“As if. But Marvin, thanks for keeping this between us.”
“Of course. You know I love a secret.” He picks a piece of lint off his monogrammed cuff and says he has to get back to the office for a noon meeting with a litigator who fears confrontation.
Oscar’s phone remains shut off, so his plane must be late. After the fourth or fifth attempt to reach him live, I leave a voicemail saying I’m floored, speechless, and generally blown away by his generosity. Then I add that we need to talk about this as soon as possible. For the rest of the afternoon, I jump a little whenever my phone rings, but he doesn’t call. Not unusual. If he landed late, his day will have gotten going without him and he’ll be racing to catch up.
Tonight Kevin’s tarnished, but still alive, candidate will speak at a fundraiser for the Feminist Majority. Angela’s going, and though I pleaded poverty when I got the invitation several weeks ago, now I’m wondering if I shouldn’t take a page out of my new boyfriend’s book. If I show up, personal check in hand, Kevin will have to accept my grand gesture of contrition. Right? Because he won’t know about Oscar’s ludicrous gift to me. Yet.
I send Angela an email saying I’m in. Vogue bought two tables and hopefully I can squeeze in at one of them. Otherwise I might be facing a less appetizing evening. I could end up choking down rubber chicken at a table by the kitchen, surrounded by militant mullet sporting biker-chicks. She shoots a message back saying no problem, and that they actually have one more place because half the office has been felled by some early season flu, so I should round up another warm body if possible.
“Marvin?” I yell over the grey cubicle dividers.
“What?”
“You want to spend two-hundred-fifty bucks on abortion rights tonight?”
“Why?” he yells back. The Town Crier shushes him.
“There will be at least a couple of hot male models at the table?” I mean to say it persuasively but it comes out sounding doubtful. Marvin must not pick up on the nuance because he hollers that he’s in. Maybe it will be okay, even if Angela doesn’t bring along any eye candy of the male variety. Marvin always says he doesn’t get enough wear out of his tux.
Oscar finally calls as I’m in the cab on the way to the fundraiser, sporting my trusty black dress yet again. I’ve stashed a personal check in my borrowed-from-Vogue Valentino clutch. It’s written out for the minimum donation. For a second I thought about going higher, but I elected not to cross that fine line which separates a grand gesture from a foolish and desperate act.
“Hi, beautiful,” he says when I answer. “Did you think about me today?”
“Of course I did. All day long while I listened to disgruntled associates re-hash their personal problems.” That’s what they do now; they frame their complaints by proxy. It’s out of vogue to whine overtly about their working conditions in the middle of the Great Recession. So they snivel about their private lives instead. “How could I not? But Oscar, it’s just too much. I can’t accept an entire apartment from you.”
“Why not?” I’m surprised that he sounds so genuinely surprised.
“Because it’s worth seven figures and I—I don’t even know where this is going. Or what we are. Or whatever.”
“So just because we haven’t bestowed a label on our relationship means I can’t buy you a present?”
“Come on. We both know this isn’t a normal present. And I’m not saying we need a label. I mean we should get to know each other better.”
“But I know you well enough to see that this is what you need, so it’s what I want to give you.”
The cab pulls up to the W Hotel and the driver sticks his hand out for payment. A few yards ahead, Angela’s disembarking from her own taxi, smoothing a hot pink silk number that gives her cleavage a major boost and cascades in an avalanche of ruffles from her hips to her knees. “We are so not done discussing this,” I tell Oscar reluctantly. “But I have to run. I’m late.”
“You know, you could take the easy road and say thank you. That’s really all I need.”
“Well, thank you then. But I’m still not accepting it. I’ll call you later.” I hang up and silence the ringer before he can object again.
Marvin comes out of nowhere, resplendent in his Armani tuxedo. He plants air kisses on both my cheeks and Angela’s. “Where are all the beautiful boys?” he twitters.
“Upstairs, waiting for you, of course.” Angela doesn’t miss a beat. Nor does she find it odd that twenty-one-year-old hotties regularly respond to middle-aged Marvin’s advances. He has just enough money, pedigree and gravitas to bed them. By the time they realize Marvin’s not in it for the long haul, they’ve also discovered that maybe he doesn’t possess enough of those three enchanting qualities anyway. Consequently Marvin hardly ever suffers an unpleasant break up.
The three of us make our way through the modern lobby and up one flight to the ballroom. It looks like a solid turnout. Maybe the fact that it’s early in the week helps because people don’t have as many competing obligations. We join the steady stream of donors inching towards a reception table, where a large punch bowl is already half full of checks, some tastefully veiled in plain envelopes, and others, like mine, unapologetically flaunted.
Kevin is at the table, looking over the shoulder of the pretty girl greeting guests and taking cash. He looks nervous. Angela says he told her that the campaign is pretty much wagering O’Malley’s political future on tonight’s speech. When he sees us next in line he comes around from behind the table and doles out air kisses. Maybe it’s my imagination, but his token of affection seems icy and distant, like he’s greeting some garden club acquaintance of his grandmother’s. “Thanks for showing up. You ladies look lovely.”
“Thanks. I guess my little black dress has risen to the occasion yet again,” I say, as Angela surveys the crowd. A smattering of panache—probably the Vogue folks and other media people. A fair number of women in black dresses that are nice but not quite right, possibly because they feel inexplicably entitled to wear them straight off the rack. And a healthy representation of women who look like they might prefer to be men. By which I mean they’ve applied the invitation’s black tie directive to themselves.
Angela glances pointedly at this last group, bats her false eyelashes and swings her hips so the ballerina skirt of her dress sways playfully.
“Someone has to put the feminine in feminist.”
“You’re terrible,” Kevin says.
Angela shakes her head and her earrings, a cascade of crystals and fresh water pearls by Dior, sparkle. “There’s nothing wrong with being a lesbian. But isn’t the beauty of liking women that you’d appreciate the beauty of women?”
“There’s no accounting for taste.” I cringe as this crosses my lips. It comes out sounding like a dig. What I meant to say is that maybe we should be enlightened enough to practice a little live and let live.
Kevin waits until the reception girl’s attention is focused on checking in a group of five couples, then hisses at both of us, “Could you two please try to mumble though the next few hours without pissing off any group of the Councilman’s key constituents?”
“Relax, Kev,” Angela coos, but then can’t resist adding, “The stress is getting to you isn’t it?”
“I’m fine.”
“If by fine you mean you’ve morphed into a judgmental, self-important prick, then yes, you are.” Wait. I just said that out loud. Damn it.
Before I can utter anything to redeem myself, the Councilman appears, looking surprisingly pulled together. Kevin introduces Angela and me but then whisks the candidate off somewhere to go over his remarks one last time.
“Let’s go find the bar,” Angela says. “I think we’re in for a long night.”
“We could sneak out now. They have our money,” I suggest hopefully, as we edge towards the alcohol.
“I can’t leave the magazine’s table looking abandoned. That would not be good for my career.” She checks over both shoulders
to make sure nobody’s listening to us. “And, between you and me, it sounds like my boss’s job might be opening up. She thinks she’s all discreet, but everyone, even people in other departments on other floors, knows that she’s seriously considering taking her maternity leave in the new year, and then resigning.”
“Wow. That would make you what? Their number two person in shoes?”
Angela beams. “And all other accessories.”
“So when do you find out?”
“Not until March or April, but her boss is sick to death of people opting for part-time or getting out altogether, just because they have children, and she’s told me I’m in line for the next good spot that opens up.”
“I guess you’re reliable that way. She doesn’t even have to worry about a serious boyfriend diverting your attention from Vogue.”
A woman bartender in a dopey outfit featuring a men’s waiter jacket and black bowtie sighs loudly because we don’t order fast enough for her liking. She frowns with disapproval as she starts mixing our Stoli Raspberry tonics.
“Can you make one more, but stronger?” Marvin’s familiar voice asks from over my shoulder. “Did I mention earlier that you two look fab-u-lous,” he fawns, before asking where we’re sitting.
“Over there with the hot gay men.” Angela flashes a flirty smile at Marvin.
“Good girl.” Marvin nods his approval and stirs his drink. “I might need another of these before we face the cheap chicken.”
Someone behind me clears her throat deliberately in that irritating way some people use to attract another’s attention. She does it a second time, and when I turn to look, there’s a familiar face, out of context, and I scramble to place this older woman in an elegant black and white dress. It’s Trudy Bainbridge, from the opera. Her lips are outlined in crimson, which makes her mouth look enormous, and her eyelashes are fluttering at me rapid fire. “Zoë, darling, what a pleasure to see you again,” she says, in a more affected tone than she deployed the other night in the presence of her husband. “Have you met my dear, dear friend, Olivia Sevigny?”
FOURTEEN
Olivia? Oscar’s Olivia? Of course I haven’t, and I don’t particularly relish the opportunity to do so, but it’s too late. A thin, olive-skinned beauty with a regal face and an incredible purple dress is already extending her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” is all I can manage. She has highly defined collar bones, and flawless arms and shoulders that belie hours of torture at the gym. I steal a glance at her ring finger. She’s sporting a diamond the size of a dime. Both Carol’s rocks look like trinkets in comparison. She wears no other jewelry, except for a gold pendant that dangles suggestively just below her breasts.
“The pleasure is mine,” she says, in an accent that sounds neither quite French nor Spanish. Any hope that this would be a coincidence—that Trudy would be in the company of a different Olivia—vanishes. As does any hope of immediate extrication from this situation. While I stand there, stupefied, and wonder what’s expected of me, especially since this is now the second time in as many encounters that Trudy Bainbridge has caught me blinking vacuously, Angela steps in, introduces herself and Marvin, and begins gushing over Olivia’s clothes. “I love the more sophisticated look in the new Cavalli collection, and this dress looks like it was made for you,” she purrs.
“Thank you. I think Roberto’s show was the most exciting in Milan this September. Don’t you agree?”
Angela, who is always on the prowl for kindred spirits, swoons as the second “r” in Roberto rolls off Olivia’s tongue. I decide in that second, perhaps irrationally and unfairly, that I don’t want anything more to do with Olivia. I’m not sure whether she’s a threat, or whether she just makes me feel inadequate and off my game, but either way, I don’t like it.
Trudy asks me and Marvin whether we’re long time supporters of “the cause.” I tell her yes, which is technically true in that I’m a lifelong feminist, just not a check-writing one before tonight. I try in vain to shoot Angela a look that says, please wrap it up. Trudy, oblivious or unconcerned with my distress, starts to explain that her family foundation is partnering with the Feminist Majority to fund several girls’ schools in Afghanistan. Which is indisputably cool. Trudy starts explaining how Olivia has been instrumental with the PR, and I feel a flush of shame. It somehow seems wrong to hate her for being stunning, or for being an adulterous bitch who broke Oscar’s heart, if she’s donating her time to such a worthwhile project.
Mercifully, a waiter interrupts and asks that we start making our way to the tables.
We snake through the tightly packed tables and find ours, by the stage in the see-and-be-seen section of the room, and two tables over from Olivia, whose presence here tonight has unnerved me way more than it should, seeing as things are over between her and Oscar. I expected she’d be sophisticated and attractive, but did she really have to be drop-dead gorgeous? I suddenly wish I’d worn something with more panache.
Seven of Angela’s fashionista friends are already seated, and I see that she didn’t misrepresent the talent to Marvin at all. Two of the men are beautiful, in a juvenile, slightly underfed way. I do a double take thinking I know one of them, and then realize I’ve seen him, larger than life over Times Square, wearing only his underwear.
Marvin leans in and whispers in Angela’s ear, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie,” she says in a normal conversational voice. Then she whispers to me, “Look at him sucking in his tummy.”
“Why do guys like that agree to do an event like this?”
“They make huge bucks advertising in women’s magazines, so we sell it to them as an easy way to give back.”
Marvin slides in and introduces himself to the underwear model and his friend, who’s presumably also a male model of some ilk. Surprisingly, the two young guys don’t appear the least bit put off by the intrusion of this middle-aged man, who’s blessed only with average looks. I park myself on Marvin’s other side, which means I’ll have his back for company, and Angela sits to my right.
“Your new friend back there is Oscar’s Olivia,” I hiss into her ear.
Her eyes widen. “Are you sure?”
I nod.
“Too bad. I like her. I don’t suppose you’d be alright with me being her friend?”
“Not a chance.” Maybe this is lame, but I can’t stomach the idea of my best friend consorting with the enemy.
“I know. But I had to ask. What a shame.” Angela leans backward in her chair to take a closer look at my boyfriend’s ex-wife. We can see her in profile. Her hair is swept into a loose bun at the nape of her neck. She has an easy elegance about her that I’m sure men find irresistible.
And even with her clothes on, it’s obvious she has an incredible body. I can see why Oscar was despondent enough after to losing her to swear off dating.
Angela starts introducing me to the other Vogue staffers, but before she gets all the way around the table, the room erupts with the industrious buzz of simultaneous whispering. It starts in the back and sweeps over the space like a wave. Within seconds, word has spread to the farthest reaches of the ballroom that the Councilman’s wife is here.
Holly McDonough O’Malley marches into the room in her no-nonsense black dress with her head held high, but she’s not fooling anyone. She looks like she’s accidentally bitten into something rancid and cannot bring her well-bred self to spit it out. Her eyes sport tremendous dark circles and it seems she went a bit overboard in trying to cover up the worry lines that have no doubt deepened in recent days. The result being that her make-up looks crusty. Little lipstick flakes flutter around the edges of her narrow mouth and as she passes our table, I notice she’s got her hands clasped together to prevent them from shaking. At forty-five, the presumptive future lady of Gracie Mansion never seemed old to me, but it’s like the events of the past week have aged her ten years. I wonder whether Oscar looked that haggard after Olivia left him for the film maker, if he wore his
bitterness and betrayal on the outside for all to see. I wonder if he knows she’s back in New York. Does that change anything? Could she be the one he talks to behind closed doors in the middle of the night? My stomach lurches and my palms start to sweat. I fidget with my napkin and wonder whether people will notice that I look stricken.
My quick survey of the room confirms that all eyes remain on Holly O’Malley, who has taken a seat at the table next to her husband’s. All eyes, that is, except Marvin’s. He’s completely focused on the reason he came tonight, and, inexplicably, the boy toys are listening to his life story with rapt attention. I’ve heard the whole thing before, probably a dozen times. He’s going to tell them about his early, life-changing sexual experiences with an upperclassman in the boat house at boarding school.
Immediately after the waiters serve the first course, Kevin heads to the podium to introduce the Councilman. I’ve never heard him keep it so short and sweet. Under the unforgiving lights, his expression is nearly as dark as Holly O’Malley’s.
The Councilman takes the stage, looking surprisingly relaxed and in charge. Polite applause greets him. He thanks everyone for coming and cuts straight to the chase. “Many of you have been reading the news and wondering whether to believe the things they’ve been printing about me.”
People start whispering when he pauses for a breath, but the room falls silent again as soon as he continues. “Let me say this clearly, and unequivocally. I abhor all exploitation of women and children. Especially children. And in recent days, I’ve done a lot of research on the subject. My campaign has been working around the clock on this, and I believe there exists no better forum than this dinner to unveil my latest initiative.”
I glance over at Kevin. A tiny hint of a smile is forming at the corners of his mouth.
O’Malley clears his throat. “The average age a girl enters prostitution, or any segment of the adult entertainment industry, in New York City, is twelve. Twelve. Most of you probably didn’t know that, because the days of the Manhattan streetwalker are largely past. Tourists come to New York, and they don’t see the adolescent girls with half-dead souls selling their bodies. Which is a good thing for our local businesses, but it also makes it a little too easy for the average person to ignore this blight on our city.”
The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken Page 14