by Jane Heller
During the ride up to Mamaroneck, it started to rain and the roads began to get slick. It felt as if we were on a racetrack instead of the Hutchinson River Parkway, and I found myself ramming my foot down on some imaginary brake pedal every time we’d pass another car.
“Everything okay?” asked Tony. “I assumed you’d be comfortable in the Ferrari, since you’re so familiar with it.”
Yeah, I was about as familiar with it as I was with a 747. “Everything’s great,” I said. “One of my boots is too tight, that’s all.” Actually, he was driving rather conservatively in the increasingly wet conditions, and I appreciated that he wasn’t one of those macho maniacs who values speed over safety. I was just nervous about the evening, I realized as we approached Tara’s exit off the highway. Nervous and excited about finally giving my old pal her comeuppance.
The rain came down harder as we continued to head east, and although we made jokes about April showers, the weather really had turned ugly.
“Here it is,” I said, advising Tony that Tara’s house was at the very end of the private road we’d just reached.
“Thank God,” he said. “Nobody should be out in this mess.”
The private road forked into two driveways, one of which was Tara’s. It was a long, winding, heavily landscaped driveway, and at the foot of it sat a “No Trespassing!” sign that she had hand-painted in yellow, her “happy color.” The ground was quite flooded already, and Tony wasn’t thrilled about the way the Ferrari was getting splattered with mud.
“Okay, we made it,” I said when he finally shut off the engine in front of the house.
He glanced out the car window and laughed. “Your author has a little money, I see.”
“You’re referring to her castle.”
“Yeah. Does she have a big family?”
“Nope. Just her husband, Stuart Lasher, as in Lasher’s Meats & Eats. Business must be booming.”
“Even so, did they really need the turret? I wasn’t aware Mamaroneck was at war.”
“If you think the turret’s a little over-the-top, wait until you meet Tara.”
Huddled under an umbrella, we hurried up the walkway, where the lady of the manor herself was waiting to usher us inside.
“Come in, come in, come in,” she said. “You must be soaked.”
She, of course, was not soaked, unless you counted the Shalimar; from the smell of her, she must have hosed herself down with it, and her clothes, too. Speaking of which, while I was dressed for success in my pert little black pantsuit, she was dressed for excess. She was wearing what looked like an evening gown but was probably just the latest in designer hostess attire—an ankle-length kelly green frock made of some exquisitely delicate fabric that rustled when she moved even an inch. The color was gorgeous against her creamy skin and long golden hair, and the outfit was so much more stylish and sophisticated than mine that I felt as diminished as I always did when I was around her. In other words, she looked so great, I wanted to choke her.
“Amy,” she said, pulling me into a hug, although not as tightly as she had the last time I’d visited. Possibly, she was afraid I’d crush the fabric or drool on it. “I’m so glad you’re here. I thought you might cancel when you heard the weather report.”
“No, we braved the rain and now we’re—”
“And this must be Tony,” she said breathlessly, practically shoving me out of the way so she was free to extend her perfectly manicured hand to him. “I’m Tara Messer, and it’s such a pleasure to meet you. My husband and I are huge fans of your books.”
“Thanks, Tara. I appreciate that,” he said with a smile. I could tell he was thinking what a babe she was, which made me want to lift up her green dress, say “Peekaboo,” and show him her knock-knees. “And thanks for letting me tag along on your business dinner with Amy.”
“Business dinner?” she said, then winked at me in such a ridiculous, exaggerated way that Tony couldn’t possibly have missed it. “We can talk a little business if you insist, but there’s a subject I bet you’d much rather discuss tonight. So once I’ve served you a drink and a nibble, I want all the delicious details, you two.”
He shot me a truly puzzled look, but I was so caught off guard by her inability to keep her trap shut that I could only shrug helplessly in response.
“What’s this I hear about a nibble?” said a male voice from down the hall.
Stuart. It was Stuart. My faithless Stuart. I hadn’t seen him since the bedroom fiasco, hadn’t laid eyes on him since I’d watched in horror as Tara climbed off his limp—
“Here comes my husband,” she said to Tony. “He’s your second-biggest fan.” She giggled. “Sorry. Your third-biggest. Amy’s your second, of course.”
“Tara’s referring to the fact that I’m always promoting you,” I explained, giving her the evil eye. “I’m tireless when it comes to championing my authors, Tony. You know that.” What was with her anyway? She wasn’t acting like someone who intended to play by my rules.
I was about to take her aside and read her the riot act, when I heard Stuart marching toward us. I stood up straighter, stuck my boobs out, moistened my lips. It was an involuntary reflex. Yes, I still hated the guy, but I felt the need to impress him, too—to show him what a fool he’d been to let me slip through his slimy fingers.
“Hello, everybody,” he said when he finally appeared in his version of host attire: a Brooks Brothers suit. He always wore Brooks Brothers suits, no matter how informal the occasion, except for the last time I’d seen him, when, of course, he’d been wearing his birthday suit.
At thirty-five, he was thinner than he was when we were together (Tara must have put him on a strenuous diet and exercise program), but still tall—six three or so—with excellent, almost ramrod-straight posture. His wiry dark hair was thinner, too; the bald patch he used to obsess over had multiplied, and now there were three or four areas where you could actually catch some scalp. He had a prominent nose, a slightly recessive chin, and large brown eyes. Oh, and he had a long neck. I used to think it gave him an air of authority, but now I thought it gave him the air of a giraffe. Yes, that’s what he reminded me of—a preppy, nouveau-riche giraffe.
“Hi, Stuart,” I said, taking the initiative and giving him a kiss on the cheek. I was trying to present myself as someone who was letting bygones be bygones, trying to affect the demeanor of a normal person, as opposed to a woman scorned.
“Amy.” He grabbed my shoulders and held me away so he could get a good look at me. “Amy,” he repeated, as if marveling at the fact that I had survived the loss of him. “It’s great to see you. I was thrilled when Tara told me your news.”
“My news?” I glared at her again. Hadn’t she tipped him off? Didn’t he know he was supposed to keep his trap shut, too?
“And you’re Tony,” he said, turning so they could shake hands. “I hope you realize what a lucky, lucky man you are.”
“Oh, you mean because his books have sold so well,” I said with a rather hysterical laugh. Would I have to police every word that came out of their mouths? If so, the evening was going to be interminable.
“I do feel lucky,” said Tony. “But Amy’s been a big part of that luck. She’s pushed me to do publicity even when I’ve resisted.”
Stuart nodded knowingly, as if—what?—I’d pushed him to get engaged? Please. All I did was suggest that we either get married or break up, after it became clear that our relationship was losing its spark. He was the one who’d picked marriage.
“Tony and I often disagree on how to publicize his books,” I said, attempting to establish that this was indeed a business dinner. “He’s not big on self-promotion. But you, Tara, will be a natural on all the talk shows when your book comes out.”
“Let’s hope,” she said. “Now, why don’t you two come in and make yourselves comfortable. Tony?” She took his arm and waltzed him inside the house before I could stop her, before I could drag her into a corner and make her swear to lay off
the subject of our engagement, before I could do anything at all to keep disaster at bay. Instead, I was stuck with Stuart.
“Amy,” he said for the third time as he grinned at me. “You look fabulous.”
“That’s sweet of you,” I said. “But if I do, it must be because I’m in love for the first time in my life.” Well, I had to tweak him, didn’t I?
He put his hand on my back as we began to trail after Tara and Tony. “I have to admit, I was really surprised when I heard about you and Tony Stiles. I never expected it. Not in a million years.”
“Why? Did you expect me to enter a convent after you dumped me?” The nerve of the guy. I started to get steamed at him, then reminded myself that this was exactly what I wanted—for him to be awestruck by the caliber of fiancé I’d landed—and that I was the one manipulating him this time around.
“No, Amy. I didn’t expect you to enter a convent or join a cult or swear off men forever,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s just that the guy you’re marrying is my hero.”
Yes. Okay. This was good. “He’s my hero, too.” I clasped my hands together and sighed, as if overcome with hero worship. “I never dreamed I could find a man like him—a man of genuine integrity.” Take that, you turd.
“I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that he’s made millions.”
“I haven’t checked his bank account lately, Stuart, but it’s true that he’s very successful.” God, had he always been so materialistic? Had I never noticed? “Successful and passionate. If it were up to him, he’d scrap the engagement and have us standing before a justice of the peace this very minute. Unlike some people I know, he actually means it when he says he wants to spend the rest of his life with me.”
“Amy, Amy.” Stuart slid his arm down my back, wrapped it around my waist, and gave me a little squeeze. “I never meant to hurt you. You know that, don’t you?”
“What I know is that the past doesn’t matter anymore.” Yeah, sure. “I’ve recovered from our breakup, as you can see.”
“You certainly have. I bet you’re thinking that Tara and I did you a favor by getting together. Look who you ended up with instead of me: Tony Stiles, the best damn mystery writer in America. I must seem like the booby prize to you now, compared to him.”
I smiled. He was getting the message all right, the loser. “Well, you’re not Tara’s booby prize. She says you two are deliriously happy.”
“That’s us, Mr. and Mrs. Deliriously Happy. But back to you, Amy. You and Tony Stiles. I still can’t believe that you’re tying the knot in a few months.”
“Yes, but I hope Tara told you not to say anything about the engagement in front of Tony. He doesn’t like discussing our romance with strangers. He doesn’t think it’s anyone else’s business.”
“Strangers?” He scoffed. “Tara and I are hardly strangers, hon.”
He gave me another squeeze. Yech. And what was the deal with the “hon”?
“You’re strangers to Tony,” I said, “so please play it cool tonight and don’t let on that you know about us. He’s an extremely private person and reacts badly when—”
“Stuart?” Tara called out to him before I could emphasize how important it was that he button his lips. “Where are you, sweetheart? Tony and I are waiting for you to make everybody drinks, so we can take the chill off this damp and dreary night.”
“Coming,” he called back to her, hurrying us along toward the library, where Tara was chatting with Tony, batting her eyelashes at him, running her fingers through her gleaming golden locks so he couldn’t help but be dazzled. At first, I felt stirrings of jealousy—he was mine!—but then I remembered that he wasn’t mine, just a prop. I also remembered that I intended for her to fall all over him, hoping she would be so taken with him that she’d wish she could trade places with me.
“Oh, here you are, sweetheart,” she said to Stuart. “Why don’t you make the drinks while I run into the kitchen and assemble the hors d’oeuvres with Michelle?”
“I’ll help you,” I said quickly, hoping to get her alone so I could tell her to stop blabbing about the very thing she’d promised not to blab about.
“No, no, no,” she said, shooing me away. “You’re our guest, Amy. Stuart can help me. And our cook is here.”
“There must be something I can do to lend a hand,” I said pointedly, flashing her one of those awful winks she’d given me.
“I won’t hear of it,” she said. “Stuart? The ice bucket’s in the kitchen. Come with me, sweetheart.”
Before I could protest further, the two of them skipped off and busied themselves with hors d’oeuvring/bartending duties. Resolving to catch Tara at the very next opportunity, I sat next to Tony on the sofa.
“How are you holding up so far?” I whispered.
“Fine, but I’d rather be back in the city with you,” he said. “Your author’s a little too fond of herself for my taste.”
So Tara hadn’t dazzled him after all. “You noticed that, huh?”
He nodded. “And that book of hers sounds awful.”
“It’s beyond awful.”
“And then there’s this house.” He rolled his eyes as he glanced around. “Ten thousand square feet feels like overkill for two people.”
“Tara tends to overdo things. Take a look at all the orchids.”
Tony stifled a laugh. “I know. When I asked her about them, she said—and I quote—‘Orchids are the new sunflowers.’”
“That’s Tara, always right on top of the trends. The other day, she announced that white is the new black, ottomans are the new coffee tables, and toile is the new leather.”
“I don’t know what the hell toile is.”
“Don’t feel bad. She probably doesn’t, either.”
He laughed again. “Yeah, she’s definitely a strange one. When we were alone before, she asked me how our plans were coming along. I had no idea what she was talking about.”
I tensed. “Our plans?”
“Yeah. Yours and mine. She started out by saying how L and T’s policy was unfair but that she would keep our secret. What secret? Does this woman live in her own world or something?”
That did it. I was gonna kill her. The second she was alone in the kitchen, I would stab her with one of her fancy Henckel knives and watch her bleed to death all over her travertine floor. “Uh, well, she is sort of ditsy at times,” I said. “But maybe she meant the secret of your success—of our success as a team. We did get your last book to the number-one spot on the Times best-seller list even though L and T decided not to do TV ads. That was probably the unfair policy she was referring to.”
“Maybe. But why was she asking about our plans when it’s her publicity campaign you came here to work out?”
Before I could tap-dance around that one, Tara returned.
“Time for those nibbles,” she trilled as she floated into the room, carrying a platter of canapés, each adorned with sprigs of this, dollops of that—seriously garnished, in other words. “And while we’re on the subject of food,” she added, beaming at Tony and me, “have you two decided on the menu for your big day?”
I tried not to flinch—tried to pretend I hadn’t even heard the question—but it was obvious to me then that Tara couldn’t control herself, even though I’d begged her to. What was also obvious was that it wasn’t so much about her breaking her promise to me as it was about her needing to feed her own ego. She couldn’t stand to be left out. She had to be the center of attention. It had always been that way with her, so what made me think she’d changed?
I suddenly flashed back to the sixth grade, when she had urged me to run for class president. I had resisted, thanked her for her support, but explained that I couldn’t bear the idea of promoting myself (which was why I became a promoter of others when I grew up). “Oh come on, Amy, please?” she’d said, throwing her arms around me and folding me into a hug. “You’re an A student and a hard worker and the kids respect you. Plus, running for president will be a good way for
you to boost your self-esteem. Look, I’m your best friend. I wouldn’t tell you to do something if I didn’t believe it was the right thing for you. And with me behind you, you’ll definitely win.” I remember looking at her with such adoration. Sure, she could be full of herself—she honestly thought that she and her tremendous popularity could deliver the votes—but she was also my biggest champion, and I was endlessly flattered by the interest she took in me. I’d told her I’d think about running. A few days later, I was shocked to hear that Tara herself was running for class president. What was up with that? Had she deliberately set me up as her opponent, knowing she’d beat me by a landslide? Had she always intended to run but forgotten to inform me? Didn’t best friends tell each other everything? So why had I been kept in the dark? When I’d confronted her, she’d turned on the charm and feigned no understanding of why I might be stung, or miffed, or, at the very least, confused. “Gosh, Amy, I never meant to hurt you,” she’d said in what would become a familiar refrain over the years. “When you didn’t decide right away if you were running, I figured you weren’t going to and that one of us should. You can understand that, right? I stepped in because you didn’t want to. That’s all. But now that I’m running, I’d love it if you’d be my campaign manager.”
Why didn’t I see it then? Or even after she stole Stuart? Why didn’t I see that, while I had my own weaknesses and insecurities, Tara had problems of her own? She was toxic, for God’s sake! She couldn’t keep her mouth shut about my engagement to Tony after swearing she would, not because she didn’t care about me, but because she cared more about being the star, being the one in charge, being the one stirring the pot, even if that meant betraying me. It had happened before, over and over, and it was happening now. I had to get out of there!
I checked my watch. Twenty minutes down. Only two hours to go. I could make it through the evening. I would make it through the evening. And once I did, I would never, under any circumstances, trust Tara Messer again.