For All the Wrong Reasons

by Louise Bagshawe

  “We could go out to dinner and celebrate. Somewhere fancy. Your kind of place. Lutèce. Four Seasons.”

  “Or…”

  “Or I could call for takeout and we could go to bed.”

  “I vote for the second option,” Diana whispered.

  “Somehow I thought you would,” Michael said. He slid her tight, pencil skirt up over her full, firm hips, stroking her butt, and traced his initials over the silken hair of her groin with his finger. Diana shivered and offered him her mouth. Michael pressed his lips on hers, kissing her roughly. His hands came up and palmed her breasts, lightly, over the silk cups of her bra.

  “Still clothed?” Michael demanded. “What’s the problem? We don’t have all day here.”

  “I’m sorry—” Diana gasped. She struggled out of the jacket and bra. Didn’t he realize who he was talking to? Wasn’t he put off by her accent, her class, her elegance? She loved the way Michael just didn’t give a fuck. He loved her for her, and ripped the trappings off her the way he liked to tear off her thin lace panties. She had learned to keep an emergency supply in a case here, because Michael had no respect for her wardrobe whatsoever.

  “Too late,” he said softly. He pulled off her skirt and thong panties and picked her up, flinging her over his shoulder. They didn’t make it to the bed.

  FORTY-TWO

  Tina walked a little more slowly than usual. She was getting used to her brand-new heels, for one thing, four inches of shiny scarlet leather wrapped around a steel spike that thrust up her ankle, jutted out her barely-there butt, and made her slim hips swing slightly as she minced along, trying to ignore the pain in her toes. After all, she did look great. No pain, no gain. This way, as she inched down Madison Avenue, she could stop and admire her reflection in every designer boutique window she passed. She had on a fire-red Versace suit, as subtle as a brick, thigh-high, with a military-cut jacket with gaudy gold buttons. Her lips were blood red, too, and her eyelashes thick with navy mascara. Her long blond hair tumbled down her back in a shower of gold that caught the light. Men and women stopped to rubberneck. Well, hell, Tina thought, she was glad she’d given them something to gape at. Just last week Harper’s said red was the new neutral. Which meant she was only blending in.

  A cloud of Chanel No. 5 wafted along with her as she turned into the small building on the corner of Fortieth Street. The revolving door and gray slate fronting really didn’t do it justice; these were the offices of Big City magazine, the gossip sheet that focused specifically on New York. Everybody read it. Marissa Matthews, the doyenne of Manhattan’s tittle-tattlers, was editor in chief, and she published weekly scuttlebutt about anybody she could think of. If you were a big star, going outside without make-up was sufficient excuse for half a page. If you were a socialite, you needed a really nasty divorce, with fights over child custody and who got the yacht. And if you were a nobody, you needed to be a corrupt cop or a satanist on the board of education to qualify. Big City loved dirt. The grime of the New York skyscrapers was mirrored in the delicious celebrity filth that poured forth from its pages.

  Tina read it every week. And now she was going to star in it.

  She hugged herself. She had always wanted to be famous. Tina minced up to the receptionist, and flicked her flaxen mane.

  Maybe some big producer would see it and cast her in a Hollywood movie. Things like that happened all the time. Didn’t they?

  “I’m Tina Armis,” she announced proudly to the girl.

  “Yeah?” came the bored reply.

  “I have an appointment at two to see Marissa Matthews. And to have a photo session,” Tina told her. She examined her reflection in the smoky glass panel behind the reception desk. She had never looked lovelier. And of course Big City was paying for her clothes.

  If only she could see Diana Verity’s face when she picked up the mag! That would be the real cherry on the cake.

  *

  Diana paced up and down nervously. She wondered if she should do something. Call Michael, maybe. Call the doorman up, at least. How had Ernie discovered her number? And why was he coming around here?

  It was early in the morning, but he still sounded drunk. The telephone call had caught her off guard. Rushing back to her own flat to pick up some faxes for the sales presentation that morning, she had grabbed the phone as she stepped out of the shower, still wrapped in her voluminous white Ralph Lauren bathrobe, the soft toweling sticking to her skin. Refreshed and pampered from the L’Occitane lavender and honey bubble bath she’d taken, her body drenched in fragrance and her blood still pumping from the ghost of Michael’s kisses this morning, she was relaxed. And not prepared.

  “I need to see you,” he said, as soon as she picked up the phone. His voice was slurred slightly, just enough for Diana to notice it. “Been doing some thinking. You said a lot of true stuff. No hard feelings about today.”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Yesterday, right. Just business. Anyway, had a fight with Felicity and locked the doors.” Ernie snickered. “And I’m coming round to talk to my wife. Won’t take long, be there in twenty minutes.”

  “No! Ernie, don’t come round. I—I’m busy. Going to work.”

  Diana looked around the apartment for her papers. How quickly could she get dressed and get out of here? What on earth could he want? For a second she wondered if yesterday had unbalanced him, if he’d gone mental.

  “I’m calling from the car. On my way into the city to see the lawyers. Going home, darlin’. Got a new job.”

  “That was fast,” Diana said, despite herself.

  Ernie cackled. “You know me. I adapt. Gotta adapt, babe. It’s why you hooked up with me at first. So, ten more minutes, for old times’ sake, all right?”

  He hung up and Diana dived for her clothes. Rejecting the pretty dress and tiny mint-colored cardigan by Gucci she had been planning to wear, she opted for a cream blouse and a severe Dolce and Gabbana navy pantsuit. It fitted her like armor. She wouldn’t call Michael, because that would be a display of weakness. Ernie—well—Ernie was an asshole, but yesterday they had cut his world out from under his feet. They were definitely even, and he had once been her husband.

  She didn’t see how she could rightly refuse him.

  Very well, ten minutes. She fixed a pot of coffee on the Krups blender and called down to Zachary, the friendly lobby guard who was actually a former Mossad soldier. The building housed a lot of UN diplomats, and everybody who was shown upstairs went through a metal detector and a pat-down. If Ernie passed that test, she supposed it was OK that he come up.

  Diana let the coffee percolate and settled down to wait.

  *

  “So, my dear, tell me how you were forced into this affair,” Marissa Matthews said sweetly to Tina. She was almost beside herself with joy. The girl was young, barely out of college, a twenty-something with a teenager’s coltish body. The bright-red lipstick made her look like a slut and the mockery of a business suit, a skirt that was really a T-shirt with pretensions, and the spiked heels, gave the impression of the kind of businesswoman who stars in Playboy photo shoots.

  What a money-hungry Barbie doll, Marissa thought. And it reflected so badly on poor Diana Verity. That she should be dating a man who once dated … this! It made you wonder about his taste, about Diana. Her image was far too goody-goody, and that made her ripe pickings for Big City. They’d had nothing on her since the “mistress in the wife’s clothes” story had New York choking over its breakfast croissants. “Extend your leg a little, dear. Slip that jacket off your shoulder. What marvelous skin you have. Do go on.”

  The photographer clicked away as Tina gave her story between shots. Marissa had a deadline coming up and was rushing this one onto the cover. They had no time to waste.

  “Well, the threat was never said aloud. More like I kinda had to, though. To keep my job,” Tina said.

  “You mean it was implicit.”

  “Yeah. Implicit, right. Anyway, I fell for him because he was
a demon in bed. Hung like a baboon—”

  “You don’t need to be quite so graphic, dear,” Marissa lied, making notes. “Like a baboon. Right. And he was very successful.”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t interested in his money.” Tina tossed her hair. “I was a girl from the Bronx, you know, the old neighborhood. Like Michael. I knew what he needed. But this woman, this little bitch—everybody hates her in our office—she swans in with her limey accent and she marries money, right? That other English guy who dumped her. And she had a heart-to-heart with me about it. She said—”

  Tina smiled for the camera. She’d been using Rembrandt toothpaste for the past four days and she was sure it made her teeth look like ivory pearls. The more she told, Marissa had made it clear, the bigger her piece would be and the bigger her picture. Why, Brad Bailey was looking for a girl, wasn’t he?

  “She said Michael didn’t have enough money for her because she had managed to snag Brad Bailey.”

  “To ‘snag’ him?” Marissa repeated, in transports of joy.

  “Yeah, something like that.” The thought of lawyers cast a brief shadow over Tina’s joy. “Well, I can’t quote exactly.”

  “There were no witnesses to this conversation?”

  “Just me an’ her. She was trying to drive a wedge between me and my man.” Tina sniffed.

  Her word against Diana’s. They could repeat every word of it, stick in an “alleged” and they’d be quite safe, Marissa realized.

  “She told me though that … that men liked a class act. And I wasn’t good enough for a rich man like Michael. She was seeing him the whole time she was going out with Brad, you know. Intruding into our private lives. She used to call and hang up.”

  Tina was thoroughly enjoying herself now.

  “That must have been emotionally devastating,” Marissa purred.

  “Sure. Yes, it was.” Tina took her cue and reached for a Kleenex from the box placed before her, holding it delicately to her bone-dry mascara while the photographer moved around her. “She wrecked the happy home we had together. We were thinking about marriage.”

  “Was there any ‘romance’ in the office, dear?” Marissa prompted eagerly. How wonderful if she could break that sensational tidbit.

  “That was the rumor. I didn’t see any,” Tina said regretfully. “But Diana Verity had no skills, nothing, when Michael hired her. That was before I came on board. She was doing my job at first. Which is why she hates me. She feared I would, like, unseat her and stuff.”

  Marissa did a creditable job of smothering her laugh into a cough. “Excuse me. Please go on.”

  “Anyway, she ‘worked’ in Michael’s office when he was at her husband’s old place. If you ask me, she was the cheating one. He just wanted to get back at her because she was fucking Michael. Why else would he hire her?”

  “Why indeed?” Marissa asked thoughtfully. “Could I get you to put your head in your hands, dear? Just like that. Perfect.”

  *

  The bell rang. Diana stood, and walked to the door to let Ernie into her home. The morning sun was streaming through the windows, bathing her apartment in light; it set off the oyster-white decor, the plump cushions imported from France stacked on her chaise-longue, the fresh creamy blossoms of white hydrangeas mixed with brilliant blue irises and soft pink sweet peas which she had delivered each morning. She could be proud of how it looked. It was the luxury of a few hundred thousand rather than the millions she’d had to play with on Central Park West, but Diana thought she liked this apartment better. It was all her; each piece was there for beauty, not ostentation; it was feminine and graceful and simple. The way she had lived her life once Ernie had dumped her.

  She stood back as he staggered through the door. There was an unmistakable reek of sour mash whiskey on his breath. Diana glanced down at her watch; it was ten to nine in the morning.

  What a way for her fairy-tale wedding to end up, Diana thought. Cinderella’s Prince Charming turns out to be a masochistic drunk, and the fairy carriage turns into a rent demand. And yet the irony was that her happiness had begun once Happily Ever After had fallen to pieces.

  “H’llo, Di. You look gorgeous. Nice pantsuit. You smell good.” Ernie said. He looked at her rather pathetically with big puppy-dog eyes. “You always looked good though. Never better than now.”

  Diana smoothed down her hair. She had no idea what to say. Once she had been desperate to make Ernie fall back in love with her, now she just wanted him to get out.

  “Thank you.” She moved toward her white marble kitchen countertop, just to get farther away from him. “Let me get you some coffee.”

  “Only if you’re going to make it Irish,” Ernie said.

  “At nine A.M.? Let me get you milk and sugar.” Diana settled into her single armchair so there was no danger he would park himself by her. “What’s all this about, Ernie? I’m glad you have another job. But I have to be at work. I’m late already.”

  “Right.” He slipped onto her couch, ignoring the coffee, and gazed across at her. His tone was heavy with sarcasm. “You’re the big working woman now.”

  “Yes, I am.” Diana held his gaze unflinchingly. “And I’m needed at my company.”

  “S’not yours. S’ Cicero’s. Little fucking Yank bastard.”

  “I would rather you didn’t use language like that,” Diana said. “Look, Ernie—I need you to tell me what this is all about.”

  To her horror he got up from the sofa, lurched toward her, and dropped clumsily to one knee, taking her hand in his.

  “We made a lot of mistakes, OK, Di? I was—I cheated on you. But I always loved you.” Mawkish alcohol-fueled remorse was getting the better of him. His eyes were bloodshot and teary. “I broke up with Felicity. She was always trying to split us up—”

  “You don’t say,” Diana interjected coldly. She had to let him finish, but he repulsed her. Did he expect her to forget everything and take him back so he could cheat on her in England, too?

  “She’s gone. She was trashy, compared to you. You’re a classy lady.” Ernie’s breath reeked, and Diana tried not to flinch. “You need to give up work and come home with me. We can do better there. All your friends. Your clubs. All that.”

  “Ernie,” Diana yanked her hand out of his, “why do all the men in my life seem to think I want to stop working? Maybe I like it. Maybe I’m good at it.”

  “Come on, darlin’.” Ernie’s eyes narrowed, meanly. “You got a job because you were my wife, all right?”

  His words stung. Diana pushed herself to her feet. “It’s time for you to leave. I’m happy in America and there’s nothing between us anymore.”

  “You don’t mean that,” he whined. Then he looked at her face, and saw the expression on it; the hard set of her brows, the look of disdain set over her high cheekbones and full lips.

  “I see how it is.” Ernie slouched toward the door. “You’re fucking that guy. And now you’re playing Businesswoman of the Year, like you played the good wife with me. Except now you picked some kid from the backwaters of the Bronx.”

  “Get out, Ernie,” Diana pushed him from her, revolted, “before I call security. Michael managed to make it without stepping on people. Maybe that’s something you despise. The funny thing is you’re finished, and you don’t even know it. And by the way—you’re hardly from the right side of town yourself.”

  “You think you won.” His bony finger jabbed at her. “You think Cicero can ride off into the sunset with my wife and my fucking life? You got another think coming, girl. I’m not through.”

  “But you are, Ernie. That’s exactly what you are,” Diana told him.

  She shoved him into the hallway and locked the door behind him.

  FORTY-THREE

  Michael stepped out of the cab and paused for a second on the sidewalk. The commuters rushing past ignored him. Manhattan was always that way; nobody bothered to look around, nobody had the time. The steam that hissed up from the sidewalks, the clouds of
cherry blossom clinging tenaciously to the trees despite the dust and fumes from the honking cabs and backed-up Lincoln town cars, everything got ignored in favor of getting where you were going. Yesterday.

  It was early morning. Any second now, Diana would be here and he could get on with the business of making serious money.

  Michael gazed up at the black monolith of the JanCorp tower. His office was up there. The phones and faxes would already be starting to buzz with the hymn of success he loved so much. Last week had been fun, sure: sticking it to Ernie, a day he had waited and planned for.

  There was that Italian revenge thing. Michael wasn’t the type to use a concrete overcoat or a baseball bat, but watching that bastard’s career crumble, in his own building, in front of his own board … that had been satisfying.

  CNN had announced Ernie’s resignation on its business news. The shot of him, harassed, rushing out of the conference room in the middle of the meeting had been worth staying up late for. If he had been younger, Michael would have taped that to watch it over and over. But not now. He was more concerned with the future than the past.

  He took a deep breath, sniffing in the scent of coffee and gas fumes and blossoms and doughnuts, everything that made New York what it was. Then he pushed open the door to the lobby.

  “Good morning, Mr. Cicero.” Sally, the receptionist, greeted him deferentially as usual. She hastily shoved something she was reading out of sight. She blushed. “Your assistant, Mr. Piato—”

  “Harry’s in already. Good.”

  “Yes sir, he’s been in for an hour, supervising the PR response.”

  Michael paused and looked down at her. Damn, he was handsome, Sally thought, that square jaw and broken nose, the muscles on him under the well-cut black suit that brought out his eyes. Every woman in the place was half in love with him. And who knew? Maybe after the scandal he’d be a free man again.