For All the Wrong Reasons

by Louise Bagshawe

  “Yeah. They do. Kids will pretty much perform as well as you set their expectations.”

  “The Lion King.” Seth made a face. “Can’t we do any better than that? Barney? Is that what it is?”

  “Did you hear,” Michael said seriously, taking the time to pronounce his letters because the beer wasn’t going to affect him, dammit, “about that school down in Alabama? This new teacher got her classes mixed up, and she thought the remedial string was the advanced string. She ditched all her stuff and started hitting them with Shakespeare.”

  “What happened?”

  “They all started making As.”

  “See? We give kids the early texts. Smart stories. Actual adjectives. Multisyllabic words.”

  “What are you, the writer? You just draw the pictures.”

  “Scary pictures. Dark forests.”

  “Looming mountains. Give me some pizza, you greedy jerk. Monsters. With teeth. Height. Tall castles that look like castles.”

  “Not Mickey’s Magic Kingdom.”

  “We’re going to make a fortune.” Michael had grinned.

  Now he wasn’t thinking about the kids anymore. Maybe it made him a bad person, just another greedy suit, but today it was all about the sales. Getting the line out to the booksellers was just the first step. Covers had to be presented, reviewers courted, press obtained, and then there was space. What good did it do him if bookstores stocked the line if they didn’t rack it out front? Getting the thing in the front of the stores where the casually shopping mom would buy it—that was vital.

  A new line had a shot, it always had a shot. But if the books didn’t make it in the first month, they’d be shoved aside, replaced with the latest cheap horror story for teenagers or Sweet Valley High kids’ soap opera. And his little company would never get another chance, at least, not for years.

  He had an opportunity here, Michael thought, and it made his blood pound as he stepped off the train. Midtown was still mostly empty. He could get into his office and practice his presentation. First the Blakely’s people needed convincing, then the booksellers and then the public. Life for him was nothing but meetings. His presentation today would really determine Green Eggs’ future.

  Harry was on reception today. Michael wished him good morning and asked for his keys, but he told him the lady already had them. That was a surprise; Susan was enthusiastic, but he didn’t expect her in at this hour.

  Michael stepped off the elevator and shoved open the doors to his offices, and stopped dead in his tracks. The shapeliest ass he’d ever seen, swathed in tight, demure, amazingly sexy dark-green cotton, was pointing at him, bent over from a waspish waist. He breathed in sharply and felt an unwelcome tightness in his groin. He knew he should say something, but he was rooted to the spot.

  She lifted herself and turned around.

  “You’re staring at me,” Diana Foxton said.

  EIGHTEEN

  Felicity flipped open the note from Diana and read the few brief, gracious lines. Yes, she had definitely gone. She was going to check in at the Paramount tonight, and would find a furnished apartment from there.

  Felicity tapped the crisp paper against her bronzed skin. Excitement zipped through her veins. Humming a little tune to herself, she sauntered into her master bathroom and started to prepare herself for the day ahead.

  As Felicity washed her golden hair with the rich jasmine-scented conditioner they made up for her specially at Frederic Fekkai, she found it easy to convince herself that she was doing Diana a favor. Ernie Foxton would never change and if Diana was that bothered about a little fucking, a little standard extracurricular activity, well—he wasn’t the right man for her. You needed to be open about new things. Diana could stand to lose a few pounds, and fit in with the New York crowd. Felicity stepped out of the shower and blasted her hair with her sleek professional dryer, mentally rehearsing her wardrobe and make-up choices for the important day ahead.

  First she’d have to run this entire situation by Natty and Jodie. It was important to spread the word, to put the Foxtons’ rocky union out there into the realm of gossip, speculation and nasty items in the press. Ruminatively, Felicity selected a buttercup-yellow pair of slim jersey pants with a knitted, off-the-shoulder silken top. The sensual fabric poured over her like melted butter, clinging to her thin frame and emphasising her tan. No, Diana wasn’t suited to New York society, Felicity decided with a wonderful glow of self-righteousness. Perhaps they did things differently across the pond. Such a fuss about nothing! It was kinder to help both her and Ernie see the light.

  There was no denying, she thought, as she brushed out her blond hair and finished it with a gleaming spritz, that Diana had made a success of her first months here. But how quickly she’d fallen from grace; being foolish about little, inconsequential Mira Chen, and going to the wives with the news; as well as busting in on Ernie, and then—unbelievably—moving out. Felicity stared approvingly at her fine cheekbones in the mirror as she dusted blusher across them. Why hadn’t Diana simply backed out of the room, pretended not to have seen it? No harm done … She was practically asking for somebody to interfere. Perhaps that’s what she wanted, subconsciously, Felicity thought. Yes, Dr. Modal, Felicity’s therapist, would definitely say so.

  Felicity wandered into her eat-in kitchen and set her Krups machine to grinding her Mocha Walnut Decaf. She had a small fruit salad, all she would eat, prepared in the fridge. So important to keep the weight under control.

  Married barely six months! Why, even in America, how much money would a first wife walk away with? Surely not that much. Of course, there were outrageously good divorce lawyers in New York. But both Foxtons were Brits, even if Ernie did have dual citizenship. Felicity applied her fire-engine-red lipstick with grim purpose, lining and blotting like a pro. Hadn’t she read someplace that the English had crazy divorce laws that gave the wife little more than support? She’d need to investigate.

  She poured out her coffee and gazed at her reflection in the long mirrors of her closet. Delightful. She looked fresh, American, a rich Manhattan lady. The kind for whom it was just a sacrilege to be divorced. Felicity had done her time in the horrible outer reaches of society, frozen out of every important party unless a spare woman was needed, seated at the lowest tables at the charity balls, completely left off certain ladies’ dinner lists and, finally, placed in Siberia at all the important restaurants.

  Felicity shuddered. Never again. She had done penance and learned her lesson, and it seemed as though, miraculously, the universe was offering her a second chance. This time, she would do it right.

  Once word got out about Diana Foxton’s hysterical behavior, every unattached twenty-something in town would know that Ernie Foxton was fair game. It was moving fast that would secure her the prize.

  She felt a thrill of gratitude toward Diana. By coming to her, the silly little English girl had given Felicity a head start on everybody else, and if her prey got away, it would not be for any lack of trying.

  She dialed up Natasha and Jodie and arranged a small, intimate lunch at the Four Seasons. They both accepted right away, which meant they must realize she had some important gossip to share. Next, she dialed Ernie’s number, but the machine picked up, so she replaced the receiver. She tried his office, and Marcia told her that Ernie was in a meeting, but would call her back. She left her number, and then paced about the room, eagerly awaiting his call.

  Felicity Foxton. It had such a ring to it.

  *

  “I’m not staring at you.” Cicero recovered his composure. “I was rather surprised to see you in so early.”

  “No need to be.” Diana straightened, and looked at him with icy hauteur. Michael took in how she was dressed, with the schoolgirl black flat penny loafers, and some tight, neat little green suit. Her face had half the cosmetics that were on it yesterday, her hair was swept back, and he couldn’t help thinking she was the most stunning creature he had ever laid eyes on. “You said yesterday I was la
te. I didn’t want that to happen again.”

  “I see.” Michael repressed the impulse to scratch his head. “That’s good. Maybe you can brew me a pot of coffee.”

  “Already done,” Diana said. The words were polite, but the tone was clipped, sarcastic, almost insulting. Her blue eyes were ice as she looked at him. He guessed she was saying in no uncertain terms that a girl like her was out of his league.

  Well, he didn’t have time for battles. If she wanted to try and put him down today she was going to need to do better than a cold look. Michael had his own problems, and he didn’t have time for Diana’s.

  “Good. Bring it into my office,” he said, shortly. “And find me the files on the new line.”

  He walked away from her. Outside Green Eggs, sure, she was a big shot and a princess. But in this office she was the recipient of a charity job. Michael felt his good mood evaporating already. If Diana were single, he thought, he would take her out, and crush her to him and kiss her until she was squirming and ready to beg for his phone number, and then he wouldn’t give it to her. Well, maybe he’d bang her once or twice. Probably twice. But that would be it. Girls like Diana were high maintenance, and that meant trouble. He didn’t need to work at a relationship, Michael thought. He worked hard enough in business hours.

  And anyway, Diana was married to that prick, his boss.

  He reminded himself he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Diana. He was going out with Iris.

  Michael flipped on the lights and reached into his desk for his notes. They were all here, thick sheaves of them, his handwritten scrawl extending over eighteen pages of yellow foolscap. Maybe little miss rich girl out there could type them for him. It gave him something of a kick, to think of those perfect, glossy nails tapping menially on a computer with his work. Yeah. If she wanted a job, let her work for the money.

  He lifted the receiver and dialed Seth, who cursed him out with a string of blue epithets that would have done credit to a particularly angry sailor.

  “You need to wake up. Get your butt out here,” Michael said firmly. “I may need back-up, and besides, what if they need to talk to a creative?”

  “Is that what I am? A creative?” There was a pitiful groan on the other end of the line. “It’s the middle of the night, and you talk as though I were an advertising executive. I’m not a suit, Mike. You’re a suit.”

  “It’s just one day. Get out here, you lazy bastard.” Michael cupped one hand over the receiver. Diana Foxton had glided into his office with notes and a steaming mug of coffee. His stomach growled slightly. “Put it down on the table, Diana. So what were you saying?”

  Seth continued to protest. Michael didn’t know why other people were just not as committed as he was. Diana was still hovering on the edge of his vision, and her waist and legs were intensely distracting. Just because she’d covered them up, didn’t mean they weren’t distracting.

  “Get here by quarter to ten at the latest,” he said, hanging up on his partner. He eyed Diana.

  “You brought my notes?”

  She nodded and made a brief, clipped gesture to the folder she’d laid on his desk in front of him. The huge sparkler on her left hand caught the light as she waved it. It had probably cost more than his entire apartment. Michael bristled. “Then what are you waiting for? Don’t you have work to do?”

  “Oh, I have plenty of work to do.” Her cool English accent was so confident, so refined. “But I’m afraid I have to object to your language.”

  Michael blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Certainly, I will excuse you. This time,” Diana said.

  “I don’t think I follow you,” Michael said coldly. The chick had some set of balls. Rebuking him in his own office, when he ran the damn place. Maybe she thought being Ernie’s wife meant she could throw her weight around? If so, he would be happy to disillusion her. He frowned.

  “I did not use any language to you.”

  She stood her ground, eyeing him, he thought, like he was some drunk bum who was crashing one of her rich-chick dinners. “Not to me, no. But in front of me. You asked me to dress appropriately for the office, Mr. Cicero, and I did. But I would ask you to speak appropriately for the office in front of a lady.”

  Michael colored with annoyance. “I suppose you are going to sue me for sexual harassment?” he snapped.

  She gave a delicate little laugh. A million-dollar laugh. Maybe more.

  “I doubt it. I—we—hardly need the money. And that’s an American thing. I don’t sue, I just handle it.”

  Oh you do? Fighting talk, for somebody who did one day’s work in her whole life, Michael thought. He inclined his head. “Very well, Diana. I stand corrected. You can go now.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cicero,” Diana said quietly, and left his office, shutting the door gently behind her.

  Michael slumped in his chair and drank his coffee and tried to concentrate on his notes. It was very hard. Damn that spoiled society brat. Damn her. He looked at his watch. Hurry up, Susan, he thought, I really need you here.

  *

  “She didn’t.” Natty Zuckerman breathed.

  “Oh, but she did,” Felicity half whispered, with just the right note of affection and concern in her voice. Jodie Goodfriend said nothing, but shook her perfect little blond bob.

  They were seated at one of the best tables in the Four Seasons. Felicity’s hawk-like gaze had already spotted Barry Diller and David Geffen, the entertainment moguls, and Cindy Crawford with Rande Gerber. The “Mrs. Zuckerman” and “Mrs. Goodfriend” had proved to be key. She could never have been seated at the last minute without them and, of course, not in a decent section like this, where ladies could see and be seen. The discreet golden rings on the fingers of the older women flashed at Felicity like laurel wreaths of victory. Mrs. Ernie Foxton might not have quite the same punching power, but it would be a close thing. Give me six months, Felicity thought, and they’ll bump Cindy herself to seat me.

  The waiter approached with a little more champagne. Cristal at this place cost the same as a seat on a plane to Europe—if you went coach, of course. Felicity nodded with an imperious air. Her guests were extremely socially secure, and therefore they could drink at lunch if they chose to. Anyway, wasn’t champagne supposed to be virtually calorie free? All the supermodels drank it. Felicity couldn’t afford business class much these days and, of course, she would never fly coach but she had splashed out for the champagne and the meal. She had known these women for years, and when she was really Mrs. Metson, they had been close. Felicity was desperate to regain her footing.

  The soft music and flattering lighting, the small portions and overdressed plates, soothed Felicity’s jangling nerves like nothing else. This was the life she was born for. Would Natty and Jodie support a palace coup? Gently, so gently, she tested the waters.

  “I worry about Diana. She took her clothes, and I think she’s actually moving out.”

  “Tell me more,” Jodie murmured, pushing her curly endive lettuce around the fine china plate.

  “Well. This must be in complete confidence, of course. We have Ernie to think of, too,” Felicity said, dropping her voice responsibly. “But Diana barged into the room without knocking, and it seems he was found in a … compromising position.”

  Natty Zuckerman put one hand over her mouth and arched her elegantly plucked brows. “No! She actually forced her way in?”

  “She saw everything, too,” Felicity said, affecting sorrow. “She thinks the staff heard them. Very embarrassing.”

  “Very,” Natty agreed, a smidgen too enthusiastically. “It’ll be all around the city by now.”

  “You know how people talk,” Jodie agreed. Now she could blab to all her girlfriends and blame the maids and Diana’s doorman. It was a terrific story. What a fool Diana Foxton must be. “And she was so popular, too. The Post write-up on her last two parties…”

  “Yes. ‘The Queen of New York,’” Natty Zuckerman quoted.

  Fel
icity fought to hide her triumphant grin. She couldn’t stand these two, and they couldn’t stand her, but they were all on the same team. Natasha and Jodie had been giving elegant little parties for years, but neither of them had ever captured the columns the way “Princess” Diana had. They were jealous, and she recognized at once that they shared her desire to see the English girl take a tumble.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. For Diana’s sake, and, of course, for dear Ernie’s. I don’t think I can forget that Ernie is a friend, too.”

  “A good friend,” Jodie nodded.

  Natasha speared a piece of her healthy steamed broccoli and looked Felicity square in the eye.

  “If you want my confidential advice, my dear,” she said, “you have a definite duty to talk this all through with Ernie. We can’t allow him to be so severely compromised.”

  “Where will Diana be staying? Will she be going home?” Jodie Goodfriend inquired.

  “I think at a hotel,” Felicity pretended not to know, “and then a short-term furnished apartment.”

  “That’s an excellent idea. Space to cool down. Perhaps you could go and have a private talk with Ernie,” Jodie said.

  Felicity lifted her champagne flute and sipped reflectively, like the idea had never occurred to her. Natasha gave her a tiny nod. It was the green light. The wives would be on her side, not Diana’s, and the English girl would get no warning of what was coming. She almost felt sorry for Diana. Her party was definitely over.

  “I’ll do that,” she agreed.

  NINETEEN

  Ernie looked around the packed room and grinned quietly to himself.

  Michael Cicero had the booksellers in the palm of his hand. Each successive Green Eggs cover was greeted with warm smiles and nods of approval. They were leaning forward in their seats, like they could hear the cash registers ringing already. You could tell when a buyer was faking it; this was the real thing. That faggot, Seth Horowitz, had a good line when he talked about the creative team of illustrators. The large letters with the complicated patterns—so much crap, in Ernie’s honest opinion, but he didn’t care about his personal taste. The kids overruled him. Ernie hated kids anyway: they were whiny little brats without anything interesting about them. Except, of course, their ability to nag their parents for books.