It was loathsome to see his private domicile of minimalist sophistication invaded by these armies: the battalion of workers, followed by the onslaught of guests, and finally the reinforcement of cleaners. But he understood that infrequent and highly curated access to his sanctum created a useful sense of exclusivity. The occasional soirée, followed by well-placed photographs and brief write-ups, gave the uninvited masses a tantalizingly brief glimpse of what they’d missed. And in just a few hours, Nicholas Spragg would no longer be a member of that unlucky group: He’d finally be in.
Of course, inviting Nicholas into Jay’s home was like opening a town car window as it drove by a skunk. But there was no way around it. Not long ago, Jay routinely complimented himself on how well he’d aligned Spragg and the other chess pieces. He’d met Spragg and Lucas within months of each other and immediately identified them as twins and foils. Both were outsiders, equally naïve and ambitious, and yet Lucas appeared to have everything Spragg wanted: influence with a powerful media mogul, a beautiful girlfriend, and, eventually, an adoring audience. These were only the broad strokes, of course. Up close, both Lucas and Spragg were equally powerless and malleable. But neither could see the fine details. They’d play off each other perfectly.
But the game had not gone according to plan. Many months ago, Jay invited Spragg to coffee and presented him a draft of Lucas’s profile. Jay had a finely choreographed performance for moments like this. Step one: Indignant apologies. He’d instructed his reporter to write a glorious puff piece and was shocked—and genuinely embarrassed!—to see his employee taken in by these jealous, lying backbiters. Step two: Jay would theatrically stop, as if a terrible thought had just occurred to him, and he’d stammer it out: “Th-that is, well, I don’t even want to think this, and I’m sorry to even ask, but, for my own reputational sake, I must: Those stories aren’t true, right?”
At which point, his subject would either come clean or lie … and then eventually come clean. And so on to step three: The Editor would suggest a way to protect his subject’s reputation. By helping Jay bolster this investment or skirt that regulation, they’d both win. Never threaten: That was Jay’s cardinal rule. Instead, flatter, massage, cajole.
But unlike the others, Spragg didn’t bite. Were the rape accusations true? He just shrugged, as if to say, Who cares? He seemed unconcerned about exposure, as though his money were an impenetrable force field. No, what infuriated Spragg was Lucas. “I’m very upset,” Spragg had said, pushing his coffee away with disgust, “about Lucas’s betrayal.”
“Betrayal of what?” Jay had asked.
“Of my friendship,” Nicholas said like it was obvious. “Of all I’ve done for him.”
Jay barely managed to contain his laughter. Spragg had done exactly zero for Lucas except buy him a couple of meals and some (unrequested) sex. And yet Spragg believed that Lucas was in his debt, simply for being around. There was also more than a little jealousy there—Spragg seemed personally offended by the fact that Sofia wasn’t his girlfriend. So Jay altered the deal. If Spragg would invest in The College, Jay would fire Lucas.
“I want to be in the room when it happens,” Spragg said. “I want to see his face crumble.”
This sounded like the making of a dozen different lawsuits, so Jay countered: “What if you just listened by phone instead?”
Then, lo and behold, Lucas turned out to be Nice Guy. It was so wholly unexpected that Jay wasn’t even upset. He was actually kind of impressed. But it made everything more complicated. Spragg became pouty and petulant. He wanted Lucas fired—and if Jay really cared about getting the investment, he’d do it. But Jay had to balance his interests, and casting off his most popular columnist was a nonstarter. At this point, he considered blackmailing Spragg outright, but the kid was so indiscreet that he might just go blabbing it to the nearest hooker, who’d then sell the secret to TMZ. And so, Spragg packed up his moneybags and scampered after somebody new to stroke his ego.
Jay continued searching for money to no avail. He’d kept it together during those dark weeks, with the help of energy supplements and an ample amount of La Mer under-eye concealer. He’d had one slip. On the February morning he’d learned the Boar would have to close, he’d walked the city for hours and, eventually, ended up outside Carmen’s apartment. He cringed at how weepy and pathetic he’d become. And then to have Carmen throw it all back in his face! He still felt disgusted—with himself, with her. He couldn’t stand thinking about it.
But then divine intervention rescued him. A few days after Lucas and Carmen imploded, Spragg returned of his own volition. The MOMA spectacle had been a call to action for the young man. He would invest in The College on three conditions: First, Jay must make him an official partner; second, Jay must publish the aforementioned glowing article under Lucas’s own byline; and third, if Lucas couldn’t be fired, he’d at least be tortured. Sofia would be his new partner in “Love the Critics.”
Some legal finessing would be required to ensure that Spragg didn’t actually own much of The College. Jay wasn’t surrendering anything to that Wharton-loving nitwit. But he could stomach the rest. Sofia was actually a brilliant candidate to be Lucas’s partner. Sure, Spragg chose her as retribution: The woman who broke Lucas’s heart would now be his new romantic partner. But she was beautiful and TV ready. She’d keep the columns interesting.
As for the cover story under Lucas’s byline—well, Jay felt the smallest twinge of guilt about that. Jay liked Lucas. The kid had gumption. He applied himself. He was decent. But he was also broke, which meant he wasn’t useful where it mattered most. Such was the sad truth of life: The good-hearted rarely had power or money, and the powerful and moneyed were rarely good.
Almost immediately, Jay regretted getting into business with Spragg. The bastard would not stop calling, full of terrible ideas for The College. He was the neediest Richie Rich Jay had ever met. And so Jay found himself in the unenviable position of constantly kissing his benefactor’s twenty-five-hundred-dollar camel calf Stefano Bemer–clad feet. Every time Spragg called, Jay wanted to shout at him: I came here from a place equally remote as Apex, Idaho, and with nothing. I worked and struggled for my position. And you—pathetic, ineffectual, ugly, weak—think that you can have whatever you want without taking any risks? Without producing a drop of sweat? You make me sick!
Instead, Jay was throwing a party where he would introduce Spragg to New York society as his official partner in The College. At long last, Jay would give Nicholas the legitimacy he craved, the one thing Daddy Spragg could not buy.
* * *
It was now 5:00 P.M., and Jay walked the ground floor of his town house for a final inspection. In the dining room, a cleaning woman stood on a step stool, dusting the massive chandelier that an interior decorator named Chandra had convinced Jay to buy. It didn’t match anything in the house, but Chandra had been so persuasive. So very persuasive with her impossibly tall stilettos, endless legs, and the skintight dress that zipped all the way down the front. At least the money hadn’t come from Jay’s own pocket. That’s what his Empire expense account was for.
“Careful with that!” he snapped at the cleaner, and headed upstairs to his bedroom for a few hours of restful grooming before the city’s fashionable, powerful elite stampeded in. These the people he loved and loathed with equal conviction.
CHAPTER 48
Lucas stood outside Jays’ house in his new Armani suit. It had come straight from Empire’s fashion closet and was tailored on the magazine’s dime. The open windows were ablaze with light and lively chatter, a deceptive cocoon of warmth and welcome. Lucas took a deep breath, walked up the steps, and entered the dragon’s den.
Around him, fashionables stood proudly in their brushed silk and polished leather. There was an assurance in how they tipped champagne flutes to their lips, a silent, mutual agreement of their belonging, though many of them had nervously awaited their invitations. A year ago, Lucas would have come here wide-eyed and breathl
ess from the orgasm of wish fulfillment. But life, he now knew, was not like the lottery: You didn’t get what you wanted in one exciting jolt. Instead, you got it by way of scrapping and sacrificing and stepping on toes. And when the prize finally arrived, you might not even want it anymore. Which was a good thing, because if the night went according to plan his access to all of this was over.
Now the Editor approached Lucas, his eyes shining, his demeanor perfectly lubricated. “I was wondering when you’d turn up,” he said. “You have many people to meet. I’ve slipped MDMA into all the drinks, which means everyone is going to be especially receptive to Nice Guy’s charms.”
Lucas looked uneasily at his glass.
Jays continued, “At nine thirty P.M., Sofia will make a dramatic entrance. Are you excited for your big kiss? Not that it’s your first…” Jays gave Lucas a nudge. Lucas wondered if the Editor really was on drugs. He seemed uncharacteristically garrulous. He leaned toward Lucas with an air of conspiracy and said, “What’s that infuriating phrase Nicholas Spragg always uses—‘capital evening’? Well, it’ll be very capital.”
“So there’s a money cake involved?” Lucas didn’t see Spragg and was dreading the encounter.
Jays didn’t pick up on the joke. “Tonight, Lucas, anything is possible. Now come with me, and grab a canapé if one passes by. They’re delicious.”
And then Lucas was slapped hard on the back. A booming voice behind him yelled, “Nice Guy! Right here in the flesh!”
Lucas turned around. It was Jai Rogers, one of Silicon Valley’s youngest and most prominent VCs, grinning like they were best friends. “Big balls on you, kid.” Rogers shook his head in admiration. “That Carmen Kelly, she really deserved what she got, humiliating you like that.”
Lucas barely had time to cringe before Jai Rogers was gone. And in his place was a Pulitzer-winning journalist, a state senator, a Broadway star, a guitarist for Lady Gaga, a celebrity chef, the Yankees’ new draft pick, and on and on, passing Lucas around the room like a joint. The conversation was always the same: excitement, empty compliment, trashing of Carmen, farewell. Lucas kept introducing himself by name; the partygoers kept calling him Nice Guy anyway. Walt Frazier, the legendary New York Knick, called him Louis. At least he tried.
Meanwhile, Lucas kept glancing at his watch. He needed to find Jays’ notebook collection and be back downstairs in time for the kiss. And if there was no notebook to be found? Lucas put that possibility out of his mind. He dashed off a text to Tyler: “Operation Cockblock commences 9:30. What’s your status?” While Lucas played burglar, Tyler wasn’t sitting idly by. He had his own part in the plan.
Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. Lucas’s stomach lurched as he waited for Tyler to respond. Maybe silence was a positive sign. Maybe he was too occupied with his own task to respond. Lucas checked his watch again. He couldn’t wait any longer. It was nearly nine o’clock. Go time.
Lucas ducked through the crowd and scurried up the stairs, hoping that nobody was paying attention. Soon he stood alone on the silent second floor. He followed Tyler’s instructions to Jays’ bedroom. The door opened with a small whoosh, revealing a sparsely styled space in hues of gray with a few glints of silver and navy. The walls displayed black-and-white female nudes. Plush cream carpet underfoot. Lucas peeked into the spacious marble bathroom. The tub was like a small swimming pool. The shower had more heads than a car wash. Lucas looked at the bed and thought of all the nights Carmen had fallen into those sheets. She believed that she’d seen inside Jays there. But all she’d seen was a persona, which Jays eventually sloughed off like dead skin.
How many layers could be peeled off of Jays? Did a core even exist?
Lucas walked across the bedroom and entered a sitting room. He’d been hoping that the door between the two would lock, but it didn’t; he’d have to do this exposed. There, across from the leather chaise, was the closet. Just as Tyler had said. Lucas pulled the handles and entered a dressing room half the size of his apartment. In the center was a wooden island, lined with drawers. An island in a closet? Lucas had never heard of such a thing. Jays’ suits were organized in showroom fashion. There was an entire wall of designer shoes, including, oddly enough, more Manolo Blahnik pumps than Carrie Bradshaw owned. Lucas snapped a couple of pictures. Was Jays a secret cross-dresser? Did he collect the shoes of his conquests like trophies? But Lucas was getting sidetracked. He looked up and, sure enough, a long row of notebooks lined one of the top shelves.
Lucas pulled over a sliding ladder and climbed it. Tyler had given him the names of half a dozen sources Jays had likely whitemailed. But there were twice as many notebooks, and time was running out. There was only one thing to do. He reached up and, one by one, began flinging the notebooks off the shelf. One after another, they flew out behind him and tumbled to the floor. There was something wonderfully cathartic, almost joyous, about it, and Lucas was sad when there were no more books to throw. He hopped down and got to work. He’d worried that it might be difficult to find all the names he was searching for, but Jays made it easy: The notebooks were labeled alphabetically. Lucas started taking photographs of the relevant entries. He was about to leave when something occurred to him. He pulled out the notebook labeled “C–D” and flipped until he arrived at “Callahan, Lucas.” There he was, summed up in a single word that Jays had written in neat, small letters: “Jackpot.” Lucas felt the sting of recognition. From day one, he’d been the mark Jays was searching for. Well, no longer.
Lucas dashed off a text to Tyler: “JACKPOT!!!” Then he grabbed the notebook labeled “S–T” and hurried from the room, leaving the mess of books behind him.
CHAPTER 49
A few days before Jays’ epic party, Carmen received an email from Noser’s media critic, J. P. Maddox. Reflexively, she went for the “delete” key. Then she paused. All spring, publications had taken turns swinging at her like she was a piñata. But Noser—which should have been handiest with the bat—had been conspicuously silent. Now, out of nowhere, Maddox was politely requesting a drink.
Carmen also considered turning him down, because she was busy. Her new agent, Lydia Rothsfeld, had given her a tight deadline. Back in April at Kettle of Fish, after Lydia and Carmen had finished two rounds of Manhattans, Richie Sullivan took Carmen aside with a word of warning: “Before you sign with Lydia, know that she will be the single toughest critic you’ve ever had. She will make you question your talent, your skill, and definitely your self-worth. But if you can stick it out, you’ll produce the best work of your life.”
Carmen had faced plenty of critics in her day, but none whose goal was to make her work better. Jays certainly never did. Now she was excited and nervous to have someone finally treat her writing—treat her—with respect. So did she really have time for drinks with a Noser reporter? But curiosity got the better of her.
On the second Thursday in May, she agreed to meet J. P. Maddox for a beer. Only into the bar walked none other than Tyler, erstwhile Empire intern. He stretched out his hand. “J. P. Maddox,” he said. “I believe we’ve met?”
Carmen stood up to leave. “You have half a second to explain.”
Immediately, Tyler dropped the act. “I’ve been writing under a pen name at Noser to shield my identity from Jays. I’m also—”
“Lucas’s roommate. I know.”
“So then you understand why I didn’t say who I really was. I worried you wouldn’t come. Any other questions?”
“Keep talking,” she said, and sat back down. “I’ll stay as long as I have a reason to.”
And so she listened to Tyler explain the assignments Jays had given him, the resulting positive press, and the Editor’s secret notebook collection. He told her about Jays’ partnership with Nicholas Spragg and how he’d used Lucas and Spragg against each other. None of this surprised Carmen, but the details made her queasy. She’d seen those notebooks but never been brave enough to sneak a peek. Even so, she’d tried to warn Lucas that something like
this would happen. He simply hadn’t listened. And even now that he saw the truth—or supposedly saw it, according to Tyler—what had changed? She’d watched the TODAY show segment; Lucas knew about the Netflix deal. And he was well aware of the financial consequences it would have on her. And yet Lucas never called—if not to apologize for ruining her career, then at least to see if she and Mira were OK. There had been nothing. No communication of any kind.
Instead, Carmen caught glimpses of Lucas online and in the society pages, flashing here and there, from this party to that premiere, a fading trail of light in his wake. She couldn’t imagine that he was enjoying himself, especially after Jays had published that horrible article under his byline and thrown him back into bed with Sofia. More likely, Lucas had simply given in, submitted to the powerful forces that now dictated his universe. Carmen had seen it before. It depressed her.
“Look,” Tyler was saying as he glanced at his watch, “there’s something we want you to see.” He put his phone on the bar and slid it toward her.
“We?”
“Lucas is about to do something, which is either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. Or both. But the point is, he’s doing it for you.”
Carmen shook her head. “No,” she said. “Not interested.” She stood up.
“Carmen, please. This is important.”
She backed away. “I don’t want to know what Lucas is doing. I don’t care what he’s doing. I’m not the only one Lucas screwed over, Tyler. Doesn’t he get that?”
“Carmen,” Tyler said slowly, deliberately. “Just watch. Two minutes. That’s all.”
Mr. Nice Guy Page 29