And so, around about February, when it was time to start thinking about summer houses, Janey began putting the word out.
“I’m looking for my own house this summer,” she said, flipping her long hair over her shoulder and standing with her hip pushed out, to the various rich men she ran into at restaurants and parties. “I’ve decided it’s time to grow up.” The rich men laughed and made suggestive comments like “Don’t grow up too much,” but not one of them took the bait. Janey was hoping that someone would say they had a carriage house where Janey could stay for free, but the only one who offered anything was Allison.
“You could share my house,” Allison said eagerly. They had just arrived at a dinner for a European fashion designer who was trying to stage a comeback in New York.
“That’s not the point,” Janey said, moving forward to allow the photographers to take her picture while Allison moved to the side; luckily, Allison had been on the scene long enough to understand that her presence in a photograph would likely render it unpublishable.
“I just don’t know what kind of summer I want to have,” Janey explained. “I might want to spend the whole summer reading books.”
Allison made a completely unnecessary gesture of choking on her cocktail. “Books? You? Janey Wilcox?”
“I do read books, Allison. Maybe you should try it sometime.”
Allison changed her tack. “Oh, I get it,” she said, sounding hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to share with Aleeka Norton.”
“I’m not sharing a house with Aleeka,” Janey said. Aleeka Norton was a beautiful black model whom Janey considered a “friend” even though she only saw her a couple of times a year at the fashion shows. Aleeka, who was Janey’s age, was writing a novel, and when people asked her what she did, she always said, “I’m a writer,” like they were really stupid to think that she might be anything less, like a model. This approach seemed to get Aleeka a lot more respect from men. Joel Webb, the art collector, had actually lent Aleeka his little three-bedroom house for the summer so she would have a quiet place to work. And he didn’t even want to have sex with her. True, the house was basically a shack, but the one thing Janey had learned after the Redmon summer was if you had to be in a shack, you were better off being in your own shack.
“Allison,” Janey hissed, moving through the crowd. “Haven’t you noticed? Something happens when you get into your thirties. People catch on to your shit. Especially men. It’s important to look like you’re doing something, even if you’re not.”
“But Redmon wasn’t like that,” Allison said.
Janey looked at her. Poor Allison. She had a huge crush on Redmon, having read all his books and fantasized that deep down, Redmon was like the men he put into his novels: sensitive, misunderstood, and looking for the love of one good woman.
“Redmon lives in a dream world,” Janey said.
“He was nice to you. Really nice,” Allison said.
Janey smiled. She sipped her martini. “He was a loser,” she said.
The Redmon summer, which was supposed to be the Zack summer, spent in Zack’s amazing house, Janey thought bitterly, was one of the worst summers in years.
“Well, at least Redmon was better than Zack. You have to admit that,” Allison said.
Janey took another sip of her martini. She kept her face impassive. Zack! Every time she heard his name, she wanted to scream. But it wouldn’t do for Allison to know that.
“Zack Manners,” Janey said. She smiled and waved at someone across the room. “I haven’t thought about him for months.”
The very first thing Zack had done last summer, after Janey dumped him and went with Redmon, was to immediately begin dating some Russian model whose name no one could remember, but whom Zack insisted on practically fucking every time they were in public. Janey had consoled herself with the fact that everybody knew that the Russian “model” was really a prostitute. But then she screwed things up when she bumped into Zack coming out of the bathroom at a club. She was a little drunk, and she sneered, “I see you’re with your whore.”
Zack laughed. “Yeah,” he said, “But she’s honest about it. She admits to what she is. Why don’t you?” Janey had taken a step forward and raised her hand as if to slap him, but she stumbled a little and had to steady herself against the wall. Zack had laughed again and lit a cigarette. “Why don’t you get a life, baby?” he said.
The summer went steadily downhill from there.
It was all Zack’s fault. She and Redmon went to a beach party on Flying Point Road, and as they walked across the sand, they spotted Zack Manners sitting on the wooden steps leading up to the house. It was the fifth time they’d gone to a party and run into Zack. “That’s it,” Redmon said on the drive back home. “I’m not going to any more parties. They’re all filled with assholes like Zack Manners. The Hamptons,” he said dramatically, “are over.” After that, he swore he wouldn’t leave the house, except to go to the supermarket, the beach, and his friends’ houses for dinner.
This might have been bearable, if it weren’t for Redmon’s own house.
Even calling it a house was pushing it. Despite being a mere thousand yards from the beach, there was no getting around the fact that the “house” was nothing more than a dirty shack. But the weirdest thing about it was how Redmon didn’t have a clue. “I think this house is as nice as any house I’ve ever been to in the Hamptons,” he said one afternoon, when Allison had stopped by for a “chat.” “It’s certainly as nice as the Westacotts’, don’t you think?” he said.
“It’s soooo charming,” Allison gushed. “It’s so hard to find these antique houses that haven’t been completely ruined.”
Janey was mystified. The shack couldn’t have been more than four hundred square feet (about the size of the master bedrooms in the houses she normally stayed in) and the roof looked like it was caving in. There was a broken window in the bedroom, which Redmon had taped over with a piece of newspaper from The New York Times—from August 1995. The galley kitchen contained stained appliances (the first time Janey opened the refrigerator, she had screamed), and the furnishings were sparse and uncomfortable—like the couch, which was one of those flat wooden-legged affairs that appeared to have been purchased at a tag sale. The bathroom was so tiny, there was no room for towels: When they came back from the beach, they had to throw their towels on the bushes outside the house to dry.
“Actually, Redmon,” Janey said. “I would have thought you could do better than this.”
“Better?” Redmon said. “I love this house. I’ve been renting it for fifteen years. This house is like my home. What’s wrong with this house?” he demanded.
“Are you insane?” Janey asked.
“Redmon is so cool,” Allison said when Redmon went back into the house. They were sitting in the tiny backyard at the picnic table; Redmon’s only other concession to lawn furniture was two moldy, ripped folding chairs.
“Please,” Janey said. She put her hand over her eyes. “All he talks about is how the Hamptons are filled with assholes and he wants to have a real life and be with real people. He doesn’t understand that those assholes are real people. I keep telling him if he doesn’t like it, he should move to Des Moines.”
That was the problem with Redmon. His perceptions about life were totally off. One evening, when he was cooking pasta (his specialties were pasta primavera and blackened redfish—he had learned to cook in the eighties and had never progressed), he said to her, “You know, Janey, I’m a millionaire.”
Janey was flipping through a fashion magazine. “That’s nice,” she said.
“Hell,” he said, pouring the pasta into a strainer that was missing one of its legs, causing the pasta to spill all over the sink, “I think it’s pretty amazing. How many writers do you know who are millionaires?”
“Well,” she said, “I actually know a lot of people who are billionaires.”
“Yeah, but they’re all . . . business people,” he said,
implying that business people were lower than cockroaches.
“So?” Janey said.
“So who gives a shit how much money you have if you don’t have a soul?”
The next day, on the beach, Redmon brought up his financial situation again.
“I figure that in another year or so, I’ll have two million dollars,” he said. “I’ll be able to retire. With two million, I could buy a seven-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar apartment in New York.”
Janey was rubbing herself was suntan lotion, and then, she couldn’t help it, she snorted. “You can’t buy an apartment in New York City for a million dollars,” she said.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he said, opening a beer.
“Okay, you could buy an apartment, but it would be, like, a really small two-bedroom. Maybe with no doorman.”
“So?” Redmon said, taking a chug. “What the hell’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” Janey said, “If you don’t mind being poor.”
For the rest of the afternoon, he would only give yes or no answers every time she tried to make conversation. Then, when they were back in the shack, making nachos, he slammed the oven door. “I’d hardly call two million dollars being poor,” he said.
I would, Janey thought, but she said nothing.
“I mean, Jesus Christ, Janey,” he said. “What the hell is your problem? Isn’t two million dollars good enough for you?”
“Oh, Redmon. It’s not that,” she said.
“Well, what the hell is it?” he asked, handing her a plate of nachos. “I mean, I don’t see you bringing in a lot of dough. What is it you want? You hardly work and you don’t take care of a husband and children . . . . Even Helen Westacott takes care of her kids, no matter what you might think about her . . . .”
Janey spread a tiny paper napkin on her lap. He was right. What was it she wanted? Why wasn’t he good enough? She took a bite of nacho and burned her mouth on the cheese. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, geez, Janey,” Redmon said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry I yelled. Come here,” he said. “Let me give you a hug.”
“I’m okay,” she said, wiping the tears away. She didn’t want Redmon to know that what she was crying about was the prospect of spending every summer for the rest of her life in this shack.
“Hey,” he said. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we go by the Westacotts’ for a drink? I’m sure they’re still up. It’s only ten o’clock.”
“Whatever,” Janey said.
It was still the beginning of the summer then.
Bill and Helen Westacott were Redmon’s very best friends. Redmon insisted on seeing them practically every weekend, which made, as far as Janey was concerned, what ended up happening, really his fault. She had tried her best to avoid it. Had, in fact, refused to see them again after the first time they had dinner together. But it was no good. The next weekend, Redmon had simply gone to dinner without her, leaving her behind in the shack, where she swatted at mosquitoes all night and wondered if spending the summer in the city would really be that bad. But when she’d gone back to the city on Monday, her apartment wasn’t air-conditioned and cockroaches had taken over the kitchen. She decided it was easier to give in.
Bill Westacott was a famous screenwriter who had written five hit movies in the past seven years. Unlike Redmon, he truly was a rich writer, and he and his wife, Helen, and their two sons lived on a fifteen-acre “farm” off of Route 27. They’d been living in the Hamptons for about five years, being part of a trend of married couples with children who had chucked city life and moved full-time to the country. They had horses and servants as well as a pool and tennis court, and being able to hang out at their house for part of the weekends would have almost salvaged the summer. There was only one problem: the Westacotts themselves.
Bill Westacott was arrogant and angry and immature, while Helen Westacott was . . . well, there was only one word for Helen: crazy.
Janey wished Redmon had warned her about Helen’s insanity before they went to their house for dinner the first time, but he hadn’t. Instead, in his typical clueless Redmon manner, he banged on and on about what he perceived to be their amazing attributes: Helen was from “one of the best” families in Washington and her father had been a senator; Bill’s mother had been an actress who was now married to a famous actor; Bill had gone to Harvard (he himself, he reminded her, had gone to Yale—he and Bill met in a bar after a famous Harvard-Yale football game and had taken swings at each other); Helen had won a literary prize for her first novel, which she wrote when she was twenty-five. Janey was going to love them. They were one of the coolest couples in the world.
About the very first thing that happened when they pulled up to the Westacotts’ house in Redmon’s rented Dodge Charger, was that Bill Westacott was standing in the freshly graveled driveway, smoking a cigar with his arms folded across his chest.
Redmon rolled down his window. “Hey Bi. . .” he started to say, but before he could finish, Bill had charged up to the car and stuck his head in the window. He was a large, good-looking man with a full head of gorgeous, curly blond hair. “Shit, man. I’m glad you’re here. Or I think I am. I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or a bad thing.”
“What’s the problem?” Redmon asked.
“The Gorgon is in one of her moods,” Bill said.
Janey got out of the car. She was wearing a tight-fitting Lycra top, which had cost about five hundred dollars and was slit halfway down to her navel, no bra, and tight-fitting orange capri pants.
“Hello,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Janey.”
“Oh shit, man,” Bill said, swiveling his head around as if he were looking for a place to hide. “This is not good.”
“Helloooo . . .” Janey said.
Bill took a few steps back. “I know who you are, okay?” he said. “You’re that dangerous woman.”
“What’s wrong with me?” Janey said.
“What’s wrong with her?” Bill said, turning to Redmon. “You bring this chick who stands here asking what’s wrong with her? For starters, what’s wrong with you is you’re a woman, okay? Which means that you are genetically insane, inane, and will probably be up my ass in about thirty seconds over some kind of bullshit I have no control over and can’t do anything about. Should I go on?”
“Are you on drugs?” Janey asked.
Redmon laughed and put his arm around her. “That’s Bill’s way of saying he likes you. He’s terrified of beautiful women.”
“Well, Bill,” Janey said, unable to help herself, “you sure have a funny way of showing it.”
“Don’t get smart with me,” Bill said, pointing his cigar at her. “I know what you’re up to. I know all your tricks. I work in Hollywood, remember?”
“Janey’s not really an actress,” Redmon said, taking her hand and squeezing it.
Janey leaned a little bit against him. “I’m a . . . personality,” she said.
They went into the house. “Hey Helen,” Bill bellowed. “Come and meet Redmon’s . . . personality.”
Helen Westacott was small and dark and skinny with tiny, even features—you could see that she’d probably once been beautiful. “Oh,” she said despondently, looking at Janey. “Oh.” She went over to Redmon and gave him a kiss. She patted his chest. “Oh Redmon,” she said. “When are you going to find a nice girl and get married? Nothing against you,” she said to Janey. “I don’t even know you, and my husband is always telling me that I shouldn’t say things about people that aren’t nice who I don’t know, but guess what? I do it anyway. And you don’t look like a nice girl. You look like a girl who would steal one of my friend’s husbands.”
There was silence. Janey looked around the living room, which was really quite beautiful with its large white couches and oriental rugs, and French doors that opened out onto a patio, beyond which you could see a horse pasture. It was really a shame, Janey thought. Why was it always people like
this that had these kinds of beautiful summer houses?
“C’mon, Helen,” Redmon said, as if he were dealing with a small, confused child. “Janey is a nice girl.”
“No she isn’t,” Helen said stubbornly.
“Hey Hel,” Bill said, puffing on his cigar. “What do you care who Redmon fucks?”
At first, Janey figured that she could have almost gotten used to Helen (it wasn’t her fault she was insane, Redmon explained, and Bill would have divorced her except that he’d promised her family he wouldn’t), but she couldn’t deal with Bill.
He seemed to have a deep, unexplained hatred for her. Or for women like her, anyway. Every time Janey saw him, he would invariably launch into some kind of diatribe that was apropos of nothing. “All of your type think they know more than they do,” he’d say, “and you berate men, and berate men, and use your tits and your pussy”—there was something about the way he said “pussy” that made Janey wince with excitement—“to get what you want and then you put the man down for having used you.”
“Excuse me,” Janey would say, “but have I ever met you before?”
“Probably,” he’d say. “But you wouldn’t remember, would you?” And Janey would turn away and sip some red wine and look over her glass at Redmon, who would look over at her and wink, thinking this was all great fun and wasn’t everyone having a terrific time?
And then the inevitable happened.
It must have been well into July that first night that Bill followed her into the bathroom. She must have known that he was going to follow her, because she’d left the door unlocked and had peed quickly and was leaning over the sink, applying lipstick, when the door handle turned. Bill slipped in and quickly shut the door behind him.
“Hello,” Janey said nonchalantly.
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