Trading Up (39 page)

“But if we could think of a way . . . to spend more time together legitimately . . .” She knew she had to be careful not to
specifically
promise him sex, while at the same time allowing him to think that, at some point, he
might
get it. “I’ve been having the craziest thoughts,” she said, playing with her fork. “Too stupid to tell you, really.

You’ll laugh at me.”

“Laugh at you is just about the last thing I’d do,” he said.

She looked him full in the face, her expression suddenly serious. “What if . . .
I
were to produce the movie version of
The Embarrassments
?” For a moment, he simply stared at her, his expression one of incomprehension.

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Clearly, it was the last thing he was expecting, and before he could protest, she hurried on: “Oh, there it is. I’ve gone and blown it. I knew you’d laugh at me,” and turned away.

“No, no. It’s an . . .
interesting
idea.”

“Well, it
would
be, if you bothered to give it some thought,” she said silkily.

“You want to write the screenplay and crack Hollywood, and I can help you. All it takes is money, really, someone to put up the cash for the project. And that’s where I’d come in. George Paxton is one of Selden’s best friends, and a great friend of mine, too. He’s invested in movies before. George will . . . well, George will do pretty much whatever I ask him. He’s even told me that if I could find a project for him . . . ,” she lied smoothly.

Craig’s eyes narrowed. “But what about Selden?” he asked.

“Oh, Selden!” Janey said, airily. “That’s the beauty of it. Selden could buy your book . . . but we both know he won’t—he doesn’t have the sensitivity to understand it. Think of how surprised he’ll be when he finds out. It’ll be a good way of teach-ing him a lesson.”

“Janey,” Craig said patiently. “You’re beautiful and I would never insinuate that you weren’t smart. But you haven’t any experience. These Hollywood people are killers. Everyone knows that. They might not . . . take you seriously.”

“Because I’m a Victoria’s Secret model?” Janey asked, biting her lip. “But there could be advantages. There isn’t anyone I couldn’t get a meeting with . . . And if the modeling is a problem . . . why, I’d give it all up for the chance to do something important!” she cried. “Especially if it was something, and some
one,
I really believed in.”

She turned to him with shining eyes, knowing that there was nothing more attractive to a man than passion, and she cried out, “Oh, Craig! If you don’t let me work with you, I don’t know what I’ll do!” And suddenly, he was right beside her, patting her hand and murmuring words of encouragement. “Well, sure, Janey. If you really want to . . . If you really feel that way . . . Of course you can.” The bustling backstage noises of a hundred frenzied human beings engaged in the task of putting together the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show was not enough to drown out a high, childish voice that rose above the din to declare: “And it isn’t
enough
to be beautiful and have your own money these days. Now a girl has to be able to give a great blow job—on demand—and be kinky in bed. I asked him, Just what do you mean by kinky? And he said, anal sex, at least once a week, and then he said something about a dog collar . . .”

The voice was suddenly drowned out under a short burst of staccato music that came from the other side of the thin partition that hid the runway as Janey turned 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:24 PM Page 208

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with a superior smile toward the speaker. Seraphina, a dark-haired beauty with only one name, was seated two chairs away from her in front of a long, makeshift makeup mirror, her soft brown eyes opened wide in outraged injury. Janey’s brief assessment of the girl, formed in the space of two afternoon rehearsals, was that she was a dumb, silly thing. No more than twenty-one years old, she had little to talk about besides the men who had tried to sleep with her and the family she had left behind on a farm in South America. For a moment, Janey had wondered if she had appeared as ridiculous as Seraphina at that age, but deciding she hadn’t, she’d dismissed Seraphina, although it was difficult to ignore her when she was in the same room. Silenced now by the motions of the makeup artist, who was attempting to draw a line around dark lips so full they were reminiscent of a vagina, Seraphina continued to gesticulate madly.

Behind Janey, her own makeup artist, Contadine, stood mixing a variety of liquid foundations on the surface of her hand. Their eyes met in the mirror as Contadine, who had an opinion about every topic under the sun and felt the constant need to share her wisdom, motioned with her head toward Seraphina. “Isn’t it the truth though?” she said, stepping forward and gently dabbing Janey’s face with the foundation. “The stories I could tell you,” she continued. “No matter how much we demand from men, they always control the game. Every time we think we’ve got some freedom or independence, they up the stakes. Hell. It’s all this Internet stuff, you know? This porn everywhere. At one time they would have been
lucky
to get a blow job. Now they want three girls and a monkey, and all of ’em worshipping at the altar of the cock . . .”

Contadine laughed loudly, taken with her own wit, as Janey pressed her lips into a cold smile. She’d had millions of these conversations over the years, and the presumed camaraderie coupled with the required false gaiety was always exhausting; Janey understood why movie stars demanded that makeup and hair people keep their mouths shut. But if she demanded quiet she would be labeled a prima donna.

All she could do was remain silent and hope that Contadine would take the hint.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and Contadine asked, “You’re not nervous, are you?” Janey gave her an incredulous look in the mirror and Contadine patted her shoulder. “I didn’t think so. Not you, anyway.” She leaned close, lowering her voice and glancing down the row of chairs where the eleven Victoria’s Secret models were in various stages of hair and makeup. “Hell, you’re one of the few real pros here.

Half of these girls have hardly been on a runway before, and they’re going to send them out with their butt cheeks hanging out? The whole thing’s hysterical if you ask me.”

As this didn’t really require a response, Janey merely shrugged her shoulders, 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:24 PM Page 209

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but there was no stopping Contadine. “Well,” she said, “I’ve heard
you’ve
got it together at least. Didn’t I read somewhere you got married?”

“That’s right,” Janey said.“To Selden Rose.” She shifted in her chair and regarded herself appraisingly. Although she was the oldest of all the girls (only the German girl, Evie, who was thirty, came close to her age), her professional assessment was that she looked the best she ever had. There was a fullness to her beauty, and a confidence, and something else—an intelligence, as if she had an actual life away from the runway—unlike the half-formed, simplistic faces of the younger girls. And yet, after just fifteen minutes in this environment, she had begun to feel the same creeping dullness that threatened to slowly blot her out, until she was merely a husk of face, hair, and body, a shell that could walk and talk, but was dead inside . . .

“Oh right,” Contadine said, snapping her fingers. “Selden Rose. That’s his name.” She nodded as if she finally understood the solution to a math problem.

“He’s that guy . . . a photographer, right?”

“No,” Janey said, with momentary irritation. It was so typical of people in this world to always think that they knew everyone and everything, which was ironic since the borders of their world were so very small. “He’s the CEO of MovieTime.”

“Good for you. That’s even better,” Contadine said. “A businessman. My mother always said, marry a businessman. They’re stable.” Janey stared at Contadine, wondering if she should let the inaccuracy about what Selden really did for a living pass. After all, what difference did it make?

“ ’Course the problem with some of these business guys is they’re boring,” Contadine continued. “I had a girlfriend, she decided she’d had enough of the creative types who never paid for anything, so she met this investment banker . . .” Janey had had enough, and gave Contadine a superior smile. “Selden isn’t exactly a businessman. He used to be the president of Columbia Pictures.” Contadine paused and expertly flicked the tip of her makeup brush with a long, manicured finger, causing a fairy shower of sparkly pink powder. “Ahhhh,” she said, nodding wisely. “That’s why I know the name. I think I have a girlfriend who dated him.”

Janey closed her eyes to allow Contadine to apply the pink powder to her lids, suppressing a jolt of surprise as she did so. The backstage scene at a fashion show was always a notorious hotbed of gossip and innuendo, both for the repetition of gossip, and for the creation of it; if she betrayed too much interest, Contadine would be repeating the story all over town tomorrow.

“I doubt it,” Janey said, with a curt laugh meant to stifle speculation. “Selden’s only been in New York for six months, and we’ve been married for three. And before that, he was married for twelve years. So it would be rather difficult . . .” 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:24 PM Page 210

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“I know I’m right about this,” Contadine said mildly. “Now that you mention Columbia Pictures, it’s all coming back to me. It was my friend Estie. She’s a singer—or calls herself one, anyway,” Contadine said, with a smirk. “But I’m being unfair. Estie
is
really talented. And she’s a riot. It’s just that her looks keep getting in the way.”

“What a surprise,” Janey said.

“Well, she’s the type of girl men go crazy over.” Contadine leaned in conspiratorially. “One of those English princes—I can’t remember which—was after her.

He took her to St. Barts. It was all totally hush-hush and no one was supposed to know anything. But she managed to call me from the bathroom, saying the guy had a really small penis.” Contadine took in Janey’s look of disdain, and went on airily,

“Oh, you’d love her, I swear. And I’m ninety percent sure she told me that after that, she was going out with this guy, Selden Rose. I remembered it because Selden is such a funny name. I mean, no offense or anything, but it sort of sounds like a dentist.”

Janey turned in her chair and let out a short, annoyed laugh. “That’s proof that she doesn’t know Selden. The last thing anyone would call him is a dentist . . .”

“Oh, I didn’t say she
did
call him a dentist,” Contadine went on, with irritating persistence. “Only that the name reminded me of one. She said he was really determined—she wasn’t that interested though, you know the type, she wants to marry Tom Cruise—but she thought he was going to leave his wife and marry her, until there was some kind of trouble over a necklace . . .”

“A necklace!” Janey said.

“Sure. Estie’s one of those girls . . . you can’t believe the jewelry and presents men give her. One guy gave her a Ferrari just for going on a date with him. I’d hate her for it, but the truth is, Estie needs the money. She’s too short to be a model, and even though she can sing, she can’t act at all . . .”

“Well, she’s not Selden’s type, that’s for sure,” Janey said, with unassailable confidence. “I know my husband, and he can’t stand those kinds of women. On the other hand, if this Estie were after
him
. . .”

“Oh, Estie’s never gone after a man in her life,” Contadine said smoothly, brushing a speck of brown powder from Janey’s cheek. “In any case, I wouldn’t worry about it. After all,
you’re
married to him, not Estie.” Janey said nothing as she digested this information. It was likely that not a word of it was true, and that Contadine had Selden mixed up with someone else, but on the other hand, there could be some reality to the story. Janey had never talked to Selden about the reasons for his divorce: On the few occasions when she’d brought it up, he’d only smiled, as if he were embarrassed, and said it was the usual case of a couple growing apart.

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But there was no time to think about it, because in the next moment, Contadine stepped back and said, “There you go, you look perfect,” and Janey was immediately accosted by a dresser who wanted to check the fit of her first “outfit”—a blue sequined bra. Janey followed her across the floor, weaving through a crowd of stylists, models, press people, cameramen, publicists, and anyone else who had managed, through vague connections, to get their hands on a backstage pass. As she made her way to a clothing rack, from which hung a large white piece of cardboard with her name scrawled on it in black Magic Marker, a short man in a tartan suit ran up to her. “Darling!” he screamed. “E! Entertainment Television wants to interview you, now!”

“In a minute, Walter,” she said calmly to the publicist. “Tell them to interview Evie first. She’s ready.”

“She isn’t,” Walter said. “She just got into a fight with a makeup artist—he said her face looked too fat. As if it’s
his
fault. ’Course, I guess I’d be sensitive too if someone called me the German sausage in the newspapers . . .” Walter’s attention was momentarily diverted by another young man’s fresh screams of joyful recognition, and Janey was suddenly amused by the sheer circus atmosphere of it all. It was as if human beings were never more at their best than when importantly involved in the most frivolous of pursuits—and she was suddenly reminded of Craig Edgers. Despite his beliefs to the contrary, there couldn’t be that much harm in allowing your life to float on an occasional bit of superficial fun, and if this was how all of New York society wished to amuse itself, why shouldn’t she be at the center, where she belonged? After all, while it might be true that no one would take her “seriously” as long as she was “only” a Victoria’s Secret model, the reality was that people wouldn’t necessarily give her the time of day if she wasn’t . . .