by Robyn Sisman
She was sitting at the computer, looking studious. It almost made him smile to see how quickly she snatched off the reading glasses that she so hated to be seen wearing. She jumped up and came across the room to him. “What’s the story?”
“She wouldn’t talk to me.” He flopped into an armchair.
Betsy looked at him thoughtfully. “Lloyd, you know you could find that this is a blessing in disguise. You could take a job somewhere else. I never thought Schneider Fox appreciated you as they should. Lots of men are on the board by the time they’re your age.”
“Betsy,” Lloyd said patiently, “think! Who in the entire advertising industry is going to employ someone who’s passed on a client’s secrets to its biggest rival?”
“But you didn’t.” There was a long pause. “Did you? Because if you did, you know I’d forgive you, darling.” She thought some more. “Maybe the rival would hire you.”
“Of course I didn’t do it!” Lloyd banged the arm of the chair with his fist, hard enough to make her spring back. “For fuck’s sake,” he shouted, “I don’t even know exactly what they think I did.”
“OK,” she said at last, in a small, wounded voice. “There’s no need to use language.”
Lloyd scoured his hand back and forth through his hair. “There must be some crucial misunderstanding. If I could only think straight, I might be able to figure out what it is.”
His gaze veered wildly around the room, as if for inspiration. But all he saw were the tall books on art and design sloping this way and that on the bookshelves, the metal lamp with the loose connection that made it flicker, Fred Astaire tap dancing—all the strange, funny landmarks of someone else’s life that had now become partly his own. He stood up. “Let’s go home. I’ll look for another job. We could move to another city—Chicago, Seattle.” He strode toward the telephone. “We could be on a plane tonight.”
“But we can’t go now!”
“Why not?” Lloyd snatched up the receiver, desperate to take positive action.
Betsy was staring in amazement, almost laughing at him as if he were deranged. “Have you forgotten Mother?” she asked, in a gentle, reproving voice. “You know she’s arriving next week. She’s been looking forward to this trip so much. We can’t disappoint her.”
Betsy was standing next to him now, holding out her hand for the receiver. He gave it to her without comment. But somewhere deep within him a fire began to kindle and take hold. He paced around the room, straightening books, fiddling with objects on the mantelpiece, feeling caged and frustrated, wanting to lash out.
“Written any great prose today?” He peered at her computer screen. “Let’s see, what have we here?”
“Don’t look,” Betsy said sharply. “It’s private.”
“‘Silver (sterling), crown pattern, eight settings,’ ” Lloyd read aloud. “‘Spode china, Greek key pattern, eight settings. Double sheets . . . Oxford edged pillowcases . . . electric waffle-maker’ . . .” He felt the flames leap and roar. “Don’t tell me you’ve found Jane Austen’s long-lost shopping list?”
Betsy reached around him and tapped a few keys. The screen went blank. “I just thought we should get our wedding list in at Bloomingdale’s. They get so busy at this time of year.”
Lloyd thought his head might explode. He grabbed Betsy’s shoulders. “Betsy, I have lost my job. No job means no money.” He gave her a shake. “Don’t you understand? The way things are going right now, there isn’t going to be a wedding!”
Chapter Twenty
Suze frowned dubiously at the scratched and peeling door, then stepped back to peer up at the square, red-brick building. It looked like an abandoned factory. Could anyone really live here? She double-checked the address on her piece of paper, gave a shrug and pressed the bell.
Almost at once, the entryphone crackled. “That you, Suze?” It was Jay’s voice, all right. “Come on up! Fifth floor.”
Suze pushed open the door and crossed a bare, concrete hallway to the elevator. It was the industrial type, with heavy mesh gates you had to close yourself. I hope he doesn’t ask me about Lloyd, she thought, as she clanked slowly upward.
It had been a terrible day at work. The shocked atmosphere had hit her as soon as she’d entered the office that morning, and when she saw the memo from Bernie waiting on her desk she understood its cause.
Lloyd Rockwell’s employment with the company has been terminated following the disclosure of a conflict of professional interest. On lawyers’ advice, employees are instructed not to communicate with Rockwell, or to answer questions from the press. I know I can rely on your cooperation.
Poor Dee Dee had been in tears. Suze was jolly upset herself, at the thought that her job-exchange might be cut short. No way was she leaving New York. For the moment, she could only assume that Lloyd was staying on in London: thank goodness, otherwise she’d be kipping on somebody’s floor by now. Or sleeping in Nick’s bed . . .
When she pushed back the elevator doors she found Jay waiting for her in an open doorway, wearing disgraceful jeans, snow-white sneakers and a T-shirt with the words “WHY ME?” printed in giant black letters. The very sight of him cheered her up.
“Hi,” he said, giving her a casual kiss. “You look like you need a drink.” He stepped back to let her in and Suze entered one of the most extraordinary rooms she had ever seen. In fact, it wasn’t a room, but a double-height space about twenty times the size of her London flat, with a row of big, square windows that offered glorious snapshot views of Manhattan. The really wild thing, however, was that every surface was covered with plates, posters, statues, ash-trays, lamps, bric-a-brac of every description—all showing the image of one man.
“Crikey!”
“Welcome,” said Jay, “to the world’s largest collection of JFK memorabilia.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Possibly the world’s only collection.”
“I knew there must be a reason why I liked you, Jay. You are seriously bonkers.”
Jay shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m the obsessive type. I was born the day Kennedy got shot. Take a look around, if you want, while I get us something to drink. How about some ice-cold Chardonnay?”
“Heaven.”
Suze dropped her handbag on a chair, slipped out of her uncomfortable work shoes and started snooping around. Off the tennis-court-sized central space were various antechambers—a small kitchen, a large bathroom, an enormous bedroom, and various walk-in closets. At the far end, a door led into another vast space that was clearly Jay’s studio, crammed with cameras, cans of film, reflectors and expensive-looking editing equipment. There were desks and telephones and at least two dark rooms. On the walls were classic film posters and framed awards. Suze was impressed. It looked like a serious operation.
“Wine coming up!” Jay shouted to her.
She crossed back over the smooth parquet and sank into a white sofa by the window. Jay handed her a large glass. She took a sip and uttered a groan of pleasure.
Jay sat down in a chair opposite her and stretched out his legs. “So tell me,” he asked, “how was the big date?”
“Sensational. Jay, I can’t begin to tell you.”
“Try.”
So Suze tried, and Jay listened as she told him how handsome Nick was, how stylish, how witty, how considerate—
“Did the rubber dress go down well?”
“Oh, it went down all right.” Suze smirked.
“This guy Nick sounds perfect. I wish I was going out with him.”
“Hands off!” They laughed. “Jay . . . do you think it’s possible to fall in love with someone you don’t really know?”
“It’s possible.”
“I really think I might be in love with him. He’s so . . . well, he’s just so everything.”
“I can see he’s got a lot going for him.”
“I honestly think he might be The One . . .” Suze burbled on happily while they sipped their drinks, watching the sun set fire to the buildings one by one
. Gradually her disgruntled, nervy feeling slipped away, to be replaced by one of supercharged bonhomie. She sank back into the cushions, wriggling her toes.
“Do you live here alone?”
“Usually. Sometimes a boyfriend stays for a while.” Jay grimaced at the word. “Have you noticed how the word ‘boyfriend’ has acquired a new meaning these days? It used to be that young girls had boyfriends, whom they married one day, at which point the boyfriends became husbands. Then everyone stopped marrying, gays started coming out, and it got to be embarrassing to call the forty-year-old man you’d been living with for ten years your ‘boyfriend,’ and we made up all these new words, ‘partner,’ ‘lover,’ ‘significant other.’ Nowadays ‘boyfriend’ means a bit of fun, nothing serious, someone for a night or a week or the occasional bedfest—for men and women both. A boyfriend is by definition someone whom you will absolutely not marry.” He shot her a sudden, probing look. “So what about Nick? Is he a boyfriend?”
His question threw her into confusion. Suze drank some more wine. “I’m not really into marriage.”
“Good answer!” Jay chuckled at the evasion, reading her thoughts. He stood up. “Let’s go eat, before I turn into a sociology professor.”
“Hooray!”
“Are you feeling brave?”
“Completely reckless.”
“OK, leave it to me.”
Jay took her around the corner to a small Japanese restaurant, where he mysteriously ordered “a boat for two.” When it arrived, Suze gasped. Nestled inside a huge wicker tray, which was indeed boat-shaped, were exquisitely arranged rolls of raw fish, vegetables cut into stars and flowers, seaweed parcels and transparent, pale pink slices of ginger. She seized her chopsticks with a moan of greed.
“So, how are things at Schneider Fox?” asked Jay.
Suze squirmed. She didn’t feel like telling him about Lloyd just yet.
“Well, you know I’m working on a special project with Sheri.”
“Oh, yeah, the famous Sheri.”
“Yes.” Suze folded her lips. “Jay, I don’t expect you to understand this, but she’s a wonderful person to work with. She’s so strong and assertive and focused. And she really relies on me. It’s very . . . empowering.” Only this morning Sheri had confided to her how they needed to pull out all the stops to convince Passion to stay, now that Lloyd had gone. They were making a presentation to Passion in only ten days. “I cannot do this without you,” Sheri had said.
“And the best thing about her,” Suze went on, “is that she doesn’t take any shit from the men at the top.”
“Really? How about Bernie? What does she take from him?”
Suze flushed. “You don’t understand her at all,” she told him coldly.
There was an awkward silence while they picked at the fish.
“Suze,” Jay began gently, “isn’t it about time you told me about Lloyd?”
Suze was shocked. She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, playing for time. “You mean, you know—about his being sacked?”
“Of course I know. He’s my best friend. He called me this morning to tell me about it.”
Suze poked at a heap of ginger, feeling irritable. If he’d known all along, why hadn’t he said anything? “So what did he tell you?”
“That he’s been accused of passing confidential client information to a rival company.”
Suze sniffed. “And I suppose he denies it?”
“Of course he does.”
“Well, I happen to know that he did it.” She shook back her hair, avoiding his eye. Sheri had told her that morning about the Tony Salvino call.
Jay began to look angry. “How do you know?”
Suze was getting really irritated now. “I just do. I’m not supposed to be talking to you about this. Anyway,” she went on, “what I say is, if Lloyd can’t keep his hands to himself when it comes to women, why should he when it comes to work?”
Jay slapped his chopsticks on the table. “What the fuck do you know about Lloyd and women?”
“Don’t shout at me.” Suze was almost in tears. “Sheri told me herself that Lloyd had pounced on her in a taxi.”
“Oh, well,” said Jay sarcastically, “if Sheri says so . . .”
Suze was quiet for a moment. She knew she was right, but she could see that her words hurt Jay. “Why would Sheri make it up?” she asked, in a reasonable voice. “Look, I’ve never even met Lloyd. As far as I’m concerned he can shag anyone he likes. I just know that the evidence proves that he is guilty.”
“Suze, Lloyd is the last person in the world who would do something like this, because . . . Oh, what’s the use?”
Suze was desperate not to let the evening end on a bad note. “Because of what? Tell me.”
“Why should I? You don’t care about him.” He rose to his feet. “Come on, let’s go.”
As they were leaving the restaurant, Jay said, “Lloyd doesn’t have a crooked bone in his body. His problem, if he has a problem, is that he’s too straight.”
Later that night Suze lay in bed thinking about what Jay had said. Whatever Lloyd might or might not have done, he had a true friend in Jay—someone who would fight for him when he was down. Suze could see why anyone would like Jay, but she didn’t know what Jay saw in Lloyd. Men were such a mystery. Abruptly her thoughts switched to Nick. After the Hollandaise sauce rigmarole, he had phoned—late—to say he wasn’t coming. A rock star had turned up unexpectedly and needed entertaining for the evening: Suze would understand, when he told her who it was. Actually, Suze had not been particularly understanding, but Nick’s charm had worn down her resistance, and she had let him coax her into agreeing to a weekend together—this weekend.
She hugged herself with excited anticipation, imagining how it would be. They were going to a little seaside place Nick knew. She would have him all to herself, away from the distractions of the city: two simple people enjoying simple pleasures. They would swim and sail and eat lobster, then climb the stairs of some rickety old inn to make love in the breezy muslin tent of a four-poster bed. She couldn’t wait.
Chapter Twenty-one
“So how did you do yours?”
“I guess you’d call it plantation style. Gone With the Wind meets Out of Africa. Lots of wicker. I can give you my decorator’s name if you want.”
“Thanks, but I couldn’t desert Helga. She’s so creative. I was thinking of a Citizen Kane-type office thing, but she feels ancient Rome is more me.”
“My wife would like that. She adores ruins.”
“Kitty? Is she here?”
“Hell, no. I married Carla Gland last fall. Kitty’s living up in Malibu with her spiritual adviser. This alimony thing really hurts, huh?”
“Tell me about it.”
Suze gave a small, desperate cough. She was standing on the crowded porch where Nick had left her, sandwiched between two men with silver hair and glowing suntans, combined age about 150, she reckoned, but in a frightening state of artificial youthfulness.
“Are you redecorating your houses?” she asked brightly.
Their faded eyes, sculpted boyishly open, assessed her without interest. “Our jets.”
“Oh dear,” said Suze. “I think I must be at the wrong party.”
Retreating, she squeezed her way through the linen jackets and little black dresses, past bare, tanned backs and defiantly patterned shirts, until she reached the steps, where she balanced her drink on the wooden balustrade and looked out. Cocktail time in East Hampton: quite a sight.
Before her stretched a lawn decorated with knots of beautiful, chattering people and shadowed by the cupolas and pediments of the vast white mansion at her back. Beyond the grass was a strip of sand swept to pale perfection by waves that had rolled three thousand miles from the coast of Portugal. Everything in view boasted money—the rich green of the grass, the clipped hedges that screened an Olympic-size swimming pool, the silent servants proffering toothpicked delicacies. Even the sea itself, lit by a low
evening sun, looked like molten gold.
Nick had picked her up from Schneider Fox shortly after lunch. Sheri had been surprisingly relaxed about letting Suze go early—encouraging, even. “It will be an experience,” she had said, with a knowing lift of her eyebrows that Suze found faintly disconcerting. Nick drove a red two-seater convertible with the air-conditioning on and the top firmly closed against Manhattan’s sticky, debilitating heat. The traffic, he warned, would be unspeakable; certainly it seemed to make him uncommunicative and edgy. But for Suze, joining the mass weekend exodus made her feel like a real New Yorker. As they crossed the East River, she had looked back at the city, scorched brown under a smothering sky, and felt excitement rise.
Slowly they had sloughed off the clutter of suburbs and industrial complexes. The roads narrowed. Color leached into the landscape. Manhattan’s murky waters brightened to a true ocean blue. Suze began to see place-names that sounded vaguely Indian—Patchogue, Napeague, Montauk. For the last few miles Nick had put the top down and they sailed through hedged lanes, past antique shops and roadside fruit stalls, tooting at bicyclists. There were smartly railed horse farms and cutely restored windmills to lend a rural gloss, but Suze did not take long to realize that Long Island was not exactly “the country,” more a vast holiday resort. Her fantasy of a quiet seaside village faded and was eclipsed altogether when they turned at last off the lane and entered what was evidently a grand private estate. She could hear the whisper of banknotes in the hush of cooling trees, the hiss of tires on the smooth driveway and the crunch of gravel as they parked outside a row of small clapboard houses, painted Shaker blue.
On the drive out, Nick had explained that they would be staying the weekend as guests of a man called Shrine Wackfest.
“Who?” Suze giggled.
“Shrine Wackfest is one of the wealthiest men in the United States,” Nick continued, with a hint of disapproval at her irreverent laughter, “and a fabulously generous patron of the arts. Without him, Herb Damon would be nobody.”