What Men Want

by Deborah Blumenthal

  “What a fabulous place,” I said. She smiled and offered me a seat on the sleek, contemporary white leather couch. She took a bottle of Chardonnay from a silver wine bucket filled with ice and poured a glass for me and then one for herself. I was glad she didn’t propose a toast. I took a sip, reluctant to drink when I had a long night ahead of me, and then put the drink aside. Finally, we turned our attention to a leopard file box filled with papers that sat on the black granite coffee table in front of us.

  “Do you pay news sources?” she said with an enigmatic half smile. I looked back at her for a moment. Was I going to lose this treasure trove before my eyes? She didn’t look like a girl who needed money, but maybe this was why.

  “We don’t,” I said. “It’s just the policy of the paper. If you were talking to a reporter from a supermarket tabloid, things might be different.” Then I gave her a half smile. “I’d be happy to take you out for lunch or dinner—”

  “Just thought I’d give it a try,” she said. She sat down on the couch in front of the box and for the next hour I looked at copies of hotel bills going back over several years made out in the names of city officials—both familiar and not—who Jack had entertained at the hotel in the hope of buying benefits beyond the usual largesse of the city. I filled several envelopes with the papers. I had what I needed, now I wanted to leave, before she changed her mind.

  “Where are you working now?” I asked.

  “I’m starting my own production company,” Marilyn said. “Downtown.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Okay,” she said. “It just takes time to build contacts and get recognition.”

  “Do you ever see Jack anymore?”

  “No,” she said. “He’s several lovers down the line by now.”

  “Thanks for everything,” I said, feeling as though I wanted to give her a hug. “I’ll call you.” As I was about to go out the door, I turned back to her.

  “I never did ask, but I wondered who the actress was that he started seeing that broke up your relationship?”

  She looked at me and smiled. “Someone a lot younger than Jack,” she said. “A starlet he could lead by the nose because she knew that he was her ticket to fame.” She hesitated. “Do you know Kelly Cartwright?”

  It was one of those déjà vu moments when all the pieces of a puzzle seem to come together as if they were pulled by a magnetic force. Six degrees of separation. I tried to hide my surprise and just nodded.

  “Mmm, I saw her in Living on the Edge,” I said, now finally remembering the name of the movie. Marilyn rolled her eyes.

  “She really was pretty pathetic,” I said, shaking my head in agreement.

  “Everyone thought so except one or two studio heads,” Marilyn said. “And I never understood Jack’s attraction. Maybe he was hoping that she could get him out of his midlife-crisis doldrums.” I laughed as though I were her ally. Maybe hanging around Slaid Warren—even for a short time—had taught me how to pretend to be everyone’s best friend and confidante.

  Of course, that was the cynical take. In truth, what I really learned was that he was a good reporter because he was genuinely good at relating to people. They weren’t just news sources, they were human beings.

  I looked back at Marilyn as I picked up my coat to leave. I hoped that she would give me the same amount of credit.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It had gotten dark outside and instead of walking, I got into a cab. It was only seven and it was unusually quiet on the street. People had come home early to get ready for the night. I thought of calling Ellen, but then decided that I didn’t want to have the conversation in a cab. Just my luck the driver would be a young acting student who knew Kelly Cartwright, or worse, knew Jack Reilly. I held the envelopes close to my chest and when we got to the front of my building, I paid and almost dashed into the front door.

  I was home before Chris and I grabbed a yogurt. Was I hungry or just nervous? I got into the shower and spent far too much time blowing out my hair. Chris came home after eight, probably the last one to leave the office. Needless to say, I wasn’t looking forward to the party. Last New Year’s Eve came only two weeks after we met. He took me to a nearby French restaurant and then we went home and stayed in, watching TV. Just after twelve we made love. I wished we could spend the night the same way this year.

  “Wouldn’t it be fun to order caviar or something and stay in?” I said, throwing out the thought.

  “It’s probably going to be an unbelievably cool party,” he said, obviously all geared up to go. “Very A-list,” he said, only half joking.

  “I bet she was up all night cooking,” I said. He looked at me and laughed.

  “Yeah, the naked chef,” he said. I hesitated, then laughed too. I went into the bedroom and stared into my closet. Nothing very A-list hanging in front of me. Then again how could I compete with women who were best friends with the designers and could pick out what they wanted? I was tempted to grab jeans.

  I ended up with a simple black sleeveless Jil Sander dress that I had picked up on sale. I put on high heels. Chris whistled when he saw me. I tried to hold on to that. Uncharacteristically, he had on a black cashmere pullover that I didn’t recognize and black gabardine slacks.

  “Very GQish,” I said. He flexed his biceps. Since we knew we’d have no shot at finding a cab, we ended up taking the bus along with other overdressed partygoers who had also given up on finding taxis.

  I don’t know too many people who live on Fifth Avenue, but Bridget’s building had someone at the door to open it, a second just to accept packages, a third to hand out mail, and then a fourth to operate the manned elevator that takes you up to your floor.

  As the elevator rose higher and higher, the music got louder and louder. “She hired a band,” Chris said, and when the bronze doors separated on her private floor, I saw it off in the distance, out on the glassed-in terrace.

  But first overall impression: a paradise of twinkling lights. Candles everywhere, hundreds of them, like tiny glinting snowflakes in the darkness. The view was magical, overlooking Central Park with the outline of West Side high-rises in the distance. I recognized people from Chris’s ad agency, saw an assortment of faces who looked as though they’d just come off the runway, and then there was an eclectic assortment of fashion types wearing everything from Goth getups with torn mesh stockings, to prim cardigan sets and neat Kate Spade accessories. We went through the usual rounds of hugs, pretentious European cheek kisses (why both sides?), all the while trying to find out where the hostess was hiding herself.

  “So where’s Bridget?” Chris asked finally. Fabulous-looking girls everywhere, but no sign of her.

  “She’s inside, putting on the bra,” someone said. “It just got here.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, swiping a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter.

  Chris laughed. “She said she wanted to wear the ruby Victoria’s Secret bra if Harry Winston let her. But I thought she was kidding.”

  “Oh, that sounds appropriate,” I said, remembering the picture of her that I had seen from the catalog. Suddenly I felt like a nun about to chastise a student whose skirt was too short.

  “What about thong panties?” I said, unable to rein myself in. “I hope Harry made her one to match.” But Chris didn’t hear me because at that moment, Bridget walked into the room, and his head swiveled as though he were a puppet and she was controlling the strings.

  I’m happy to report that Harry came through for her. Glittering rubies embedded in gold mesh sprinkled with diamonds covered her breasts (well, almost). Even the straps were studded with stones. To match, she was wearing a red satin miniskirt and red metallic sandals with heels that I guessed to be about four inches high. These had a row of rubies (not real, I think) going up the front of the foot and around the ankle. She wore bright red lipstick and little other makeup. Conversation came to a standstill in the room. She waved at Chris.

&nbs
p; “Holy Christ,” he said to her. “You look fucking fabulous.” He walked up to her and dipped her backward, planting a kiss on her lips.

  “This is so crazy, don’t you think?” she said, working hard at trying to look unsure of how she looked. “I can’t believe they let me wear it,” she murmured to him. She motioned to three men behind her in black suits, Harry Winston bodyguards who kept the bra company whenever it was out on the road. Chris whispered something else close to her ear that I couldn’t make out because at that moment, everyone in the room flocked around her, either to get a closer look at the bra, or what was under it, depending on whether they were female or male.

  “Do you believe her?” Chris said, stepping back and turning his head toward me for an instant. Then it must have occurred to him that he hadn’t introduced me, because he called out to Bridget.

  “Bridget, this is Jen,” he said. But by that time, she had taken off to talk to someone else on the other side of the room.

  He shrugged. “Sorry, she’s off.”

  “Mmm,” I said in reply, not sure whether to just back off and leave or slap him for forgetting that he had come to the party with his girlfriend, his lover, someone who he had been living with for an entire year.

  The effect that Bridget had on Chris seemed to be echoed all over the room in the eyes of every other male who was invited to the party. The women, on the other hand, all turned into motes of dust, invisible as they floated into oblivion in various places in the apartment. Even among the other models Bridget was the cover girl, the star, standing six-one in her shoes, with her faceted rubies shining in the glow of the candles. The president of Chris’s agency arrived and quickly made his way over to her, ushering her into an empty room as though they had urgent business. They stayed there for a while, chatting, but I’m not sure because as long as she was out of my line of sight, I felt a sense of relief.

  When they finally emerged, the band began to play louder. Bridget grabbed a glass of champagne and tilted her head back, drinking it down quickly. She started to dance by herself, and soon there was a crowd around her, clapping and egging her on. She shimmied, breasts forward, so that all eyes were on her chest. Finally, someone tall who looked like a male model joined her and they began to slow dance as the music changed.

  As Chris talked to different people from his agency, I made my way around the apartment, peeking into the black-granite kitchen, then walking on into the dining room where there was a white marble table with steel chairs around it. The master bedroom must have originally been two rooms because it had to be at least forty feet. There was a queen-size platform bed with a white leather headboard and ledge around it. Over it was a white mink throw. The wooden floor was pickled white.

  “It’s an amazing place,” said another girl who was also on a self-guided tour. “But then again what else would you expect when your father owns a shipping company.”

  “So she can afford to buy the bra,” I said.

  She laughed. “Ordinarily, I don’t think she wears underwear. At least that’s what I read in InStyle.”

  “Well, I don’t blame her. I gave up underwear after my ruby panties started giving me an awful wedgie.”

  She took a step closer to me and looked around. “You won’t believe what I heard.”

  Did I really want to know? “What did you hear?” I asked finally.

  “She died her hair red,” she said, pointing downward, “to match the outfit.”

  “Cool,” I said, trying groupiespeak. All I could think of was finding the little white tin of Excedrin that I always carried for moments like this, when one of those tension headaches presses down on your scalp like a vise. I walked out into the living room to look for Chris. He was talking to the art director on the account.

  “Cool party, huh?” he said, putting his arm around my waist.

  I raised my glass of champagne instead of answering. It was five minutes to twelve. Everyone was moving toward the terrace to watch the fireworks that would erupt in Central Park at twelve o’clock. Bridget seemed to be floating around the room from the arms of one man to another, each of them eager to whisper secrets in her ear. She was clearly in the bag. Wherever I was in the room, I could hear her peals of laughter. What could possibly be that funny?

  Arnie Harris was Chris’s main art director on the account, and Chris was standing with him talking about their upcoming trip to the Florida Keys. Arnie knew the area, he said, he had spent several winter vacations down there and was talking about the best beaches to use for locations. Then he talked about an old hotel where the crew could stay.

  “I can’t wait to get some sun,” Chris said. I looked at him and felt my blood start roiling. I had invited him again and again, but all he said was no. Now, suddenly, he was craving sunshine?

  “I’m going to sleep out on the beach,” Bridget said, entering our group at that moment. She slipped one arm around Arnie’s waist and the other around Chris and pulled them close to her. A moment later, someone began counting down to twelve o’clock.

  “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one…HAPPY NEW YEAR!”

  “Happy New Year, Chrissy,” she said, first throwing her arms around Chris and pressing herself up to him as she kissed him.

  “Happy New Year,” Chris said, hugging her back then letting go as she moved on to hug and kiss Arnie. Chris turned to me.

  “Happy New Year, Jen,” he said, hugging me, and then briefly kissing my lips. I kissed him back, wiping away the red streak that she had left on the side of his lips.

  Despite the fact that I have little interest in television, I got home and dropped my pounds of paperwork on the kitchen table, and then sat in front of it to watch the news on New York One. It was two days after New Year’s. Why was I still tired? After the headlines, I held the remote and just channel surfed in my TV stupor. I’d wait for Chris and watch an old movie, or some dumb reality show. I’d relax and veg out. But I stopped the clicking when I came to Entertainment Tonight. Actually, I think I held my breath. Who was being interviewed? None other than Miss First Name Only.

  “Bridget,” the exuberant airhead who was interviewing her yelled out like a cheerleader shouting out the name of the winning team. “You’ve just been given a ten-million-dollar contract from Cache drinks to be the poster girl for Model Thin. How does it feel?”

  She offered a guilty smile momentarily and then brightened.

  “I’m excited. I think it’s such a fabulous drink—it tastes just like a malted, but the great news is it contains only one hundred and eighty calories and can replace one or two entire meals every day, so it’s an easy and fabulous way to lose weight.”

  Ugh, she sounded as though she were reciting something she had memorized for a midterm exam.

  “But you obviously don’t seem to have that problem,” the airhead giggled. Clearly, the marketing people at Cache had prepped Bridget.

  “All of us have weight issues. I certainly never got a free ride when it came to maintaining my body. I was even pudgy as a kid” (pudgy? she looked anorexic), “so as I got older, I really started watching what I ate. Plus, now I exercise.”

  “Really, what do you do?”

  “I run almost every morning, and when I’m in California or Hawaii I surf.”

  She surfed? Could I hate her any more?

  “If I didn’t, I’d definitely be heavier,” she said, tossing back her blond mane. She slumped forward, thrusting her pelvis out, then crossed her legs. The camera zoomed down to give the audience a closer view of her body. In her pencil-thin white jeans and pink stiletto heels, it was a laugh to imagine her having weight issues, other than those relating to brain size.

  “Bridget, we’re running out of time,” the airhead went on. “But I’d like to ask you just one more question. Bridget nodded. “Is there any truth to the rumors about you and a certain Hollywood leading man?” she asked with a knowing wink.

  “I really like to keep my personal life personal,” Bri
dget said. “But for the record, no. The only one in my life isn’t a celebrity at all. That’s all I’ll say.”

  “Thanks, Bridget,” the airhead said, applauding and gesturing for the audience to join her. “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” Bridget smiled to show her white Chiclet teeth and then got up and pranced off the stage.

  “The face and figure of Model Thin,” the interviewer said, continuing to applaud as if the broad had done something to warrant applause instead of merely being born lucky.

  I wanted to heave. Probably as close as she ever got to the awful, sickly-sweet chalky drink—that tasted like a combination of malted and barium-enema fluid—was holding a can as she endorsed the checks. If I ever had a reason to despise ad agencies…

  It was hard to resist calling Chris to tell him that he had better find a more meaningful job or I couldn’t sustain our relationship. On the other hand, he made a hefty salary and almost every month or so a headhunter called him to see how happy he was and whether he might consider moving to another agency. The next thought I had was wondering how Chris would have reacted to the absurd interview. Usually we were on the same page when it came to shooting down bullshit. But in this case, I was sure his judgment might be a bit clouded.

  I didn’t have to imagine for long. A minute later the phone rang, and I told him that his Model Thin model had been interviewed on Entertainment Tonight.

  “Yeah, I went with her,” he said.

  “You went with her?”

  “Yeah, a bunch of us went over to keep her company. We hung out in the greenroom when she was on,” he said. “It was such a goof, wasn’t it? We nearly fell over when they asked her about her weight issues,” he said. “I never saw a girl who could eat cheeseburgers and fries the way she does and never gain an ounce.”