The Boy Next Door (5 page)

To: Jason Trent

From: John Trent

Subject: Max Friedlander

Her name was Heidi. She was a showgirl. She had feathers in her hair, and a dress cut down there.

Okay, not really. But her name was Heidi, and she was a showgirl. And apparently I was determined to make her the first Mrs. John Trent.

You wouldn’t understand, of course, having never done anything even slightly disreputable in all of your thirty-five years, but try, Jason, to put yourself in my shoes:

It was spring break. I was twenty-two. I was in love.

I’d had way too many margaritas.

Max dragged me out of the wedding chapel, sent Heidi home, took away my keys so I couldn’t follow her, sobered me up, and put me to bed.

I still think of her sometimes. She had red hair, and was slightly bucktoothed. She was adorable.

But not worth THIS.

John

To: John Trent

From: Jason Trent

Subject: Max Friedlander

Ah. It is all become clear now. I know how you are when it comes to redheads.

So just what IS the favor he wants you to do him in return?

Jason

To: Max Friedlander

From: John Trent

Subject: S.O.S.

I don’t even want to ask. What is it that you want me to do for you, Max?

And please, I’m begging you, nothing illegal in New York, or any other state.

John

To: John Trent

From: Max Friedlander

Subject: S.O.S.

Look, it’ll be a piece of cake: All I want you to do is be me. Just for a week or two.

Well, okay, maybe a month.

Simple, right? Here’s the 411:

My aunt—you know, the filthy stinking rich one who always kind of reminded me of your grandma, Mimi, or whatever the hell her name is. The one who was so mean about our apartment? The neighborhood wasn’t
that
bad.

Anyway, my aunt apparently suffered a senior moment and let a psychopath into her place, who conked her on the head and fled, and now she’s in the vegetable crisper at Beth Israel.

There is a chance—albeit a small one—according to her doctors, that she might come out of it.

So you understand that it simply won’t do to have her waking up and finding out that her beloved Maxie didn’t fly to her side as soon as he heard about her accident. Auntie Helen’s will is arranged 80/20—80 percent of the $12 million my aunt is worth goes to me upon her demise, and 20 percent goes to various charitable organizations she sponsors. We wouldn’t want there to be any sort of untimely shift in those percentiles, now would we, on account of Maxie turning out to have been playing house with a supermodel during this alarming tragedy?

Of course we wouldn’t. Which is where you, my friend, come in:

You’re going to tell this neighbor of hers that you’re me.

That’s it. Just be me, so Ms. Melissa Fuller reports back to Auntie Helen—if she ever comes around, which is extremely doubt-ful—that, yes, her beloved nephew, Maxie, did show up as soon as he heard about her little accident.

Oh, yeah, and you might have to walk the dog a few times. Just to shut the neighbor up.

And, of course, if the old biddy shows the slightest sign of rejoining the conscious, you call me. Got it? And I’ll rush right back.

But since I figure the chance of an eighty-year-old woman springing back from this kind of thing is pretty much nil, I won’t be expecting to hear from you.

You know I wouldn’t ask you to do this if we weren’t talking
Vivica here. Okay? VIVICA. The girl is supposedly very well versed in yoga.

YOGA, Trent.

You do this for me, and your slate’s clean, dude. Whadduya say?

Max

To: Max Friedlander

From: John Trent

Subject: S.O.S.

Let me see if I’ve got this straight:

Your aunt was the victim of a brutal assault, and you don’t even care enough to postpone your vacation?

That is cold, Friedlander. Really cold.

Essentially, what you want me to do is impersonate you. Is that it?

I think I’d rather be married to the showgirl.

John

To: John Trent

From: Max Friedlander

Subject: S.O.S.

You crime reporters are all alike.

Why do you have to make it sound so underhanded? I told
you, Helen’s in a coma. She’s never even going to know about it. If she croaks, you tell me, I come back to arrange the funeral. If she comes out of it, you tell me, I come back to help her convalesce.

But as long as she’s unconscious, she’s never going to know the difference. So why postpone anything?

Besides, we’re talking Vivica here.

You see how easy things can be if you don’t overanalyze them? You were always like this. I remember those multiple-choice tests we’d get in Bio, you were always, “It can’t be A—that’s too obvious. They must be trying to trick us,” and so you’d choose D, when the answer was CLEARLY A.

As long as Auntie Helen—and her lawyers—doesn’t know any better, why not let me enjoy my well-earned little vacation? Placate this neighbor of hers. That’s all I’m asking. Just take over the dog-walking duties.

I think it’s a very small price to pay, considering that I kept you from making the worst mistake of your entire life. You think old Mimsy would still be inviting you up to those soirees on the Vineyard if you had a Vegas showgirl for a wife?

I think not.

I think you owe your buddy Maxie, but good.

Max

To: Jason Trent

From: John Trent

Subject: Max Friedlander

He wants me to pretend to be him and walk his comatose aunt’s dog while he’s off partying with a supermodel.

I guess it could be worse. A lot worse.

So why do I have such a bad feeling about it?

John

To: John Trent

From: Jason Trent

Subject: Max Friedlander

You’re right. It could be worse. Are you going to do it?

Jason

To: Jason Trent

From: John Trent

Subject: Max Friedlander

Why not?

I mean, walking an old lady’s dog…how bad can that be?

John

To: John Trent

From: Jason Trent

Subject: Max Friedlander

The horses don’t dance in dressage, you moron. They step.

And have you ever considered that you and Heidi might have been perfectly suited for one another? I mean, with the kind of luck you’ve been having with women lately, Heidi could very well have been your last chance at real happiness.

Just think, if you’d followed your heart, instead of Max friedlander’s head, you could be the one providing Mim with a grand-kid in December, instead of me.

Jason

To: Jason Trent

From: John Trent

Subject: Max Friedlander

Have I mentioned lately how much I hate you?

John

To: Max Friedlander

From: John Trent

Subject: S.O.S.

Okay, I’ll do it.

John

To: John Trent

From: Max Friedlander

Subject: Operation Paco

All right. I’ll let the neighbor know to expect you (I mean, me) tonight for the big key pickup. She’s got my aunt’s spare. It has not apparently occurred to her to wonder why Aunt Helen never gave me a key to her place. (That fire in her last apartment was not my fault. There was something wrong with the wiring.)

Remember, you’re supposed to be me, so try to act like you care about the old lady’s hematoma, or whatever it is.

And listen, as long as you’re being me, could you try to dress with a little…what’s the word I’m looking for here? Oh, I know. STYLE. I know for guys like you who are born into money, the instinct is to downplay the trillions you’re worth.

And that’s cool with me. I mean, I can understand this whole thing you’re doing, getting a real job instead of the cushy family one your big brother offered.

And I’m totally fine with it. If you want to pretend like you’re only making forty-five grand a year, that’s just great.

But while you’re being me, could you PLEASE not dress like a grad student? I am begging you: No Grateful Dead T-shirts. And
those deck shoes you always wear? Would something in a tassel kill you?

And for the love of God, invest in a leather jacket. Please. I know it will mean touching some of those precious millions in that trust fund your grandfather left you, but, really, something NOT from the Gap would be good.

That’s all. That’s all I ask. Just try to look good when you’re imitating me. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.

Max

To: Max Friedlander

From: John Trent

Subject: S.O.S.

Christ, Friedlander, she works for the
New York JOURNAL???

You didn’t say that. You didn’t say anything about your aunt’s neighbor working for the
New York Journal
.

Don’t you get it, Max? She might KNOW me. I’m a journalist. Yeah, we work for rival papers, but for God’s sake, the field’s pretty small. What if she opens the door and it turns out we’ve been to the same conferences—or crime scenes?

Your cover will be blown.

Or do you not care?

John

To: John Trent

From: Max Friedlander

Subject: Operation Paco

Of course I care. And don’t worry, I already checked her out. She does the gossip page.

I doubt you’ve been running into any gossip columnists at the crime scenes you’ve been covering lately.

Max

To: Max Friedlander

From: John Trent

Subject: I’m not happy

Gossip? She’s a gossip columnist, Max? She’s going to know I’m not you for SURE.

John

To: Max Friedlander

From: John Trent

Subject: I’m not happy

Max? MAX??? WHERE ARE YOU?

To: Nadine Wilcock

From: Mel Fuller

Subject: Max Friedlander

Oh, my God, Nadine! I heard from him!

He’s on assignment in Ethiopia, photographing little starving kids for the Save the Children fund! And I’ve just asked him to leave to come home and take care of his aunt’s dog!

What kind of a horrible bitch must I seem to him? Oh, God, I knew I shouldn’t have tried to contact him.

Mel

To: Mel Fuller

From: Nadine Wilcock

Subject: Max Friedlander

What’s more important to him, a bunch of starving kids he doesn’t know or his aunt’s dog?

I don’t mean to sound cold, but starving children or not, the man has to take some responsibility.

Besides, his aunt is in a coma, Mel. I mean, if your only living relative is in a coma, you come home, for God’s sake, starving kids or no.

When’s he getting here, anyway? Are you going to be able to make the pool party? Because Tony’s threatening to break off the engagement if I don’t go.

Nad :-/

To: Mel Fuller

From: Dolly Vargas

Subject: Max Friedlander

Darling, I could hear you shrieking all the way in the art department. I thought at the very least the cast of
Friends
was breaking up.

But now I find out it’s only because Max Friedlander e-mailed you.

But what’s this I hear about him doing it from in Ethiopia? Max Friedlander would NEVER go to Ethiopia. My God, it’s so…dusty there.

You must be confusing him with someone else.

Now, listen, about Aaron: I am bound and determined to make him into something I wouldn’t be ashamed to introduce to Stephen. So do you think he’ll resist strongly to my steering him over toward Barney’s? He’s simply got to have some linen pants, don’t you think? He’ll look so devastatingly F. Scott Fitzgerald in linen.

Can you say something, darling, next time you pass him on your way to the copier? Something completely cutting, like “nice khakis,” ought to put him exactly where I want him.

XXXOOO

Dolly