Four Blondes

by Candace Bushnell

  “Only if I get to live in it,” Janey said.

  “Interesting proposition,” Zack said.

  Janey went upstairs to the bathroom. Her heart was thumping. Zack Manners was the huge English record producer. She stood in line for the bathroom. Redmon Richardly came up behind her. “I want him,” Janey said.

  “Who? Zack?” He laughed. “You and a million other women all over the world.”

  “I don’t care,” Janey said. “I want him. And he’s looking for a house in the Hamptons.”

  “Well . . . you . . . can’t . . . have . . . him,” Redmon said.

  “Why not?” Janey stamped her foot.

  Redmon put his arms around her like he was going to kiss her. He could do things like that and get away with it. “Come home with me tonight.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’d be fun.”

  “I’m not interested in fun.”

  “Ditch that geek you’re with and come home with me. What are you doing with a geek like that, anyway? I don’t care if he’s famous. He’s still a geek.”

  “Yeah, well, being with a geek like that makes men like you more interested in me.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “I want to have a good summer,” Janey said. “With Zack.”

  Janey and Alan left half an hour later, after Alan accidentally spilled two martinis. On their way out, they passed Redmon’s table. Janey casually slipped her hand into the back pocket of Alan’s jeans. Then she looked over her shoulder at Zack.

  “Call me later,” Redmon said loudly.

  II

  Janey Wilcox heard about Harold Vane, the billionaire, in the bathroom of a club. That was two years ago, and even though Harold had turned out to be a little squeaker of a man, with his shiny round head and his ever-shiny shoes (he made the servants polish his Docksiders to a high sheen), he was one of the best summers. “I’ve got to find a man for the summer,” Janey was complaining to her friend Allison when a voice from one of the stalls shouted out, “Harold Vane.”

  Harold had a stucco mansion on Gin Lane in Southampton. There was a long green lawn in front of the house, and a shorter green lawn in the back, edging down to the dunes and the beach. There was a sit-down lunch with wine and two courses on both Saturday and Sunday, a cook, and a man called Skaaden who mixed cocktails and discreetly served the food from silver platters. The grounds could be entered only through a wrought-iron gate with the letter “H” on one side and “V” on the other. Harold had a security man who dressed like a gardener but carried a gun.

  “Don’t you worry that one of these guys is going to figure out what you’re up to?” Allison asked. This was at the beginning of the Harold summer, when Janey had invited Allison (who had a share in a tiny house in Bridgehampton) over for the day.

  “What do you mean?” Janey asked, thinking about the gardener.

  “Using them. For their summer houses.”

  “I’m a feminist,” Janey said. “It’s about the redistribution of wealth.” They were lying on chaises by the pool, and Skaaden kept bringing them glasses of iced tea.

  “Where is Harold, anyway?” Allison asked. She had bulging gray eyes—no matter how you made her up, she would never be pretty, Janey thought. She had been waiting for Allison to ask the question. Allison was a sort of professional best friend to the rich and famous; as soon as she left, she’d probably call up everybody and tell them she’d been lunching at Harold Vane’s house, and that they were now good friends. In fact, Janey expected that after she and Harold broke up at the end of the summer, Allison would continue to pursue his friendship. She’d invite him for drinks, and when she saw him at parties, she’d put her hand on his arm and whisper jokes in his ear to make him laugh.

  “Harold’s on the crapper,” Janey said. She had a soft, girlish voice, and despite her stunning face and figure, she knew her voice was really her secret weapon—it allowed her to say anything and get away with it. “He spends an hour on the crapper every evening before he goes out, and on weekends, an hour in the morning and an hour in the late afternoon. It really cuts into the day. Last weekend we basically missed a book party because he wouldn’t get off the can.”

  “What does he do in there?”

  Janey shrugged. “I don’t know. Shits. Reads. Although how it can take a person an hour to shit, I don’t know. I keep telling him it’s not good for his intestines.”

  “It’s probably the only time he can get away from everything.”

  “Oh, no,” Janey said. “He has a phone and e-mail in there.” She looked at Allison. “Forget I said that, okay?” She could just imagine Allison going around to dinners telling people that Harold Vane spent an hour on the crapper while he talked on the phone and sent e-mails, and it made her feel guilty. After all, Harold had never done or said anything even remotely unpleasant to her, and she was actually a little bit in love with him.

  That was the surprising thing about Harold. She couldn’t bring herself to have sex with him at first—but after they’d finally done it, the second Saturday after Memorial Day, she’d wondered why she’d waited so long. Harold was commanding in bed. He told her what he wanted her to do and how to position herself (later on in the summer, he shaved off all her pubic hair and told her to sunbathe naked), and he had a huge penis.

  His unmentionable was so large, in fact, that all during that summer, when other women came up to her to ask her if it was true she was really dating Harold (this seemed to happen most in the ladies’ rooms at the various trendy Hamptons restaurants they frequented), Janey would roll up her lipstick and say confidentially that his willy was so enormous, the first time she saw it she told him there was no way he was going to put that thing in her. Then she would go back to lipsticking her open mouth. It might have been a little off color to talk about Howard’s willy, but on the other hand, Janey felt she was doing him a favor—when she broke up with him, it would make it easier for him to get other women.

  Not that he seemed to have any trouble. Harold was like everybody’s Santa Claus. Old girlfriends were constantly calling, offering to fix him up with their friends, and Harold was always doling out advice, and sending these women little gifts to help them get through their crises—cell phones and computers and even paying for private nursery school for the child of a woman who’d had the kid out of wedlock. On Janey’s first Hamptons weekend, he had pulled her by the hand out to his garage. “I want you to have your freedom this summer,” he said. “I can tell that you’re a girl who likes her freedom.”

  “You’re right,” Janey said.

  “Otherwise, you’d be married by now,” he said. He opened the side door to the garage and they went down three steps. He was behind her, and when she was at the bottom, he jerked her around and fastened his lips on hers and stuck his tongue in her mouth. It took Janey by surprise, and she sort of remembered flailing her arms around like a live insect impaled by a pin. But the kiss wasn’t bad.

  “Just a little something to get your motor running,” he said. Then he pushed past her and turned on the light. “Pick the car you want to drive this summer,” he said. There was a Range Rover and two Mercedeses, one a 550 coupe and the other an SL convertible. “There’s only one rule. You can’t change your mind in the middle of the summer. I don’t want you coming to me and saying, ‘I want to drive the Rover’ when you’ve already chosen the Mercedes.”

  “What if I don’t like any of them,” Janey said. “What if I want a Maserati.”

  “I don’t want you to get too spoiled,” Harold said. “You’ll end up hating me because no other guy is ever going to treat you as nice.”

  “That’s probably true,” she said, touching him affectionately on the nose with her index finger.

  “Why don’t you marry him,” Allison kept hissing all summer.

  “Oh no, I couldn’t,” Janey said. “I couldn’t marry a man unless I was totally in love with him.”

  “I could be in love with him in two seconds,�
� Allison said.

  “Yes, you probably could,” Janey said, not bothering to add that Allison wasn’t anywhere near attractive enough to interest a man like Harold.

  Harold took Janey a little bit seriously. “Be smart,” he said. “Do something with your life. Let me help you.”

  Janey said she’d always wanted to do something important, like be a journalist or write a novel. So one Sunday, Harold invited a lady editor in chief to brunch. Harold always served cappuccino in oversized cups, and Janey remembered the lady editor, who was wearing a blue and white jacket in a swirly design, balancing the large cup on her thigh while they were sitting outside.

  “Janey wants to be a writer,” Harold said.

  “Oh my,” said the lady editor. She raised the cup to her lips. “Why is it that pretty girls always want to do something else?”

  “Come on, Maeve,” Harold roared. “You used to be pretty yourself. Before you got smart.”

  “And before you got rich,” Maeve said. “What is it you want to do, dear?”

  “I want your job,” Janey said, in that soft voice that gave no offense.

  When Janey and Harold broke up at the end of September, she actually cried on the street afterward. The breakup took place in his Park Avenue apartment—they arranged to meet there for a drink before going out to dinner. Harold was in the library. He was sipping a scotch, staring up at his prized Renoir. “Hello, crazy kid,” he said. He took her hand and led her to a red silk couch. “Something’s come up. I won’t be able to make it to dinner tonight.”

  “I see,” Janey said. She had an inkling of what was coming next.

  “It was wonderful spending time with you this summer,” he said. “But. . . .”

  “It’s over,” Janey said.

  “It’s not you,” said Harold. “It’s me. I don’t want to get married, and you should know that there’s another woman I’d like to start seeing.”

  “Please,” Janey said. She stood up. “I was going to break up with you tonight anyway. Isn’t that funny?”

  It was chilly, and she’d worn a lightweight blue silk coat. As Harold escorted her to the door, she saw Skaaden standing in the hallway with her coat over his arm. Harold had not only planned the breakup, he had discussed it with Skaaden beforehand. As Skaaden helped her into her coat, she imagined what Harold would have told him: “The young lady will be arriving for drinks, but leaving shortly thereafter. She may be upset, so be sure to have her coat ready,” and she smiled. “Good-bye Harold,” she said. She took his hand, but allowed him to kiss her on the cheek.

  She made it as far as the corner, then she leaned over a garbage can and started crying. She had a dialogue with herself: “Come on,” said one voice. “This has happened a million times before. You should be used to it.”

  “But it still hurts,” said the other voice.

  “Only a little. Harold was short and ugly and you never would have married him anyway. Besides, he spent an hour a day on the crapper.”

  “I loved him.”

  “Did not. You’re only upset because he was going to take you to Bouley for dinner and you wanted the fois gras.”

  A cab stopped in front of Harold’s building and a lanky blond girl got out. She was clutching a cheap leather bag. “My replacement,” Janey thought. The cab’s yellow light came on. Janey stuck out her hand and hailed it.

  Two weeks later, Harold messengered an envelope to her apartment. Inside was a note that read, “If you ever need anything, please call,” attached to a five-thousand-dollar gift certificate from Gucci.

  The next summer, when Janey was with Peter, she ran into Harold at a big party in East Hampton, thrown on a beachfront estate. The summer was only half over, but she’d developed an unusual and alarming hatred for Peter. At the beach, he either talked on his cell phone to clients or criticized other women’s bodies. His pet peeve was women over forty who’d had kids. “Look at her,” he’d scream. “Look at that belly. Useless. Why doesn’t she get off the beach?”

  “Oh Peter,” she’d say.

  “Oh Peter what? It’s in a man’s nature to be attracted to beautiful young girls. It’s instinctual. A man wants to sleep with as many beautiful young girls as possible. It’s all about reproduction.”

  Driving on the back roads in his Porsche, he’d say, “I’m a little crazy, Janey,” like he was proud of it. “Do you think I should go to a shrink?”

  “I think it would be totally useless,” Janey would say, and he’d laugh, taking it as a compliment, so by the time they arrived at the party, he’d have his hand on her leg. Then they’d walk, arms around each other, up somebody’s lawn or gravel pathway, laughing, smiling over their shoulders at the other guests. All the PR people knew them, so they didn’t even have to give their names at parties, and photographers took their picture. The summer was green and warm, and for those moments, anyway, it felt perfect.

  The Monday after Janey and Peter ran into Harold, Harold called.

  “I’m worried about you, Janey,” he said. “You’re a nice girl. You shouldn’t be with a guy like Peter.”

  “Why not?” she said.

  “He’s a creep.”

  “Oh Harold. You think every other guy is a creep.”

  “I’m serious, Janey,” Harold said. “I want to give you some advice. Maybe it’s not my place, but I’m going to give it to you anyway. Stop this running around and get married. You’re not the kind of girl who’s going to do something with her life, so marry a man you love and have his children.”

  “But I will do something, Harold.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Take my advice, Janey. You’re young now, and you’re beautiful. This is the time to find a real guy.”

  “Who?” Janey asked.

  “A nice young guy. A good-looking guy. I don’t know. I’ll fix you up with my architect. He’s thirty-three and wants to get married.”

  “No thanks,” Janey said, and laughed softly.

  The relationship with Peter went from bad to worse. It was partly the sex. Peter didn’t want to be touched, and could barely bring himself to touch her. They had sex once every three weeks. “Do you think maybe you’re gay?” Janey asked. She’d developed a habit of baiting him. “I’m going to find some hot young guy to have sex with. Men over forty really can’t perform, you know.” Then they’d get into a screaming argument in his house. One morning, Janey burned some toast, and he stormed into the kitchen and fished the burnt toast out of the garbage, scraped it off, and tried to make her eat it. She fed it to Gumdrop instead, who promptly threw up. Janey had fantasies of killing Peter, and wondered if she accidentally threw his cell-phone recharger into the pool, he’d be electrocuted.

  They’d make up because they always had parties to go to, and eventually, the summer passed.

  Moomba again. Janey sat by herself, sipping a martini at the bar. The bartender was young. He said, “I remember you in that movie. I’m embarrassed about this, but I used to masturbate to your picture.”

  “Good,” Janey said. “Then I guess I don’t need to give you a tip.”

  “This is on me,” he said, nodding at the martini. He leaned over the bar. “What are you doing now?”

  “Waiting for a friend,” she said, and turned away.

  She was willing Zack Manners to show up. She’d found she had this uncanny knack: If she willed something hard enough, it would happen. Instead, Redmon Richardly, the novelist, came in. He nodded at her, then walked all around the club to see who else was there. Then he came over.

  “Where’s Zack?” she asked.

  “How the hell should I know.”

  “I’m hoping he’ll show up.”

  “Forget about Zack,” Redmon said. “I’m the best you’re going to do tonight.”

  “I want Zack.”

  “Zack is a weirdo,” Redmon said. He ordered a scotch.

  “So are you.”

  “No, really a weirdo,” Redmon
said. “I’ve spent a lot of time with him in London. I know girls who have slept with him. You don’t want to get involved in that shit. It’s that weird Euro sex shit. It’s gross. It’s not American.”

  Then, sure enough, Zack did turn up. “Zack!” Redmon said. “We were just talking about you.”

  Zack was with some other people. “Come to the table,” he mouthed.

  After Zack’s group was seated, Janey went over and wedged a chair in next to Zack. “You again,” he said. “You look like one of those girls who’s everywhere. Are you a socialite?”

  Janey just smiled and sipped her drink. She knew she didn’t have to say anything. Eventually her looks would begin to affect him. She turned to the man on her other side. He was a little English fellow, eager to talk.

  “Are you going to the Hamptons too, this summer?” she asked.

  “No, but I’m fascinated by it. We don’t have anything like it in England. It sounds marvelous. All those movie stars fighting the traffic.”

  “I go every summer,” Janey said. “It’s wonderful.”

  “Will you be there this summer?”

  “Oh yes. I’m looking forward to having a really good summer this year.”

  Zack leaned over. “What is it with you and this ‘good summer’ business?” he asked. “Are you mentally impaired in some way that I should know about?”

  “Probably,” Janey said. She put down her drink. “I have to go,” she said. “Call me.”

  “I don’t call girls. I get in touch,” said Zack.

  “Then I’ll look forward to your ‘getting in touch,’” Janey said.

  Two days letter, Zack messengered an envelope to her apartment. Written on an engraved card was this brief missive: faney, would you like to meet for a drink? Please ring my secretary, who will give you the time and place. Regards, Zack.

  III

  Every five minutes during the Jitney ride out to the Hamptons on Memorial Day weekend, Janey wanted to stand up and scream, “I’m Janey Wilcox, the model, and I’m spending the weekend with Zack Manners, the English billionaire record producer. So fuck you. All of you,” just to make herself feel better. She was sitting in the front of the bus, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, trying to read The Sheltering Sky. But a niggling thought kept inserting itself into her brain, like a pencil point being pushed into Silly Putty: Zack Manners was not exactly there. He was not, as Janey liked to say, completely “in.” His invitation had been vague—he had left instructions with his secretary to inform Janey that they should meet “sixish” for drinks at The Palm in East Hampton on Friday evening. Janey wasn’t sure if the invitation extended to the weekend, and the uncertainty made her more excited about Zack than she had been about any man in a long time. The night before, she had gone to Moomba, and as the various men came by her table to pay their doting respects, Janey had said boldly, “Oh, yes, I’m wonderful. I’ve finally met a man I could fall madly in love with. He’s brilliant and funny and sexy.” And she said it in such a way as to imply that, while Zack was all those things, these other men decidedly were not.