Trading Up (11 page)

“bitter” exterior, he thought he saw depths of kindness. Like many men who lack real experience, and therefore understanding, of women, he found it impossible to imagine that a beautiful woman could actually be a bitch, nor could he accept the idea that she might not like him. Instead, he ascribed Janey’s sharp remarks to an 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 57

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understandably defensive nature, as those of an essentially sweet girl who has been battered and abused by men not as “good” as himself. He suspected that Janey Wilcox had never really been loved, and that she had never been in a “healthy” relationship (and in this, at least, he was right), and in Janey he sensed a woman who needed rescuing.

Selden Rose liked to think of himself as the knight-in-shining-armor type, and as he strolled toward the tent and the VIP rope strung across the entrance, he reflected that he certainly hadn’t shown himself in his best light at Mimi’s party. But that was mostly due to nerves, and it excited him to realize that a woman could still make him nervous. In the two years since he’d been divorced, Selden had been with beautiful women, but they tended to be of the LA-bimbo type, who wore their beauty like a suit they’d purchased that afternoon. But Janey Wilcox was different: She
inhabited
her beauty with a kind of genius.

Today, he would be careful to make the right impression, he thought, as he gave his name to a young woman holding a clipboard. The edict at Splatch Verner was to spot brilliance and snap it up before the other guys could discover it, and he was sure the same principle applied to Janey. It didn’t bother him that no other man had seen her light before, but it was an axiom that once something was recognized by
someone,
others were never far behind. And so his strategy would be to strike and act quickly, and before the summer was over he was determined to have secured his prize.

The girl with the clipboard checked off his name and lifted the velvet rope without interest; on the short path to the tent, there was a cluster of seven or eight photographers, whom Selden planned to slip by. But stopped just in front of him, looking both pleased at and resigned to the photographers’ attention, was Comstock Dibble. He was standing with his arm wrapped stiffly around the waist of a tall, dark-haired woman whose smile revealed a good half inch of gum; Selden recognized her as Comstock’s fiancée, whom he had met at the party. It amused him that Comstock was supposedly engaged to a woman like Mauve Binchely, who was probably older than Comstock, and it made him half think that Comstock was losing his edge.

And that wouldn’t be surprising, Selden thought. Comstock Dibble was one of those—thankfully, now rare—maverick types who had succeeded where he shouldn’t have, and therefore felt entitled to act on his own. That was fine twenty or thirty years ago, but these days, when there were billions of dollars to be made, Comstock was considered a wild card whose temper was undisciplined; people were beginning to whisper that he couldn’t be trusted. Selden had never been particularly fond of Comstock and suspected that he would be reined in—one way or another—

soon. But they
were
in the same business and had known each other for years, and 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 58

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so, giving Comstock a casual slap on the back and holding out his hand, he said genially, “Comstock.”

Comstock turned, his small red-rimmed eyes revealing that he expected an unwelcome intrusion. Selden couldn’t tell if he was happy to see him or not; he guessed not.

“Selden Rose,” Comstock said. And then, after a beat, “What are you doing here?”

“Same thing you are, I guess,” Selden said. “Watching the ponies.”

“Is that what this is about,” Comstock said, as if to put Selden in his place with insider cynicism.

“That’s what I’ve heard,” Selden replied.

“So you’ve decided to do the Hamptons scene,” Comstock said, barely able to disguise his displeasure.

“Excuse me,” one of the photographers said. “Can we get a picture of the two of you?”

“No thanks,” Selden said, with a wave. He turned to Comstock Dibble and, adopting the same insider tone Comstock had used on him, said, “Some of us would rather be recognized by our peers than by the public.” The remark was delivered in a joking, offhand manner, but it hit its mark, and Comstock glared. The fact was, Comstock’s mother liked to show off his photographs to her friends—it made her proud and they all thought he was the equiv-alent of Prince Charles and she the Queen Mum. But that was something a privileged asshole like Selden Rose could never understand.

For a moment, he stood staring after Selden as he disappeared into the sweaty throng, until an insistent tug from Mauve on his shirt sleeve brought him back to earth. He gave the photographers a look that said
enough
. He had never liked Selden Rose, but at that moment, his enmity crystallized into a hard, glittering rock of hatred.

So many secrets,
Mimi thought later that afternoon, looking around the table. Well, she had a few of her own. The only one who wasn’t hiding his feelings was Selden; he was pursuing Janey with a courtly charm, pouring her glasses of champagne and trying to get her to talk about her modeling career.

The group consisted of herself, Janey, Selden, Mauve, and Comstock. They had inevitably gathered at a corner table under the tent, considered a prized location due to the breeze. There was a plastic bucket containing a bottle of Veuve Clicquot on the table, along with a plate of tea sandwiches catered by the ridiculously expensive Loaves and Fishes (
Thieves and Bitches,
Mimi thought—she liked jokes like that), but nobody seemed to be having a particularly good time. The atmosphere was as 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 59

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heavy as the oppressive heat and there was misery in the air. Nevertheless, Mimi was enjoying the spectacle.

Comstock and Janey were ignoring each other with the kind of studiousness that makes one think there was more to their relationship than they were letting on.

Three times already, Mimi had seen Janey giving Comstock an angry, questioning look, and each time, Comstock had deliberately turned his head away. Mauve seemed to have caught it as well, because she was now grilling Janey about her relationship with Peter Cannon. Mauve had seen Peter at a party the night before, and was outraged that he would dare to appear in public. Selden was pretending to be interested in the conversation, but it was clear he wished Mauve would shut up so he could talk to Janey. And Janey, probably for the sole reason that she didn’t like Mauve, was vigorously defending Peter Cannon’s right to go out in public.

“Nobody has any shame these days, eh, Comstock,” Selden said. There seemed to be a pointed barb in the comment.

“Shame never got anyone anywhere,” Comstock grunted.

There was a deadly lull in the conversation. Janey took a sip of champagne and looked toward the field, where Zizi’s team was accepting a silver cup. “I didn’t know you were such a big polo fan,” Selden said to her.

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” she replied curtly. Mimi wished Janey would be just a little bit kinder to Selden. Selden was essentially a nice guy and he had everything; he was one of those men with whom one had to look beneath the surface. He wasn’t glamorous, but he had too much pride and confidence to acknowledge that it might matter. And for him, of course, it didn’t.

Comstock, however, was an entirely different story. He had the strangest body—a huge barrel chest combined with short, skinny stick legs—and every time she saw him, Mimi couldn’t help wondering if his dick matched his upper or lower half. This afternoon, he had squeezed himself into a skin-tight black Prada shirt with a zipper up the front and he was wearing heavy black Prada sandals. He was sweating profusely, mopping his face with a linen handkerchief, but then again, he was always sweating, as if the very act of living were an exertion.

But that didn’t stop him from lighting up a cigar.

“So, Comstock,” Mimi said. “You haven’t told me what you’re working on.”

“Movie with Wendy Piccolo,” he said.

“Who is she again?” Mimi asked. “Oh, I remember. That little girl with the great body.”

“I don’t know anything about her body,” Comstock said, glancing toward Mauve. He sat back in his chair and smoked, as if the conversation were closed.

Like most mogul types, he couldn’t be bothered to make an effort unless there was something in it for him, Mimi thought.

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“Well,” she said, giving him a look as if he were no more significant than a houseboy, “I think we should be going.”

Janey looked up. “Let’s stay,” she said. She had already decided that there was no way she was going to leave without talking to Zizi again. “I want to congratulate Harold.”

“I forgot Harold Vane was running this team,” Mimi said.

“I guess I’ll stay too,” Selden said. “Meet the owner.”

“I think he’s called the
patrón,
” Janey said, more sharply than she needed to.

“Didn’t you use to date Harold?” Mauve asked.

“I did,” Janey said. “I think he’s adorable.”

“He grew up in New York,” Mimi said.

“On Fifth Avenue,” Janey confirmed.

“Funny we didn’t know him,” Mauve said.

“Why would you?” Janey said. “Do you know everyone who grew up on Fifth Avenue?”

“He went to Harvard, I recognize the name,” Selden said, jumping in.

“Well, then, he’s definitely a loser,” Comstock said. “No one who went to Harvard ever amounted to anything.”

“Listen to him,” Mimi said. “Selden went to Harvard.”

“Apparently it’s a negative in some circles,” Selden said.

“Well, as we’re all going to stay, we need more champagne,” Mimi said, lifting the bottle from its bucket and pouring the last drops into her glass.

The party picked up the moment Harold Vane and Zizi came over and sat down, but the harmonious energies one tries to achieve at a table were still missing.

Being the consummate hostess, Mimi could never help but notice these things, and she saw with some annoyance that Janey had managed to get Zizi on one side and Harold on the other, so that Selden was now stuck between Mauve and Harold.

That was too bad for Selden, but Mimi could understand Janey’s actions: Zizi was so attractive it was impossible for a woman to be in his proximity and not desire sex.

Mimi studied Zizi’s face more closely. He didn’t have a bad angle; the more you looked at him, the better-looking he became, so that one was left with the feeling that he wasn’t actually human but a creature fashioned by God for a more perfect planet. Janey, of course, was stunning herself, but that still didn’t make the pairing right.

Disguising her feelings, Mimi smiled and looked around the table. Harold was talking to Selden about business, while Janey was trying to keep Zizi’s attention by insinuating that he was a rube because he had grown up on a farm in Argentina.

Despite her beauty, Janey had a chip on her shoulder when it came to men, and she had that technique of being aggressive with a man in order to engage his interest.

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Unfortunately, Mimi thought, taking a sip of champagne, she was employing this technique on the wrong man. In the way one breed of dog instinctually recognizes another, Mimi saw instantly that Zizi had old-fashioned European values and would only find Janey’s aggression baffling (indeed, he was already beginning to look around the table as if in search of rescue), and the person on whom Janey should have been employing her wiles was Selden.

Zizi suddenly turned to Mimi and smiled, and a look of mutual understanding passed between them. Mimi liked Janey; she had that warm feeling toward her that women have when they know they’re going to become friends. Nevertheless, if they were to be friends, Janey must learn that she couldn’t take whatever man she wanted, especially if Mimi was there. She would have to learn to defer. And so, employing a tried and true technique of her own, she said to Zizi, “Did you play in Palm Beach this year?” She knew she was the only person at the table who knew anything about polo, and therefore, by engaging Zizi in his favorite topic, was able to completely monopolize his attention.

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f i v e

jane y wil cox was the kind of woman other women considered a bitch, but whom dogs and children mysteriously loved. Sitting in the bleachers at the twenty-third annual Fourth of July Huggy Bear Celebrity Baseball Tournament (so named for reasons no one could now recall), she was flanked on either side by two little boys. The two boys, aged six and eight, couldn’t have been more different—one was painfully thin and the other extremely fat—yet they were not only brothers, but the issue of none other than George Paxton and his first wife, Marlene.

The younger boy, Jack, was clutching Janey’s hand with the sort of open and unabashed fervor that is found only in small children who have yet to discover cynicism, while the older boy, George Jr. (“Georgie Girl” to the cruel children at his school), was busily studying the scoreboard with the mathematical curiosity of an actuary. Digger was up at bat. “If he hits a home run, they’ve got a fifty-three percent chance of winning,” Georgie said, with great confidence. He was a nearly miniature version of his father, right down to his propensity for heft and crumbly toenails—the result of a stubborn nail virus. “On the other hand,” he continued, “if he doesn’t get a hit, they have a twenty-four percent chance of losing.”

“Is that so?” Janey said, peering across the baseball diamond to home plate, where Digger, who was dressed in a wife-beater T-shirt, clam-digger-length khakis, and a canvas fishing hat of the style normally worn by old men in Florida (which was obviously his idea of a baseball uniform, Janey thought), was taking a few practice swings on the bat.