Trading Up (20 page)

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He’d done his share of Hollywood events, but as he’d never been the subject of photographs himself, he hadn’t paid much attention. But as soon as their limo had pulled up in front of the tent, they’d been met by the ubiquitous girl in black, who explained that she was their escort for the evening and would “take care” of them, then she’d shouted into her headset that Janey Wilcox was there, and in a second, they seemed to be engulfed in a blinding white blaze of flashbulbs. The photographers were screaming her name, asking her to look to the left, to the right, to take a step forward or back, and for a second he’d thought,
Wait a minute
. This was not what he’d bargained for . . . if he’d wanted
this
, he would have married a movie star.

But she was holding his hand, and leaning into him for a kiss—her makeup didn’t seem to be an issue in front of the paparazzi. Then they were asking her for photographs by herself, and for a moment, he stood there alone, feeling redundant.

But thankfully the young woman in black had rescued him and led him away.

Janey wasn’t finished, however, and the photographs and interviews went on for at least twenty minutes. But when he finally thought that Janey had been released, that they could have a drink and talk to each other for a minute, they were herded off to a VIP area, where more photographers had asked to take Janey’s picture, and he was left once again feeling like the odd man out.

And then they had been escorted to their table. Which was no mean feat because of the crowd, every member of whom Janey seemed to “know” in some way or another. They were like a bunch of children who had just returned to school after summer vacation. “Hey Janey! How was your summer?”

“Fabulous, darling. I got married.”

“Janey darling! Love your dress.”

“Thank you, darling. It’s Luca Luca. My new favorite Italian.”

“Come on, baby, let’s sit down,” he said at one point, trying to pull her away from a short, cheery gay man.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she said. “No one sits down until the last minute anyway. And Oliver is just telling me about his trip to Capri, which is where
we
should have gone on our honeymoon . . .”

And so on.

They were, apparently, seated at one of the best tables, although what made their table better than the others was unclear to Selden, unless it was due to the presence of Comstock Dibble, who was one of the evening’s honorees. Janey had been surprised, and, he thought, secretly pleased, to find that she was seated next to him; Selden was merely annoyed. “Let’s switch the place cards,” he suggested.

“Selden! We can’t. You know that husbands and wives aren’t supposed to sit next to each other, and besides, someone always notices when you switch place 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 109

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cards and then it ends up on Page Six.” And then she’d smiled and allowed him the briefest kiss on the lips.

Comstock and Mauve had arrived at the table just before the first course was served. Comstock was shining and hearty, like a man who has just come in from the cold and knows he has good whiskey and a Cuban cigar waiting. This was his terri-tory and he knew it. “Damn bore these things, eh, Rose?” he asked, as if he and Selden were old friends.

“You got that right.”

“Wait until the old lady drags you to three in one night.”

“I think the old lady has better things to do.” Comstock said nothing, just raised his eyebrows in an expression that implied Selden had a lot to learn, and, spotting someone he knew over Selden’s shoulder, slid away.

The fact was, Selden thought, pushing the fish around on his plate, that what Comstock Dibble did, thought, or said would have been of no importance to him whatsoever, if he hadn’t been seated next to his wife.

Ever since they’d sat down next to each other, Selden was convinced that Comstock had been flirting with Janey. If he hadn’t known better, he might have even guessed that at one time they’d had something between them. There was an unmistakable familiarity in the way Comstock kept tilting his head toward hers and speaking to her out of the side of his mouth, and in the slightly smirking manner in which she received his comments, as if she’d heard them before. But everybody knew about Comstock’s reputation with women—the amazing thing was that given his looks, he managed to get any women to pay attention to him at all . . .

From the other side of the table, Comstock Dibble leaned over and said to Janey, “Your husband hasn’t taken his eyes off us. I think he’s jealous.”

“Jealous! Oh, Comstock, don’t be ridiculous. He’s madly in love with me, that’s all.”

“But are you in love with him?”

“Of course I am,” Janey said, finishing her third glass of champagne. She’d had quite a lot to drink, but didn’t feel drunk. “God, you’re nasty, Comstock.”

“You know I’m nasty, but so are you. Maybe we could be nasty together again.” Janey laughed. “What would Mauve think?”

“Mauve wouldn’t know.”

“I don’t do that sort of thing anymore. I’m married, remember?”

“You don’t now, but you will again. You’ll see,” Comstock said.

Janey knew she should have found him insulting, but she couldn’t be bothered.

The fact was, she was relieved. He’d been rude to her all summer, but apparently 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 110

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whatever had been bothering him wasn’t on his mind tonight, and he’d made no mention of the two letters he’d sent her. Of course, he was riding high, as puffed up in his tuxedo as a penguin, and everyone was talking about how wonderful he was thanks to his recognition by the mayor. But she was riding high, too, and while her honeymoon had been a bore, her triumphant return to the city as a woman married to a powerful man in the entertainment business had made it all worthwhile. Giving Comstock a suggestive smile, she said, “You know, we really
should
try to be friends.”

Comstock’s answering smile was like that of a lion about to eat his prey—one could practically see the saliva dripping off his teeth. “Yes,” he said, “I think we should do that.”

“What on earth were you talking to Comstock Dibble about?” Selden asked in the limo on the way home.

Janey shrugged. “Movies, what else. I was telling him that he should make Edith Wharton’s
The Custom of the Country
into a movie. It’s never been done before and he’d be good at it.”

“And did he take your advice?”

“Why shouldn’t he? It’s a good idea,” she said, leaning her head back against the seat. “I thought that was a fantastic evening, didn’t you?”

“Sure,” Selden said. He looked out the window at the lit-up stores on Madison Avenue. “I had no idea you and Comstock were such good friends.”

“We’re not,” Janey said. “But naturally I’ve met him over the years . . .”

“It’s amazing that a man like that would get a humanitarian award.”

“Well, he does shoot a lot of movies in the city,” Janey said, reaching out to take his hand.

“But that doesn’t make him a humanitarian.”

“God, Selden,” she said. “Everyone knows those things are fake anyway. No one expects them to be
real
.” And turning to him with glittering eyes, she delivered her blow: “If you think about it, it’s really no different from the Emmy Awards. Everyone knows that they’re political as well.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of it. He had to admit that she wasn’t entirely wrong, and so they rode the rest of the way in silence.

The concierge hailed them in the lobby of the Lowell Hotel. “Mr. Rose, I have a package for you,” he said, handing over a bundle of mail. Selden looked at the labels—they were all addressed to Janey, forwarded to her new address.

“Your mail,” he said, giving her the package.

“Thank you, Neil,” Janey said to the concierge. “I’ve been waiting for this.” In the elevator, she made a point of flipping through her mail, glancing at him 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 111

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every now and again with a cold smile that indicated she was not going to acknowledge his bad mood. He’d already learned that this was a trick of hers, but it still had the effect of making him feel like a bad little boy who has fallen out of favor with his beloved mommy, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to withstand this treatment for long. When they were in the apartment, he said, “I’m going to go to bed,” but she merely gave him that cold, curious smile, and sitting down at the writing desk in front of the fireplace, she said, “I’m going to open my mail. I’ll be in in a few minutes.”

He took off his jacket and threw it on the chair, then removed his pants and bow tie. He went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth, then he looked at the empty bed and went into the living room.

She had lit the Duracell log that lay in the fireplace, and she sat, opening an envelope with a silver letter opener. The warm glow from the fire had turned her skin a burnished copper; her white-blond hair gleamed against her back. What a fool he was to fight with her over nothing, he thought, and he went to her and brushed her hair aside, kissing the back of her neck.

“Hello, darling,” she said.

“You must think I’m crazy,” he said.

“I just can’t think of what you’re upset about. I do everything in my power to make you look good . . .”

“Oh, I know, my darling,” he said, moving around so that he was standing before her. He leaned over and took her hand. “I just couldn’t stand the way Comstock Dibble was looking at you. I kept thinking crazy things, like maybe you’d slept with him or were going to. And all I could think was that if you
had
slept with him, or if you
did,
I would never be able to look at you again, much less be married to you . . .” He broke off. “I know I’m an idiot, darling. You’ll have to forgive me.” He chuckled, but for a second, he thought he saw an expression of guilt cross her face. But then the corners of her eyes crinkled up into kindly amusement.

“Comstock Dibble,” she twittered. “Oh, Selden, he’s the last person in the world you have to worry about. I find him disgusting. And frankly, I’m a little insulted that you
would
think I’d slept with him.” Her voice was full of confident amusement, but inside, she was annoyed. If he felt that strongly about it, she would have to be vigilant in making sure that he never found out the truth.

He pulled her to her feet and embraced her, smoothing her hair. “I can’t help it.

I’m a jealous husband. Will you come to bed now?” She kissed him back for a moment, but then pulled away. “In a minute,” she said. “I really do have to go through this mail—it’s full of invitations and there might be some things we want to go to.” And, catching the expression on his face, she added playfully, “You see? If we had an assistant, I wouldn’t have to do this.” 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 112

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“Point taken,” he said, responding in kind. “I’m going to watch the news to find out if anything important has happened in the world while you plan our social calendar.”

“Let me know if anything’s been blown up,” she called back gaily, as he went into the bedroom.

She sighed, running her hands through her hair as she removed the bobby pins that had kept it up all evening. As her hair fell to her shoulders, she heard the sound of thunder and the subsequent heavy pattering of rain on the rooftops and street, and was drawn to the window. She probably would have eventually told Selden about Comstock, she sighed, especially if Comstock had continued sending her letters. But having lost the opportunity, she couldn’t tell Selden now. In any case, she certainly wouldn’t pursue a friendship with Comstock, at least not for a while. She wasn’t crazy about lying to her husband, but, on the other hand, lying to men was often an issue of survival, and besides, what Selden didn’t know would never hurt him . . .

Looking down onto the dark, glistening street, her eye was caught by a lone figure on the other side of the pavement, hunched up against the rain as she desperately tried to hail a cab. On closer inspection, Janey saw that it was a young girl and pretty, wearing a black party dress and high-heeled shoes. But she
would
be pretty being in this neighborhood—she’d probably been at a swanky party filled with arrogant rich men who traded pretty young girls like baseball cards. And suddenly, Janey was swept back in time, to herself just a few years ago when she was that girl, going to parties in the hope of meeting a savior and praying that she had enough cab money to get home if she didn’t. And as the girl raised her face as if to ask,

“Why me, God?” the rain ran down her cheeks and hair, down her legs and into her shoes. And Janey felt the girl’s distress, felt the sensation of her shoes filling with water, knowing that they were ruined and that she’d spent her last $200 on them because they were designer and on sale . . .

With a look of resignation, the girl took one last glance back at the street, realizing that she wasn’t going to get a cab and would have to walk home. Janey wanted to open the window and cry out, “Come inside! Come up here where it’s warm and dry,” but it was a foolish thought, especially with her husband waiting impatiently in the next room. And if she were somehow able to invite the girl up, Selden would probably assume it was for sex, for a threesome, and for all she knew, the girl might do it in exchange for the chance to get out of the rain. She’d probably already learned that sex was a small price to pay for a nice bed with clean sheets and a bathroom that wasn’t filled with cockroaches . . .

Janey leaned her forehead against the window, watching as the girl moved quickly down the street, her head bowed against the rain. She was probably already 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 113

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regretting her evening, Janey thought. Pretty girls were a category unto themselves, she thought, and sometimes it was better not to be pretty. Pretty girls were always told that their looks would make them special, that good looks meant that something marvelous was waiting just around the corner, but so often that marvelous thing was only a pair of sodden shoes you couldn’t afford to begin with. Reluctantly, she tore herself away from the window, knowing that at heart she
was
that girl, the only difference being that somehow she was now a success, and married to a rich movie producer . . .