by Jane Green
Charlie knew that Amanda wasn’t always as punctual as Charlie would have liked, and she sat her down and sternly told her it was unacceptable. That was at the point when Amanda actually listened to her instead of arguing back, and as far as Charlie knows, it didn’t happen again.
Then there is the issue of the locked doors. Amanda has a busier social life than Charlie has ever had, and as a consequence is always the last one in the house.
“You must lock the back door,” Charlie has said, repeatedly, only to come down most mornings and find the door unlocked.
So it is mostly little things that bother her: climbing into the car to find there is no gas. Nothing. Barely enough to get to the gas station, and Amanda was the last one to drive it, not thinking of filling the tank for the next person.
Leaving the car window open so the rain soaks the seats, or leaving the sun roof open to do the same.
Helping herself to a healthy wedge of fruit pie that was sitting, perfect, in the fridge, waiting to be served at a dinner party that night.
But there are more pros than cons, Charlie has to concede. If only she’d remember to put up the goddamned car window.
“Hey!” Tracy looks up from the desk at the front of the yoga center, hesitates for just a split second before running over to give Kit the requisite hug.
“How was the date? ”
“It was good.” Kit is cautious, waiting to see if Tracy volunteers that she was giving Robert a private class last night. “How was your evening? ”
Tracy nudges her. “I don’t wanna talk about me! I want to hear about that cute guy! Did you have fun? Did he charm your socks off ? ”
Kit woke this morning bubbling with excitement and a slow smile spreads on her face. She has left three messages for Charlie, enormously frustrated that she can’t get hold of her, and has been dying to talk to someone.
Tracy doesn’t feel like her natural first choice, not after she knows Tracy has kept something from her, but she wants to share, needs to share, and although she’s trying to stay calm, she feels like squealing with happiness.
“He’s really nice,” Kit says.
“Oh come on. Look at you!” Tracy peers closely. “You look like you’re about to burst.”
“No . . . it’s just I had a really nice time. I’d forgotten what it’s like to have a date that goes well.”
“So it did go well? You like him? ”
“I think so. Although who knows what will happen? He seemed to want to do it again.”
She wants to say more, but doesn’t, because things feel strange with Tracy, and until it’s out in the open, Kit can’t confide more in her. She takes a deep breath, hating confrontation, but it seems that Tracy is deliberately keeping this from her, and why would that be? Tracy’s made no secret of wanting to get to know Robert better, so why would she not tell Kit she was at his house last night? Even if it were purely innocent, not saying something immediately throws a shadow of guilt.
“Tracy . . . there’s something I need to talk about with you . . . I know you were at Robert’s last night.”
“What? ” Tracy looks shocked. “I mean, well, yes, I was. I was giving him a yoga lesson.”
“But why didn’t you tell me? ”
“Honestly? I could tell you weren’t happy when I was saying I had kind of a crush on him, and I didn’t want to upset you.”
“But that’s ridiculous. I’m not upset. I’m more upset that you didn’t tell me; it makes me far more suspicious.”
“I’m sorry. I hear you and you’re right. I should have said something, but it was all totally last minute. He called me yesterday and asked me—”
“He called you? ”
“Yes. Why? ”
Kit shakes her head. No need to say it, but she is surprised, would have thought it was the other way round.
“So I really wasn’t planning it, and it was just a yoga lesson. I didn’t think it was a big deal, not worth repeating.”
“Would you just tell me next time? ” Kit says. “Only because it feels weird not to know. I mean, I walked in and saw you both there, my friend and my boss, and no one had said anything which makes me feel . . . I don’t know . . . irrelevant.”
“You walked in?” Now Tracy is surprised. “I thought you were on your date? ”
“I was, but I left my earrings at Robert’s and wanted to pick them up before the date.”
“You’re sure you weren’t spying on me? ” For a second, Tracy’s face hardens, and Kit frowns, trying to figure it out, then Tracy breaks into a smile. “Relax. I was kidding. Do you forgive me? ”
“Of course I forgive you. I wasn’t mad, I just needed to say something.”
“So now will you tell me properly how your date was? ”
Kit pauses. She wants to tell her, and although Tracy seems to have been honest, and even apologized for not saying anything, Kit just doesn’t feel entirely comfortable. It’s as if Tracy is plugging her for information, but not because she has her best interests at heart.
“I guess I don’t really date,” she says slowly. “I haven’t been looking for anything, and I’m sure it won’t lead to anything anyway because I’m much too busy, but he’s cute.”
“Cute? Is that it? ”
“No.” She shrugs. “He’s handsome and funny and smart, and certainly seems to be interested in me.”
Tracy raises an eyebrow. “You mean . . .”
“No! I mean, he asked me tons of questions. He seems like he really wants to get to know me, which is probably a stupid thing to think on a first date, but . . . it was nice.”
“So are you seeing him again? ”
Kit blushes, and suddenly realizes what it is she’s uncomfortable about. Tracy is tense. As tense as a wire.
And suddenly Kit knows why.
Single girlfriends aren’t allowed to have boyfriends, she realizes. They may no longer be in tenth grade, but nothing much has changed. When single women bond, they bond firmly, and the advent of a new boyfriend is always a threat to that friendship.
No wonder Tracy is tense. In a town filled with married women, Kit and Tracy bonded precisely because of their shared single status. Charlie is friendly with Tracy too, but she can’t bemoan her life in the same way, doesn’t understand exactly what it’s like.
And now that a man has finally entered Kit’s life, a man who seems, on paper, to be about as close to perfect as you can get, Tracy is threatened.
Never mind that she was the one who introduced them. That part was the fun part, an adventure, something they could giggle about. Just as long as it doesn’t get serious.
Kit doesn’t want to tell Tracy any more. She doesn’t want to tell her about the e-mail Steve sent her this morning:
Kit—thank you for a wonderful evening last night. I don’t remember the last time I had such a great time, and I hope I didn’t ask too many questions! Are you around on Friday night? I have tickets for the theater and I’d love you to come . . . Hope to hear from you soon and have a great day! Steve
A perfect e-mail from a perfect gentleman. But a message she’s not going to share with Tracy. Not now.
She looks at her watch. “I have to go or I’ll be late for the class,” and saying good-bye she walks wearily up the stairs, wondering at what age they will grow out of these silly, petty things.
Chapter Nine
Robert McClore is intrigued by this woman who is so much younger than he. There have been many women over the years, but there have been few who have charmed him as this Tracy has.
There is something about her that he recognizes, something about her that reminds him of himself—on the surface she is sweetness, a ditzy Californian blonde, but she is also a businesswoman, and there is a ruthless quality to her, a toughness that he cannot help but admire.
Years ago he might have been intimidated by her, but he has been around the block enough times, lived through enough things that he can more than hold his own with her. So, even though he mi
ght not trust her entirely, he finds that she creeps into his thoughts, and, given how long it has been since anyone has done that, it is something he must pursue.
These days, he doesn’t often think about Penelope, preferring to let the past stay in the past, preferring to let the myth remain, that they had a perfect marriage, the golden couple, the people everyone wanted to be, or, at the very least, be around.
But it is true that you never know what goes on behind locked doors, and their marriage was troubled, to say the least, although time has eased the memories, and he tells himself now that it was the seventies, they were expected to be unfaithful, they weren’t doing anything differently than any of their friends.
He met Penelope in 1971. She was part of the wave of hot young models who graced the covers of all the hippest magazines. She’d been linked to Paul McCartney and Mick Jagger. Robert, a budding journalist who was spending most of his evenings working on his first novel, had been sent to interview her.
The world of models and rock stars wasn’t one that Robert was familiar with, not at that time. He was quiet, studious, had graduated with a degree in English literature, and worked hard at his dreams of writing the Great American Novel, taking the job at the Times just to pay the bills.
He’d had girlfriends, of course, because although he saw nothing but himself when he looked in the mirror and there was nothing he found particularly exciting, women had always found him attractive, and he had rarely had to pursue them.
No one had lasted, simply because work had always come first, and a news reporter had little time for relationships, although the news was simply a step toward features, and even that was a step toward getting his novel published.
The paper was finally giving him a chance, only because the writer assigned to interview Penelope—she was known merely as Penelope, already famous enough to have dropped her last name—had come down with the flu.
It was an important piece, a cover story for the new magazine, and he wanted to get it right. He spent hours scrolling through the microfiche, reading up on her, although there wasn’t much he could find out, other than speculation and gossip about her romantic assignations.
These were, obviously, the days before the Internet. The days before a click of a button could bring up everything you would ever want to know, and more besides. They were the days when the press kept their distance, and celebrities had a private life, if they so chose.
The interview was scheduled at a photographer’s studio in the Village. Robert was a little early but he walked in, standing quietly at the back of the room while he took in the chemistry between Penelope and the photographer—Lee Stewart, also one of the hottest photographers around, mentioned in the same breath as Helmut Newton, David Bailey, Francesco Scavullo.
“You’re beautiful!” the photographer shouted as he moved around like a suntanned spider, crouching, standing, zipping from one side to the other. Janis Joplin blared from an eight-track in the corner, and various beautiful people stood around gazing as Penelope, posing in front of a white screen, pouted and smiled, and a wind machine blew her long hair in a stream of gold behind her.
She was, quite simply, gorgeous. Far more beautiful than in her pictures. He stood, mesmerized, watching her pose, and when it was over and she wandered over to him, grabbing an apple and biting into it, then grinning and introducing herself, he realized that, for the first time ever, he believed in love at first sight.
The interview moved from the sofa in the photographer’s studio, to a restaurant, to Studio 54. All the while they were surrounded by other people, friends, acquaintances of Penelope, all of whom were beautiful and fashionable, and accepted Robert as if he were one of them, even though he had never met people like this, never had a desire to be part of this world other than, perhaps, as a curious observer.
The entire night, Penelope didn’t take her gaze off Robert. What started out as a formal interview quickly became two people getting to know one another’s most intimate secrets, two people who couldn’t deny the extraordinary chemistry between them.
And from Studio 54 to Penelope’s loft.
“I think you’re my soul mate,” she murmured sleepily, after they made love for the second time, and he fell into a dreamless sleep, knowing that she was right.
They married three months later, a wedding filled with royalty from the worlds of music, modeling and movies.
Robert had already started to change, to become comfortable in Penelope’s world, and now that he was brushing shoulders with the Great and the Good, his own name became known. Less than two months after their wedding he signed his first publishing deal.
For a while, they were giddy with their luck. Two of the most beautiful people in New York, at all the right parties, with all the right connections. Robert went from being a jobbing reporter to a household name, mixing with Tom Wolfe, Paul Newman, friends with Philip Roth.
But the tint from the rose-colored glasses quickly faded, and Robert and Penelope found that once the excitement of their wedding had worn off, those few times they were ever alone together, they didn’t actually have anything in common.
He had thought Penelope was a free spirit, and was astonished to discover she was actually rather stupid. She had dropped out of school at fourteen, which everyone thought was wonderful, a hippie child who had chosen a freer way of life, but Robert came to discover she could barely read or write, showed no curiosity for the outside world, for anything in fact beyond her parties, her friends, and the ever-increasing drink, drugs and, eventually, sex.
She also had a temper that was truly terrifying. Fueled by alcohol, she would pick up whatever was at hand during one of her rages and throw it at him, as hard as she could. He learned to duck, to move quickly out of the way, but there were times when the side of a lamp would clip his cheek, or an encyclopedia would hit him with full force in the back, and he would be bruised and sore for days.
Lust very quickly turned to hate, but he had made his bed and he honestly didn’t know how to get out of it. It was his idea to buy in Highfield, and he thought that perhaps things would change, for there were still times when he looked at her and caught his breath because she was so beautiful.
She would never be what he wanted her to be, but if he moved her out of the city, if they bought a country place, maybe she would settle down and they would have children, the quiet peaceful life he had always wanted.
He drove out of the city one Saturday when Penelope was at a photo shoot in Paris, with a list of properties the realtor had told him about, and spent the morning trudging through house after house, each one more pedestrian than the last.
“There is another house,” the realtor said slowly, just as Robert was beginning to feel despondent. “Although it’s more money than you wanted to spend.”
“Tell me about it,” Robert said, as they drove through town toward the beach.
The house on Dune Road was the last one on the list, and the most expensive. It was out of their price range, but the realtor said they had to see it, because it had been in one family for generations, and was, in her opinion, the most beautiful house in Highfield, and certainly a house worthy of a famous author and his equally famous and beautiful wife.
As soon as they turned on to Dune Road, the rosa rugosa overgrown, almost overtaking the sandy track, Robert’s heart started to pound. And then around the curve, through the gates, and up a driveway to a large square house with elegant pillars which was the most beautiful house he’d ever seen.
He didn’t need to go upstairs to see the views over the sparkling waters of Long Island Sound from the master bedroom to make his decision. He didn’t need to appreciate the antique library, the many fireplaces, the high ceilings and gracious French doors that opened onto a terrace with a pergola covered by an ancient wisteria.
He knew, as soon as he saw the place, that this would be his home, and that he would never leave it, never live anywhere else, for the rest of his days.
“You will love it,” he told Penelope the next day, when he finally managed to get hold of her, and Penelope, when he drove her out there the following weekend, simply shrugged and said it was nice. She didn’t have the yearning for a home that Robert had, didn’t have, he realized with sinking heart, an ounce of nesting instinct, nor of domesticity.
Before they closed on the house, Robert sold a film and, for the first time, money was no longer an issue, so buying the house was no longer a stretch. They had staff from the beginning, needed them to pick up after Penelope, who would literally grind her cigarette butts out on the wooden floors, drop her clothes wherever she was standing, knock over a wine bottle and not bother cleaning it up.
The staff turned a deaf ear when they heard the screaming, learned to disappear if Penelope was in one of her rages. Picked up the pieces quietly, having signed confidentiality agreements, knowing that they could never tell anyone of what really went on in the McClore house.
The only times she would be okay, the only times she didn’t resent him for dragging her out of New York, was when the house was filled with her friends and models and rock stars were draped over all the furniture. Robert learned to acquiesce, learned to accept the constant stream of people for it was easier than dealing with Penelope on her own.
Their parties swiftly became orgies. It was, in some respects, a sign of the times, or perhaps a sign of their marriage, because after a while Robert stopped caring and started sleeping with other people too, models who turned up, friends of Penelope, women who made themselves as available to him as the air that he breathed.
And it was becoming harder to breathe. There were nights when he would wake up and feel as if he was suffocating with unhappiness, with dread, with the fear of what was going to happen next.
But his fear, his nervous anticipation, his sense of dread fueled his writing with the same, and each book became bigger than the last. And then came the first of the movies, starring Warren Beatty, and he was Hollywood’s golden boy as well, the man who could do no wrong.