Trading Up (65 page)

“Oh, Janey . . . ,” Patty said, shaking her head.

The waiter came to the table.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“Yes,” Janey said firmly, as if she’d eagerly been awaiting this question. “I’ll have a vodka on the rocks with a twist of lemon, and Patty . . .” Patty looked up in despair. “I’ll have a water.” 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:25 PM Page 346

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“Bottled or tap?” the waiter asked.

“Bottled. Fizzy,” Janey said.

“Well,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “It certainly is nice to get out of the hotel for a change. Mike was happy to see me. Did you see that?” Janey asked.

“No,” Patty said, quietly.

“I’m just pissed that they wouldn’t give me my booth,” Janey said.

“The table is fine,” Patty said.

“It’s horrible,” Janey said. “It’s practically in the middle of the room . . .” The waiter came back to the table with their drinks. “How are you?” Janey asked him pleasantly.

“I’m okay,” he said evenly.

“It’s so funny that Wesley didn’t give me my regular booth,” Janey said.

“I think it’s specially reserved today.”

“Oh, it’s always specially reserved,” Janey said airily, “but usually for me!” The waiter nodded his head, and Patty said, “Janey,
please
. . .”

“What, Patty?” Janey asked. There was a challenge in her voice. “Do you think I’m going to sit here like a meek little mouse . . . like
you
? I haven’t done anything wrong, Patty; that’s what you need to remember . . .”

“Okay. I
know,
” Patty said, looking nervously around the room.

“For God’s sake,” Janey said to her sister. “You of all people know I’m innocent.

You know I wrote a screenplay—I told you all about it that summer . . .”

“But that doesn’t mean . . .”

“It’s all George Paxton’s fault anyway,” Janey continued, cutting Patty off. “He used me. He got the idea to buy the company from me, and then he sold me out.” She sat back, looking at Patty for confirmation. Her only mistake was in going to George for help, she thought angrily. If she hadn’t showed him the letter, he would never have had the idea to go after Comstock’s company, and the stuff about the money would have passed unnoticed, even if she never paid it back. She’d been such a fool to trust him, she thought, glancing at the empty booth behind her. And if she’d known better, she would be sitting there right now and everything would be fine . . .

“Oh,
Janey,
” Patty sighed. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. But in any case, does it really matter?”

“Of course it matters,” Janey snapped.

A different waiter came to their table. Janey thought he was going to take their order, but instead, he said, “I’m sorry, ladies, but I have to move the table.” And then he inched the table forward, away from the booth, as if they were somehow contaminated . . .

Janey and Patty exchanged a look. “I’m going to speak to Wesley,” Janey said.

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She made a motion as if to stand up, expecting that everyone’s eye would be upon her. But not a face was turned in her direction, and suddenly, the conversations became louder and more amusing, and everyone became a little more important, as they do when someone truly famous enters a room. And looking toward the entrance, Janey saw the cause of the commotion: The movie star Jenny Cadine was in the restaurant.

Her real name, it was rumored, was Jennifer Carrey, but she had changed it to Cadine when she was sixteen, apparently in honor of Balzac’s character in
Cousin
Bette
. She was barely thirty years old, but she’d won the Oscar for best actress two years ago, and she was as tall and golden as the statuette itself. She was dressed beautifully, in the ruffled Yves Saint Laurent shirt that was supposed to be all the rage that spring, and Janey immediately wished that she’d worn the tweed suit instead of the revealing white plastic dress. The dress would have been perfect for a nightclub, but now, in the light of day, she was conscious of appearing cheap, of trying too hard. Everything about her suddenly felt wrong: from her long, straight, blond hair ( Jenny’s hair was always different, and today it was colored a golden-red and hung in perfect ringlets down her back) to the red lipstick she put on in lieu of the damaged Pussy Pink.

And as Wesley triumphantly led Jenny to the empty booth, studiously ignoring Janey on the way, Janey saw that Jenny was wearing pink lipstick—and it was nearly the same shade as her own beloved signature color.
I must ask her what it’s called and
where she got it,
Janey thought irrationally, for she suddenly felt a sense of relief. So that was the reason for Wesley’s cool reception, she thought. It had nothing to do with her, nothing to do with the scandal at all. It was only that Wesley had promised her table to a movie star . . .

Following in Jenny’s wake was a short, middle-aged woman with a mouth like a fish. Probably Jenny’s publicist, Janey thought. The two sat down in the booth, and the conversation in the room reached a fevered pitch as everyone tried to ignore the fact that they were in the same restaurant with the beautiful Jenny Cadine, the movie star and Academy Award winner . . .

And oh, what glory it was, Janey thought happily. The world suddenly seemed to have righted itself, and tomorrow, the gossip columns would probably carry the story that Jenny Cadine had been spotted lunching at Dingo’s, and then would go on to list who else was in the restaurant. There was the mayor and Senator Mike Matthews, and certainly, Janey thought, smiling at Patty, they would mention her . . .

Wesley himself went to Jenny’s table to take her order, and suddenly, Janey’s mood swung 180 degrees in the opposite direction. Watching him leaning over Jenny’s shoulder to point out something on the menu, she realized that Wesley had 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:25 PM Page 348

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never treated her that way—even though she’d been a regular celebrity customer for months. And she began to fume: Why should she be asked to step aside for the Jenny Cadines of the world? She was as beautiful as Jenny Cadine, she thought, sneaking a look at her out of the corner of her eye—probably, in most people’s opinion, more so. Because while Jenny made a great first impression, when you really looked at her, you saw that her face was actually a bit uneven, and that her nose was crooked and a tiny bit long . . . And then, glancing back at Jenny again, as she unfolded her napkin and briefly surveyed the crowd like she was some kind of queen, Janey wondered: Why shouldn’t she become a movie star herself! How silly she’d been, she thought, trying to be a producer. Where was the glory in that?

Because, if she asked herself what she really wanted, she would have to say that she always wanted respect . . . She always wanted to be shown to the best booth at every restaurant . . . And she wanted to be the undisputed star no matter where she was . . .

And then, something terrible happened.

Jenny Cadine’s publicist was looking around the room—her small pursed mouth opening and closing like a guppy in search of food—when her eye fell on Janey. And her face froze.

Leaning toward Jenny, the publicist began whispering in her ear. Jenny Cadine glanced briefly at Janey, her eyes opening in sudden understanding. She lowered her head and nodded several times, and then Jenny and the publicist stood up, gathered their things, and walked out.

There was a shocked hush in the restaurant, but as is usual in these kinds of situations, someone went on talking. The person happened to be a woman sitting at the next table, and while not everyone in the restaurant heard her, there was no pain spared Patty and Janey.

As clearly as if she’d been sitting at their table, they both heard: “It’s because of those scandal sisters—Janey and Patty Wilcox. One’s called the Model Prostitute and the other was married to a rock star. He got some singer pregnant and the younger one, Patty, was in
jail
. . .”

“Let’s go,” Patty said, placing her napkin on the table.

Janey felt the room spinning around her. Until Jenny Cadine walked out, the attitude toward her had been mildly tolerant, but now it was decidedly hostile, and no one was bothering to hide their looks of disdain. Janey stared down at the table, willing herself not to cry. She would get through this, she thought with determination. Somehow, she
would
. . . and other people had probably survived worse.

“Janey . . . ,” Patty said gently.

“If you leave me here, I’ll die,” Janey said.

The waiter brought two salads to the table. His manner was unmistakably chilly.

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“We’re going to cancel our main courses,” Patty said softly. “If you could just bring the check . . .”

“Of course,” the waiter said, without looking at them.

“Janey,” Patty said. “Why do you do this? Don’t you see that it’s over?” Janey said nothing. She picked up her fork, chasing a piece of lettuce around on her plate.

“Why do you want to be here anyway?” Patty asked. “Why do you even want to be in this world?”

“Patty,” Janey sighed.

“It’s finished,” Patty said. “New York is finished for both of us. I don’t know what you’re going to do, but Digger and I are moving to Malibu. We bought a house, and Digger is going to take a year off from the band.”

“That’s nice . . . ,” Janey said listlessly, as if she hadn’t heard a word Patty had spoken.

“Janey . . . ,” Patty said. She touched Janey’s arm and shook it slightly. “You have to listen to me. You have to leave New York. There’s nothing here for you—

maybe there never was. You need to find something real. You’re living in a fantasy world . . . You’ve
been
living in a fantasy world ever since you got back from Europe that summer.”

Janey said nothing. The waiter brought the check, and Patty opened her purse, fumbled with her wallet, and managed to extract five twenty-dollar bills. She put the money down on the table and stood up.

“That’s too much,” Janey whispered.

Patty just looked at her.

But the sight of money seemed to revive her a little, and somehow, Janey managed to rise, and with her head held high, walk all the way through the restaurant and out into the vestibule. The coat-check girl silently handed them their coats, as if she knew they would be leaving, and as they were putting them on, Wesley came out.

“Janey,” he said.

Janey turned. Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, Wesley?” she asked coldly.

“Listen, love,” he said, taking her arm and leading her toward the door. “You and I are old friends, so I know that you’re going to understand what I have to tell you.”

Janey said nothing. Her mouth felt full of sawdust.

“You know how these things work,” Wesley said in a perfectly pleasant tone of voice. “We survive on our clientele . . . on being able to attract the right sort of people. If something happens to affect that . . . my boss will kill me and
I’ll
lose my job . . .”

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Janey ran her tongue over her teeth and swallowed. “Excuse me,” she said, pushing past him.

“Janey,” he said, following her out of the restaurant and onto the street. “Don’t blame me. If I had my choice, I wouldn’t care if you ate here every day. But Jenny Cadine’s publicist is in a snit—she doesn’t want the name of her precious client to appear in the same paragraph as ‘the Model Prostitute.’ ”

“Well, now she’s guaranteed it.”

“Janey!” Wesley called after her. He was rubbing his arms and jumping up and down in an attempt to stay warm. “I don’t want to be in this situation any more than you do. But I can’t afford to lose my job.”

“I understand,” Janey said.

She turned. She wasn’t sure where she was or which direction was home; all she knew was that she had to keep her head high and her eyes wide open. Staring straight in front of her, she began walking, and in a moment Patty came running up from behind and caught up with her.

“Oh Janey!” she cried breathlessly.

Janey turned her head. She looked at Patty as if she’d completely forgotten that she was there, and Patty saw that her eyes were glistening with tears. Her heart went out to her only sister; she wanted to hug her and comfort her, and reassure her that somehow, everything was going to be okay. But Janey didn’t even pause. She just kept walking stiffly on and on, as if she’d been walking for a long time across an endless desert, and had forgotten how to stop. And then she said: “You see, Patty?

It’s what I was trying to explain to you at lunch. I won’t
let
them stop me. I won’t
let
them bring me down.”

“But
Janey
. . . ,” Patty said in despair.

“
Especially
not now,” Janey said.

“I went out today,” Janey said to Selden.

She was naked in the tub under a pile of soap bubbles. A row of small scented candles was lined up neatly along the edge.

“Yes, I know,” Selden said blandly. He was trying to keep the creeping anger out of his voice, but he wondered how much more he could take. He’d had plenty of bad days, but this one just might qualify as the worst: First there was the lunch with Victor Matrick, and now this. Jerry Grabaw had called him at three o’clock that afternoon—he’d had a call from one of the columnists at Page Six, who’d already heard about the incident at Dingo’s, he explained. And now they were going to run the story on the front page of the
Post
tomorrow.

“You know?” Janey asked. She could barely, Selden thought, even bother to register surprise anymore.

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“Jerry called me,” he said.

“Oh.”

He left the bathroom and went into the bedroom to change his clothes. Every night was the same now, and, in an ironic way, he supposed he’d finally gotten what he wanted: They stayed at home and ordered in take-out food or room service and watched TV. “What do you think you want for dinner tonight?” he called out to her.