I don’t think I can be asked to handle anything more,” Diana said. “I work hard enough as it is.”

  Cicero handed her the letters and gave her an amazingly annoying wink. “Yeah, well, I don’t think so. Be in tomorrow at eight.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  “As far as I can see, Mrs. Metson is correct.”

  Ernie smiled at Sir Angus Carter. He had that plummy aristocratic English voice that Ernie, the barrow-boy, always detested. Fucking snobs. Diana was from that same snob-ridden class. But he couldn’t fault the words that were coming out of Sir Angus’s mouth, even if the sound of them was grating.

  Sir Angus shuffled his papers. “Mrs. Foxton has no case whatever in the United Kingdom. She has only been married for seven months, one of which was spent outside the marital home by her decision. She left without word and made no attempt to contact you, Mr. Foxton. Irreconcilable differences … whatever you would like. No judge in the United Kingdom would, in my opinion, award her a penny.”

  “She has recently taken a job, too,” Felicity chimed in. Her arm snaked through Ernie’s; her bloodred nails rested on his sleeve. She wore a pair of thin, arching high heels and a tight pink dress.

  “Indeed.” Sir Angus pushed thin wire-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his aquiline nose. “Which means she will find it hard to claim that Mr. Foxton was intending to support her.”

  “I’ve taken a few preliminary steps myself,” Ernie said. “I’ve put all her stuff together in boxes, and I transferred all but ten thousand dollars from the joint account. Didn’t want to close it. Thought we’d be subtle.”

  Subtle, Sir Angus thought. Subtle? This moneyed oik in front of him was about as subtle as a neon orange ball gown. If Diana Foxton could not be commended on her pre-marital fiscal arrangements, she could be roundly condemned on her taste in men. She would lose millions in this divorce. Personally, he thought it would be a small price to pay to rid oneself of Mr. Ernest Foxton.

&n
bsp; “Hmm. I think that is wise. Mrs. Foxton has only one power in this situation. She can contest, and delay, the divorce.”

  The American she-hawk with the talons paled. “For how long?”

  “For five years,” Sir Angus said gravely.

  “Unacceptable.” Felicity jumped to her feet. “There has to be something we can do.”

  “There is. You can make her an offer. Any lawyer she consults will tell her of her financial position.”

  “What about immigration? If she’s not Ernie’s wife, she doesn’t have the right to stay here, does she?”

  “Immigration is not my field, madam. I suppose it might be another thing you could threaten her with.”

  Ernie rose, feeling magnanimous. “Draw up an offer, Angus—”

  The lawyer stiffened. He’d worked hard for that knighthood.

  “—and tell her that I’ll give her two fifty, American, if she signs the papers, and if she delays over a year, absolutely nothing.” Ernie ignored the pallor of Felicity, beside him. “Tell her I can wait her out. We all can.”

  *

  As annoying as Michael Cicero was, Diana felt it was her duty to pop down to the Metropolitan and view the exhibit in case he gave her some snotty test tomorrow morning, and she actually enjoyed it. The color and richness of the nine-hundred-year-old paintings still had the power to amaze and delight. She was moved to go down to St. Patrick’s and look at the Catholic cathedral. It was very soothing: the candles glowing, the people kneeling at their devotions, or standing heads bowed in front of fine carved statues of the saints. She felt her soul calmed to the extent that she left, walked to Barnes & Noble on Fifth and bought a novel instead of diving into Saks for some retail therapy. It was ironic, really: the Temple of God next to the Temple of Mammon.

  Diana had a sudden desire to be on her own, coupled with a ravenous hunger. She dived into a Friday’s which was right next door. It was ideal; absolutely nobody she knew would be seen dead in here. She ordered a greasy cheeseburger and fries, and ate it with a large chocolate milkshake while she read her trashy novel. In fact, for a couple of hours she was able to forget Cicero’s demands, Ernie’s silence, and her friends’ treachery. She pulled her hair out of its snug chignon, and sat reading and people-watching, savoring each crispy peppered fry and sip of creamy chocolate.