The Boy Next Door (26 page)

To: Aaron Spender

From: John Trent

Subject: Pending lawsuit

Bite me.

John Trent

To: Michael Everett

From: George Sanchez

Subject: Trent

Mike—

You better start keeping your boy Trent on a leash. He was over here the other day raising all sorts of hell. Took out a few of Spender’s molars. Not that I mind—now at least I don’t have to listen to the bastard whine about how come I won’t give him a paid leave of absence to go to Africa and do a story about endangered chinchillas, or whatever the hell cause it is he’s spouting off about this week.

Still, I can’t be having the teeth knocked out of my senior correspondents. Strongly encourage him to give this thing he’s got for my gossip columnist a rest. She’s a good kid, and doesn’t need the aggravation.

Best,

George

To: Mel Fuller

From: Tim Grabowski

Subject: John Trent

Honey, I know you’re just as mad as a bee caught under a pickle jar at the moment, but really, don’t you think you ought to take a deep breath and THINK a minute?

This guy, who, I’ll admit, behaved in a fairly
Animal House
manner, nevertheless was the light of your life for quite a little while. Do you really want to throw away all you two had together just because the guy pulled one inane fratboy prank?

He didn’t mean to hurt you. He was trying to do his friend a favor. I mean, come on, Mel. I could understand you’re wanting to make him squirm for a bit, but this is getting ridiculous.

Besides, do you have any idea how RICH John Trent is? Dolly was telling me all about it at lunch yesterday. The guy is LOADED. I mean, millions, all his own, left to him by his granddaddy. And sweetie, the Trents have houses all over the place, the Cape and Palm Springs and Boca and Nova Scotia—you name it. Just think what fun you’d have, installing satellite television in all of them.

You know, forgiveness is divine.

Just a hint.

Tim

To: Tim Grabowski

From: Mel Fuller

Subject: John Trent

And I could invite all my close personal friends up to spend the weekend in those vacation homes, right?

Forget it, Tim. You are so transparent.

Besides, if you’d listened closely to Dolly, you’d have been able to read between the lines: Trents don’t marry Fullers. They just use them for their own entertainment.

Mel

To: Nadine Wilcock

From: Tim Grabowski

Subject: Mel

Something has got to be done about Mel. She is blowing this thing with poor Mr. Trent way out of proportion. I’ve never seen her like this. I have to say, I’m glad I never got on her bad side. She certainly knows how to hold a grudge.

I guess we should have known, her being a redhead and all.

I’m thinking she needs to be referred to counseling. You agree?

Tim

To: Tim Grabowski

From: Nadine Wilcock

Subject: Mel

Tim, she’s angry, not insane. Anger management classes, maybe, but counseling? The guy LIED to her. Outright lied. It doesn’t matter
why
he did it, the fact that he did it is enough. Don’t you know how shaky Mel’s trust in men has been ever since Aaron revealed
his true colors? Heck, even before that, she was convinced they were all out for one thing, and one thing alone.

And now this guy, the first guy she’s really liked in a long time, turns out to be exactly like all those other guys she’s gone out with since moving here: a lying pig.

I don’t know. Wouldn’t YOU be mad, if it were you?

Nad

To: Mel Fuller

From: Aaron Spender

Subject: You

I want you to know that I understand exactly how you’re feeling right now. That Trent fellow is the lowest of the low, a perfect example of the privileged rich taking advantage of the working poor. He doesn’t care about what happens to any of us, so long as he can get what he wants. Men like Trent have no conscience—they are what is known as “alpha males,” grasping individuals who have absolutely no interest in anything beyond their own immediate gratification.

Well, I want to assure you, Melissa, that in spite of what you may be feeling at the moment, not all of us possessors of the Y chromosome are selfish bastards, thinking only of ourselves. Some of us have deeply rooted feelings of respect and admiration for the women in our lives.

I, for instance, will always have feelings for you, feelings that are as genuine as they are unwavering. I want you to know, Melissa, that I will always, always be here for you—even though foul troglodytes like Trent might try to break my spirit, not to mention my jaw.

If there is anything—anything at all—that I can do for you now, in your hour of greatest need, please do not hesitate to ask.

Faithfully yours, for now and always,

Aaron

To: Aaron Spender

From: Mel Fuller

Subject: You

Bite me.

Mel

To: John Trent

From: Genevieve Randolph Trent

Subject: Your new nephew

Dearest John,

It might interest you to know that your sister-in-law gave birth to a nine-pound baby boy two days ago.

His parents have—misguidedly, in my opinion—chosen to christen the child John.

You would already know this, of course, if you ever bothered calling anyone in your family, but that, I suppose, would be asking entirely too much of an enterprising young man like yourself.

Mother and son are doing fine. The same cannot be said for your brother, who has been home alone with the twins while Stacy
is in the hospital. You might wish to give him a call and offer some fraternal support.

Sincerely,

Mim

To: Jason Trent

From: John Trent

Subject: My namesake

You shouldn’t have. I really mean that. I’m a rotten brother, and I’ll be an even more rotten uncle to the kid. I can’t believe I missed the whole thing.

Anyway, congratulations. Nine pounds, huh? No wonder Stacy was so cranky at the end there. There’s a little package from Harry Winston coming her way. It’s the least I could do for all the advice she’s given me over the past few months.

Not, of course, that it did much good. I still managed to botch everything, but good. You were right about no woman being forgiving enough to let something like this go. She won’t even speak to me. I went by her office, and it was a disaster. Her idiot ex-boyfriend tried to play the hero, and I decked him one. Now he’s suing me. I tried to give her the ring, and she threw it back in my face without even opening the box.

That’s not even the worst of it. She had Mrs. Friedlander’s locks changed. I couldn’t even get back into the building to get my things without being escorted by the super—who is sympathetic, but who pointed out that, as I am not actually related to the apartment’s owner, he cannot issue me my own key.

So I’m back at my place, and now I can’t even see her. I don’t know what she’s doing or with whom. I suppose I could go stand in front of the building and catch her when she comes out to walk
the dog or go to work or whatever, but what would I say? What can I say?

Well, sorry about that. I didn’t mean to bring you down during this happy time. Congratulations, and give John Jr. a big kiss from me. I’ll be up to see him this weekend. It’s not like I’m going to have any other plans.

John

To: John Trent

From: Jason Trent

Subject: Ring?

What ring?

Earrings, I said. Buy her earrings. Not a ring. What ring are you talking about?

Jason

To: Jason Trent

From: John Trent

Subject: The Ring

I know you said earrings. But I bought her a ring. An engagement ring.

And no, this isn’t like the time in Vegas. I have not been perpetually drunk for the past three months. I genuinely believe that this woman, out of all the women I have ever known, is the one with whom I want to spend the rest of my life.

I was going to tell her the truth, and then propose, in Vermont.

Only that bastard Friedlander had to screw the whole thing up.

Now she won’t answer my phone calls, open her door, or reply to my e-mails. My life is over.

John

To: John Trent

From: Jason Trent

Subject: My God

I leave you alone for a week, and you manage to make a shambles of your life. How is that possible?

All right, meet me at my office for lunch tomorrow. Between the two of us, we should be able to come up with some idea as to how to fix this.

Hey, we’re Trents, aren’t we?

Jason

To: Sebastian Leandro

From: Max Friedlander

Subject: Look, dude

It’s been weeks since I heard from you. Have you got anything for me, or not?

Don’t try to reach me in Key West. I’m headed back to New York. You can reach me at my aunt’s place. You’ve got the number.
I’m crashing there until I can get back on my feet again. I mean, why not? She’s sure as hell not using it.

Max

To: Mel Fuller

From: George Sanchez

Subject: I realize

that you’ve been crippled with grief over your boyfriend’s heinous betrayal and all that, but are you going to turn in a column for tomorrow’s paper, or aren’t you? Maybe you think we should just print a big blank space with the words
DOWN WITH MEN
in the middle of it. That’d sure make us look like professionals, huh? We’d certainly out sell the
Chronicle
then, wouldn’t we?

GET ME THAT COLUMN!!!

George

To: George Sanchez

From: Mel Fuller

Subject: Calm down, George

I sent the column down to the copy desk hours ago. I didn’t want to bother you with it. You were busy yelling at Dolly for failing to complete her assignment on Christina Aguilera—Victim or Soulless Sellout?

I’ve attached a copy of tomorrow’s Page Ten for your enjoyment.

And unless you intend to stop the presses, it’s going to run, since Peter Hargrave himself gave it his seal of approval. He was in here waiting for Dolly, so I ran it past him. Hope you don’t mind.

Enjoy!

Mel

WHO WANTS TO MARRY A MILLIONAIRE?

Tired of watching 5 to 10 percent of your hard-earned pay disappear into that 401(k) every month, girls? Why not try accruing capital the old-fashioned way? There’s a millionaire bachelor out there who’s sick of the single life, and is actively seeking a bride.

That’s right, you heard it here first. The
New York Journal
—has even learned that John Randolph Trent—grandson of the late Harold Sinclair Trent, who founded Trent Capital Management, one of New York’s oldest and most revered brokerage firms—has finally decided to get hitched. The only problem? He can’t seem to find the right girl.

“I’m tired of dating models and movie starlets who are only after my money,” Mr. Trent was heard to observe to a friend. “I’m looking for a woman of character and substance, an ordinary woman who doesn’t live in Beverly Hills. I would love to marry a woman from, say, Staten Island.”

It is for this reason that the 35-year-old—who inherited a reported $20 million upon the death of his grandfather—will be interviewing potential lifemates in his office at the
New York Chronicle
beginning at 9:00
A.M.
this morning. When will the interviews end?

“When I’ve found her,” Mr. Trent asserts.

So get down to 53rd and Madison, girls, before this prince turns into a frog and hops away!

Wedding Bells for
Wonder (Bra) Woman

Meanwhile, another New York bachelor isn’t having nearly the same trouble finding Ms. Right. Max Friedlander, 35, who is responsible for the steamy photos in last year’s
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue, recently confided to a friend his secret engagement to supermodel Vivica, 22.

Vivica, whose gorgeous visage has graced the covers of
Vogue
and
Harper’s Bazaar
, is most widely known for modeling the newest version of the Wonder Bra in last spring’s Victoria’s Secret catalog. Says Mr. Friedlander of his upcoming nuptials: “I couldn’t be happier. I am ready at last to settle down and start a family, and Vivica will make the perfect wife and mother.” Vivica was not available for comment, although her publicist would not rule out the possibility of a Christmas wedding.

To: Mel Fuller

From: George Sanchez

Subject: Your future employment at this place of business

The minute you get to work, report to my office, and be prepared to tell me, in one hundred words or less, why I shouldn’t fire you.

George