by Jane Heller
That did it. The muscle to the left of Tara’s mouth actually started to twitch. “She was always pretty, yes,” she said in a voice that was extremely subdued.
“What amazed me,” Tony went on, “is that a find like Amy had never been married. At first, I thought maybe she was only interested in her career—you know, the type that avoids commitment to focus on climbing the ladder. But then, when we finally got together, she told me she’d been engaged once. I asked her why she and her fiancé broke up, and she said that he dumped her for another woman right before the wedding. Can you believe it? I mean, what kind of an idiot would give up the chance to be her husband? He must have been deluded, to think he’d found someone better.”
He was brilliant, absolutely brilliant. I’d always known what a good storyteller he was, but the scenario he’d just recounted was priceless. Tara was so stricken, she looked as if she’d caught a bad stomach virus. As for Stuart, he stuck his head back in his newspaper, the coward.
“Suffice it to say that Tony summoned up the nerve to ask me out and I accepted,” I chimed in. “One date led to another, and it wasn’t long before we were talking about marriage.”
“You bet we were, buttercup,” he said. “Now, how about giving me a big kiss to show me how much you love me?”
Before I knew what was happening, he pulled me up from my chair and planted a soulful, tongue-involved kiss on my lips. It was entirely for the benefit of our hosts, just part of the performance, so I couldn’t very well push him away. I had to make the kiss look convincing, had to make our relationship look convincing, and so I kissed him back with everything I had. It was a head-spinning kiss that lasted whole seconds, and I nearly keeled over from the heat it was generating throughout my body.
Naturally, I told myself that the “heat” was only embarrassment over our public display of affection; that it had nothing whatsoever to do with any feelings I might be developing for Tony. Still, when he finally released me and my blood pressure returned to normal, I had to admit to myself that I didn’t hate the experience and, should the need arise, I would certainly be willing to repeat it.
During the rest of the day, Stuart’s retinue—the secretary, the accountant, the trainer, the masseuse—paraded through the house at their appointed hours, and we didn’t see much of him once they arrived. Tony spent an hour or so washing the Ferrari and making sure it was ready for the trip back to New York. Which left Tara and me alone for a chunk of time, during which she sat me down and said she wanted to talk.
“If it’s about the publicity for Simply Beautiful, we should probably wait until Monday, when I’ve got my notes in front of me,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I think you should come into the office and meet Scott, my assistant, so he can be up to speed on everything we’re doing.”
“It’s not about the book, Amy. It’s about you and me.”
“Oh?” So my act with Tony had gotten to her, made her give up the superficial nonsense and get down to emotional business.
“Yes. Ever since we were reunited, we’ve been tiptoeing around what happened with us, with our friendship.”
“You mean Stuart, I assume. Because if you do, there’s really nothing—”
“Please listen. I just want to say that I’m very grateful that you didn’t tell Tony the whole story. You kept our names out of it, and we appreciate that. We’d hate it if he thought badly of us.”
You didn’t seem to mind that I thought badly of you. “I had no desire to poison him against you two. Why should I? As you can see, I’ve moved on with my life.”
“I know, and I want to congratulate you for everything you’ve accomplished. I had no idea you were such an important person in the publishing field. And I had no idea you were in such demand socially. And then there’s Tony.” She put her hand over her heart and sighed. “He’s fabulous, Amy. And he’s crazy about you, obviously. But your greatest accomplishment, in my opinion, has been your ability to stay centered.” Marianne would be thrilled to hear that one. “I’m in awe of the professional, courteous way you’ve handled our interactions regarding the book, given how stressful they must have been at first, and of how friendly and forgiving you’ve been with Stuart. You seem as if you really have put aside the hurt we caused you, and I’m just…” She paused. She was on the verge of tears—her standard operating procedure whenever she wanted my sympathy.
“Just what?” I said, loving this.
“Just amazed by your strength.” She shed actual tears now—two of them—and they plopped down along her left cheek, as if her eye had sprung a leak. “You’re an inspiration,” she said, wiping them away with her French-manicured fingers. “I mean it. I’m so, so impressed by you.”
Well, there they were—the words I’d been longing for, the words I’d gone to so much trouble to wring out of her mouth. She was awed by me as well as impressed by me, and I finally felt that justice had been served.
Of course, I also felt like an utter fraud. I had gotten Tara to acknowledge me as someone who not only measured up to her but surpassed her. Yes, judging by the “awe” and the “impressed” and the “inspiration,” it sounded like she was the one with an inferiority complex for once. But I hadn’t made it happen without resorting to tricking her. And so, right on the heels of the euphoria came the guilt, heavy guilt. I had lied, she had fallen for the lies, and suddenly there was a hollowness inside me that I hadn’t anticipated.
“Sorry to go on like this,” she said, bowing her head, as if she were truly reduced by my presence.
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” I said before I could stop myself.
She looked up. “What for?”
I stared into her face, the same beautiful face that was probably buried in Stuart’s privates the day I walked in on them, and snapped back to reality. Nope. I wasn’t sorry, or at least not that sorry.
“Amy? You were going to apologize for something.”
“Just that I’m sorry Tony and I left the guest house in such a mess,” I said. “I’d better go straighten it up.”
18
Over the next two and a half months, I managed to stomach frequent encounters with Tara. I spoke to her on the phone, met with her in my office, and saw her with Stuart. With Tony and Stuart. As we counted down to both the publication of her book and the day that I would become Mrs. Hamilton Stiles in a civil ceremony attended by virtually none of our friends and family (that was our story and we were sticking to it), we were, on the face of it, a jolly foursome—two average couples who double-dated now and then. When it was Tony’s and my turn to reciprocate for the dinner in Mamaroneck, we took Tara and Stuart to a Broadway show, for instance. Then they hosted us on their sailboat. Then we invited them to a movie screening. And so on.
The get-togethers were awkward for me, sure, but they were a win-win situation, too. They gave me the opportunity to keep sticking it to Tara about what an impressive person I was, and they gave Tony the opportunity to simulate the mind-set of a fiancé. Oh, and they also gave me a better shot at hanging on to my job, since Celebetsy had instructed me to suck up to Tara, and that’s exactly what I was appearing to do.
The hardest part was getting on the phone every day and trying to sell the media on Tara. Imagine my conflict. Imagine my consumption of Pepcid.
“She’s wonderful,” I kept enthusing to the producer at the Today show. “Not just gorgeous but also smart and articulate and perfect for your demographic in the eight o’clock hour.” Oh, and by the way, she’s a miserable excuse for a friend.
“She’ll be a terrific guest,” I told the Good Morning America producer. “You’ll probably want to make her a regular contributor.” As long as she doesn’t try to upstage Diane Sawyer.
“She’ll get along great with the other women,” I told the producer of The View. Just don’t introduce her to any of the men in their lives.
I made these calls, but nobody was biting. Well, except Celebetsy, who bit my head off when I explained that I’d suc
ceeded in getting Tara some feature stories and radio interviews but no national TV appearances yet.
“Don’t you realize that the clock is ticking?” she snarled at me at one of our meetings. “We need results and we need them now.”
“I’ve gotten results,” I said. “But the talk shows don’t always commit until the last minute.”
“Maybe if you put in more time at the office, you’d have more bookings to report.”
“More time at the office?” I practically lived there.
“Yes. I noticed from your last expense account that you’ve been lunching a lot lately.”
“The people I’ve been lunching with are the people I’ve been pitching about Tara,” I said. “They’re business lunches, Betsy.”
“I’m just saying—and I hope I don’t have to say it again—that I want Simply Beautiful on the best-seller list. Got it?”
How could I miss it?
“She was horrible to me,” I whined to Connie an hour later. “She had a total hissy fit.”
“Soundslikehormones.”
“What?”
“I said, It sounds like hormones. Or maybe there’s trouble at home. Maybe her husband’s been screwing around and she caught him in the act, sort of like what happened to you.”
“Yeah, maybe he got tired of waiting for her to thaw out. Whatever the reason, she’s treating me worse than ever.”
On the opposite side of the spectrum, Tony was treating me as if we really were headed down the aisle. He called every day to check in, ask me how I was, tell me what was new with him, talk about a doctor’s appointment, a visit from the plumber, totally mundane stuff. I swear, if you were eavesdropping on our conversations, you’d think we’d been together for years. He also stopped by my apartment a few nights a week, so he could “step into the shoes of a man in a committed relationship.”
One night, he showed up with a gallon of chicken soup when I was sick with a cold.
“You really don’t have to do this, Tony,” I said as he was reheating the soup. My nose was so stuffed that his name came out “Toady.”
“What kind of a fiancé would I be if I didn’t bring my buttercup some Jewish penicillin?” he said.
“A cruel, heartless fiancé,” I said, kidding. “But seriously. I don’t want you to catch my germs.”
He paid no attention and continued to stir the pot on the stove. When it was hot enough, he spooned some into a bowl, sat me down, and ordered me to eat.
“What about you?” I said between sneezes. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“I’ll watch you polish off the soup, then get myself a pizza on my way back downtown.”
“You don’t have to watch me,” I said, even though I was grateful for his company.
“I like watching you. Did that ever occur to you?”
“No.”
He reached across the table and dabbed at my chin with a napkin. Apparently, I was leaking. “You like watching me, too,” he said with a cocky smile. “I can tell.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. You just won’t admit it.”
I felt myself flush, because I did like watching him, observing him, being near him. The truth was, I’d gotten used to spending time with him, and I missed him when we were apart.
“You’re blushing,” he teased.
“No, I’m feverish,” I said. “From my cold.”
“Really? Then you must have had a cold when we were watching TV last week. I complimented you on your sweater and your face turned the same color it is now.”
Embarrassed that he had read my mind, I slurped more soup.
He laughed. “It’s okay, you know.”
“What is?”
“That you’re enjoying this…this…association of ours. I am, too.”
I was about to answer but sneezed instead. “You should go, Tony, or I’ll infect you. I’m probably contagious.”
He smiled again, got up from his chair, and kissed the top of my head tenderly. “No ‘probably’ about it.”
There was something about the way he said it, something about the way his voice got low and soft, that suggested a change in direction. Our eyes met, and for the first time since we’d begun our “association,” I allowed myself the possibility that I had gotten to him—that he felt more for me than friendship. It had been clear enough that he’d gotten to me, even though I was using him to get back at Tara and he was using me to research his book. I didn’t even mind that the times we were alone together were chaste meetings and that we saved our hot performances for when we were with Tara and Stuart. On those occasions, we held hands, gazed adoringly into each other’s eyes, and exchanged sappy declarations of love while kissing. Yes, there was more kissing. More great kissing, I should add. What I discovered, over the course of those two and a half months, was that Tony was right when he’d insisted we had chemistry and were compatible. It had started as a game, but we meant something to each other. I knew we did.
Still, I was not about to become a casualty of his short attention span when it came to women. Enjoying each other’s company was one thing. Falling in love was quite another. Besides, I had to keep my focus on the immediate challenge, which was not letting anyone except Connie in on the secret of our phony engagement. Especially my devoted assistant.
“Our new best pal Tony Stiles called again,” said Scott when I returned from lunching one afternoon. He perched himself on the edge of my desk and did his Tony impression. “I think it’s time we came clean about what’s going on there.”
“Nothing’s going on,” I said with a chuckle. “He and I are hashing out a campaign for his next book, that’s all.”
“Please.” He shook his head. “This is me you’re talking to, not some temp. His book isn’t coming out for a year.”
“Right, but it’s never too early to start. You know that.”
“What I know is that we’ve recently gone from wishing this guy would drop off the face of the earth to looking ecstatic when he calls.”
“I don’t look ecstatic.”
“You do so.”
“No, I don’t, Scott. What I look is relieved that he and I aren’t at each other’s throats anymore. We’ve made a truce, so he’s much easier to deal with these days.”
“Whatever. On another subject, I heard that Rhonda in Sub Rights is sleeping with Michael Ollin in Business Affairs.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. That guy gets around.”
“That’s it? No questions? No gory details? Here I bring you my latest piece of gossip, because I’m your loyal servant, and all you can say is, ‘Doesn’t surprise me’?”
“Maybe I’ve got too much on my plate right now with Tara’s book coming out in just over a month.”
“Speaking of the diva, her husband called while you were out,” said Scott, getting up to go.
“Stuart? Are you sure?” Now that was a surprise. He was never the one who arranged our get-togethers; Tara was the social director. So why in the world would he be calling me? To ask for more free books? To reminisce about the good old days? To discuss peace in the Middle East? What?
“Yeah, I’m sure. And he said to give you his private number.” Scott raised an eyebrow as he handed me a Post-it and left.
Only one way to find out what was up. I dialed his number.
“Stuart Lasher,” he said.
“Oh, Stuart. It’s Amy Sherman, returning your call. I didn’t expect you to answer your own phone.”
“I’m answering it because it’s my private line,” he said. “I only give it out to very special people.”
“I’m honored,” I said, trying not to let too much sarcasm creep into my voice. “So, what can I do for you?”
“What can you do?” He hesitated, then said, “Nothing. I was just wondering how you are.”
Why would he be wondering how I was? He just saw me three nights ago, when the four of us met for dinner. “I’m fine, Stuart.”
&nbs
p; “That’s good. Your parents okay?”
“They’re fine, too.”
“Good. Good. Work going well?”
“Sure.” This was weird. Why the insipid questions?
“You and Tony doing all right?”
Ah. Could that be the reason for the call? Was he checking up on my relationship with Tony because he suspected it was bogus? Had Tara whispered something in his ear about us? Were they onto the fact that we were playing them? “Tony and I couldn’t be happier,” I replied with what I hoped was a dreamy lilt.
“You look happy. With him, I mean. It’s nice to see that in a couple.”
“Nice to see what?”
“The way his eyes light up when you walk in the room. The way you get all shy when he says your name. That stuff.”
Now what was he talking about? Tony’s eyes didn’t light up and I didn’t get all shy. Not that I was aware of anyway. But more to the point, why did Stuart sound so wistful about Tony and me? If ever there was a happy couple, it was Stuart and Tara. He was married to a perfect woman (minus the knock-knees) and she was married to a wealthy man, and they led a simply beautiful life, didn’t they?
“I remember how happy you and I were once upon a time, Amy.”
“Not as happy as I thought we were,” I said. How odd. What could possibly have provoked this trip down memory lane? Was he just feeling nostalgic? Or was it the fact that I’d won the seal of approval from the great Tony Stiles and was, therefore, more desirable all of a sudden?
“Oh, come on,” he said. “We had plenty of good times back then. What I remember most is what a good listener you were; how you were always there when I needed a shoulder.”
This was bizarre. Was he in some kind of trouble? Or was he looking for trouble by calling me and bringing up our past? “Stuart, I’m getting the feeling that you want something. Tell me what it is so we can both get back to work, okay?”