For All the Wrong Reasons

by Louise Bagshawe

  He cheapens everything, she thought bitterly. I thought I was special. He acts just that way with Tina when nobody’s looking, I bet.

  “Where are we going?” Brad asked.

  Diana looked up with a start. She had been thrusting through the crowd, smiling tightly at the movers and shakers, seething inside. She had forgotten Brad was with her.

  He was looking down at her. A man that treats me with ultimate respect, Diana thought. Good-looking. Good family. Prestigious. And hugely rich.

  “Let’s go back to your place,” she suggested.

  She swooped down on a waiter walking past with a fresh tray of champagne and grabbed a flute, tilting it back down her throat in a single gulp. Funny, she felt like Cinderella at the end of the ball, even though her finery had not turned to rags and she was leaving with the handsome prince.

  But this needed doing. It was time. After all, she had been dating him for months.

  “Really?” Brad asked, his blue eyes lighting up. “My driver is waiting outside.”

  He looked like a kid who had been told Christmas was coming, as eager and enthusiastic as a puppy dog. Then he checked himself with a visible effort of will. “Of course, I mean … we’ll have a nightcap.”

  “That’s right,” Diana said firmly. The champagne warmed her the way it always did. She felt courageous. “A nightcap and maybe something more.”

  *

  Brad’s limo was not a hired ride like the one Michael would be taking back to that little tramp of his. It was a twenty-four-hour, seven-days-a-week convenience whose drivers worked in shifts.

  “He’ll be ready to take you home whenever you want,” Brad assured her, as the man bowed, holding open the door for Diana.

  She smiled gently at him. “We’ll see when that is.”

  Brad’s place was immensely luxurious. In a cramped city barely five miles long and three miles wide supporting millions of people, space was at a premium; yet Brad Bailey had a large garden, an entrance hall with an ornamental fountain playing over real Italian marble, and a servant’s apartment in the basement. There were five bedrooms and three bathrooms, a library—how Diana had always longed for a house with a real, old-fashioned library—a beautiful roof terrace with a Japanese-inspired Zen-style garden, and modern reception rooms hung with Cubist paintings and a Picasso.

  “This place is beautiful,” she told him, as a butler—wearing modern chinos and a Gandhi-style jacket—took her pale-gray wrap and hung it up.

  “Thank you. I got it for peanuts from a Wall Street arbitrageur who got caught with his fist in the till.” Brad shrugged. “Benefits of being in real estate.”

  Diana wondered what “peanuts” meant in this context. Probably about the entire worth of her ex-husband.

  “Let’s go upstairs to the bar. We’ll fix our own drinks, Jenkins,” Brad said to the help.

  “Very good, Mr. Bailey.”

  Brad ushered Diana up the black stone staircase, laid with soft red carpet. “After you.”

  The bar was, as Brad put it, his little indulgence. In a house that had been decorated at huge expense to be clean and Euro-modern—sofas from Cerruti, Danish chairs, nothing but dark polished floors and clean simple lines—Brad had kept one room away from the clutches of his exclusive design firm. The bar was an exercise in seventies retro-chic. Fully equipped, it featured huge furry rugs on the floor, fake bear skins, and large chrome bar stools with cherry-red leather. Diana wondered what she could do here if it was her house to go over. It was a stunning property. It definitely needed a woman’s touch, though.

  “What can I get you? Champagne? We have Cristal, Taittinger rosé, Krug, Veuve Grande Dame…”

  “Jack Daniel’s and Coke,” Diana said.

  She felt the need to get bombed. Fucking Michael. This would show him, she thought. Let him go back downtown and bang the hell out of Tina Armis. She was up here, being courted, and she was going to have a good time.

  Brad raised an eyebrow. “You’re in a party mood.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?” Diana demanded, a touch belligerently.

  He held up his hands. “No reason. It’s just funny. Before I met you, I used to take out girls, sometimes bring them back here. And they would pick at lettuce leaves all night and then order a Perrier. It drove me nuts.”

  He handed her a glass full of golden liquor and poured a splash of black Coke into it. It was almost undrinkable, but she sipped at it anyway.

  “Well, they were auditioning,” Diana told him. “It’s a classic good-girl ploy. They were auditioning to be your wife. I bet you they ate before they went out to dinner. It’s reverse competition. The girl that eats least at the table wins.”

  Brad laughed aloud. God, she was so funny and enchanting. Having her here was like holding the winning ticket in the lottery and having the delicious anticipation of cashing it in.

  “Can I be honest with you?”

  Diana took a big slug of her JD. “Hell yes. All the boys are being honest this evening. Why not you?”

  “When I first met you I knew who you were and I came after you.”

  “Well, I knew that.”

  “No, hear me out.” He looked a little shifty. “I had stayed single for about as long as I could. You know, one day a man wakes up and he knows it’s time to get married, to settle down, to get himself an heir. And then, if you’re a man like me, you want the best. Since I was small, I’ve been used to the best.”

  “I’d never have guessed.” Diana beamed, pleased with her own wit.

  “You were famous. You were English, you had a classy reputation. The way you handled the thing with your ex-husband was wonderful. No press interviews, no National Enquirer exposés.”

  “As if I would.”

  “Well, a man in my position needs to know that if the shit comes down, there won’t be any scandal. I saw a woman who’d been through the worst that can happen to a society wife and who had kept her mouth shut. Even though you somehow lost out on his money.”

  Diana straightened. “Quite a test,” she said evenly.

  “But you passed. And then when I saw you, it turned from being … a … socially proper decision into being a personal one. You are just so breathtaking. And you kept me at arm’s length. You know how long it’s been since I had to chase a woman?”

  “I don’t think you’ve ever had to chase anything,” Diana said.

  “That’s pretty much true.” Brad was unapologetic. “I never have. But the result is I am head over heels, incredibly, amazingly, utterly in love with you, Diana.”

  She tossed back the rest of her drink.

  “Let’s go to bed,” Diana said.

  *

  The master bedroom was a fantasy. The flooring was warm chocolate-brown marble, the rugs subtle shades of cream and ivory. The bed in the center of the room was suspended from a pole made of clear glass, so that it seemed to float above the floor. It was draped with rich satin and silk sheets, down pillows and soft comforters. Diana stared at it. It looked like the most comfortable thing she had ever seen. Sunk deep into a corner of the marble was a whirlpool bath the size of a small swimming pool, with discreet little bottles from Czech & Speake lined up alongside it.

  Brad steered her gently toward the bed.

  “You’re the kind of woman who ought to have things like this,” he whispered. Diana felt his breath hot in her ear, playing against the nape of her neck. The buzz from the liquor was stealing over her, making her languid, making her bones feel like they could just pour flat onto the bed. “You work, but there’s no need for it. You should throw nice dinners, tennis parties at my place in the Vineyard. Decorate. Have babies.”

  He punctuated each phrase with a kiss, laid soft as down on her neck and the hollows of her throat.

  “It can be like it was before for you,” he murmured. “Better. Because you’ll have the kind of husband a woman like you deserves.”

  “Husband?” Diana muttered dreamily.

  Brad scooped
her into his arms and laid her on the bed, reddening from her weight. Then his hands were on her back, seeking out her zipper, delicately peeling the clothes from her like a museum director unwrapping a priceless artifact.

  “That’s what I said,” he whispered, and moved to kiss the slopes of her warm, freckled breasts.

  *

  The scent of breakfast woke her. Diana propped herself up, her head throbbing, and tried to deal with the cold winter light streaming through Brad’s vast French windows. He was already up and dressed, standing at the doorway taking a breakfast tray from a maid. She smelled fresh-roasted vanilla coffee, saw crisp bacon and a fluffy egg-white and fine-herb omelette. There was also a pitcher of squeezed blood oranges, ice-cold springwater and a warm, sun-ripened peach.

  Brad walked across the floor and laid the tray across her knees.

  “No need to get up,” he said.

  “But there is. I’m late for work already,” Diana said, dismayed.

  “Sure. Your office,” he said, a little patronizingly. “I know. I took the liberty of laying out some work things for you on that chair over there. I had one of my contacts at Women’s Wear Daily guess your size for me, in the hope that one day you’d stay over here.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “You should be. I plan ahead. I gotta go, honey.” Brad kissed her on the tip of her nose. “I have a closing on a luxury block in the Village. Twelve mil. Look, last night was just incredible. You think about what I said, OK? I want us to be married. It’s the right thing for both of us.”

  He smiled at her and walked out, giving her a little wave.

  Diana poured a cup of the coffee, set the rest of the tray aside and staggered toward the bathroom set to the side. Brad’s power shower had six jets and a range of shampoos hand-blended in Switzerland. It was inlaid with pale blue stone studded with small brass stars everywhere. Like showering in heaven, she thought. Anxiously she checked her face. No spots, despite sleeping in her make-up. Diana showered, then grabbed a towel and dried herself, slurping down a little more of the steaming brew and letting the fog in her brain clear.

  Last night was … what? She had gotten drunk, and obviously had had sex with Brad. Except the problem was she didn’t remember it. Diana pulled off the towel and glanced down at her body. There were none of the scratches and bruises she’d had after a night with Michael. If they had had sex, it must have been sweet, polite sex. She wondered if she’d actually passed out, from the booze, in the middle of it.

  Possibly. Knowing men, though, he would only take that as a compliment.

  She walked over to the chair and looked at the clothes he had left. A smart green Prada suit and a crisp white shirt; Woolford hose and sleek Chanel mules. Very nice. Hurriedly she tugged them on and regarded her reflection in the full-length Swedish mirror. A perfect fit, too.

  Money buys everything, she thought.

  Her life had come full circle. Marrying Ernie for … for money. And getting divorced for naivety, for pride. Now she actually had a job and because she hadn’t chased money, money had come chasing her.

  Elspeth would be thrilled. Claire would cheer from the rafters.

  Natasha, Jodie and Felicity wouldn’t know what had hit them.

  Diana brushed out her hair with the Mason Pearson hairbrush laid out by the side of her clothes and rushed downstairs. The butler who had let her in was in the hall and bowed slightly when she appeared.

  “Jenkins has the car waiting for you, madam.” He handed her a small Louis Vuitton case. “Mr. Bailey took the opportunity of having your things packed up.”

  Incredulously, Diana unzipped the rich-smelling leather. There were her pearls, her dress, her lingerie and her shoes, beautifully wrapped between crisp sheets of acid-free tissue paper.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “If you’ll step this way, madam,” he suggested, opening the elevator to the underground garage.

  The journey downtown was fast, but it seemed to take forever.

  The driver was blessedly silent. Relaxing against the comfortable back seat, Diana took advantage of the small silver coffeepot and cup prepared for her and watched the tall buildings of Park Avenue slip past. The noise and bustle of the city was converted to silent images in her soundproofed luxury, and she could rest her head against the tinted windows with no fear that anybody could look inside at her.

  How comfortable, how easy, life as Mrs. Brad Bailey would be.

  *

  Jenkins let her out right in front of the office. There weren’t that many limos in that part of town. The passersby rubbernecked with their Starbucks muffins and deli coffee. Diana thanked the driver and rushed into the office.

  “Morning, Miss Verity.” Ellen, her assistant, looked up at her anxiously. “I left a few messages at your house. I’m sorry. I was a bit worried.”

  “That’s OK, I should have called in,” Diana said. She wasn’t about to explain further. She fought back a blush; what she did in her private time was her business. “I’m just going to see Mr. Cicero. If you could get my call sheet ready?”

  “But Miss Verity—”

  Diana ignored her plaintive call and marched inside. There was Tina, sitting in front of Michael’s office wearing a tight jersey dress that left nothing to the imagination. If you liked string beans, Diana thought viciously.

  “Where’s Michael?” she asked.

  “He told me he was taking a day off,” Tina said, smiling sweetly at Diana. “He asked me to ask you to look after the business today.”

  “Oh,” Diana was floored. She’d had a thousand excuses ready and now he was taking a day off? That was like the Pope taking a day off. It just didn’t happen.

  “Miss Verity,” Tina said, “I wonder if I could have a little chat with you?”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Felicity looked around her dinner table and smiled tightly at her guests. She gave Mort and Natty Zuckerman a little wave, nodded her head so her earrings sparkled, and smoothed down her little black Gucci dress. It was a successful do by anybody’s standards. There was Lola Givens, the Met’s latest black opera diva; Charles Lenten, the plastic surgeon; Amica the supermodel; and the usual gaggle of business tycoons and politicians. Monsieur Letrec, Felicity’s new cook, had done an excellent job. The duck confit and orange salad was a success, as was the green tea sorbet, the vintage Krug, and the Chateau Lafite 1962.

  But the atmosphere was sadly muted.

  Annoyed, she looked over at Ernie. His voice was just that bit too loud, braying over the table. They had fought several times this week about his manners. Felicity was tired of smoothing over Ernie’s rough edges. Despite her little Rolodex files on every one of his acquaintances, their wives, likes and dislikes, it was getting harder to cover up for his racist jokes and off-color speeches. Ernie had never been subtle, and since the troubles at Blakely’s, things had become worse. She sipped her water—no wine, somebody had to be there to manage things if Ernie got drunk.

  “Your ring is wonderful.”

  Felicity smiled over at Elise Davenport, the latest young wife of Horace, the paper-mill king. She lifted one slim hand and flashed her diamond. Three full carats and a surrounding band of rubies. Yes, there was the compensating factor of Ernie’s pocketbook. Despite their little spats, she was getting some wonderful toys out of this. Ernie had to spend to hold onto quality, she reminded herself.

  “Thank you. Tiffany’s designed it specially.”

  Elise nodded. “It’s so wonderful of your fiancé, especially with the way things are.”

  Felicity’s radar prickled. “Have you heard something, dear?”

  The word was all over the street. Felicity scorned business—vulgar talk of money, she liked to say—but the wives’ network was a more accurate barometer of current worth than Barron’s.

  Apparently Ernie was in some kind of trouble. His big-name writers were still selling, but not enough to cover the money spent on promoting them. Then there was the computer-
games thing. Felicity bit her lower lip. She had so looked forward to rubbing Ernie’s new venture into Diana Verity’s face, but it wasn’t working out that way. The staff, brought in at huge expense from Imperial, chafed under Ernie’s strict working conditions. Suits, ties and signing-in didn’t suit them. Their work was substandard and the code checkers had missed the bugs. Games were delayed, faulty and often boring. After the first burst of heavily advertised sales success, the book problem was repeating itself here.

  Ernie had told her last night that Blakely’s board was worried.

  “Please, darling.” Felicity snapped. She had the impulse to reach for a cigarette. “I’m so uninterested in your work problems. Why don’t you fix them and leave me to run the house?”

  She flounced off before he could bend her ear. All Ernie had to do was keep things going just the way they were. Was that too much to ask?

  Felicity was beginning to wonder just how deep the slide would go.

  Anxiously she waited for Elise’s reply.

  “Oh, nothing.” Her guest forked a tiny radicchio leaf into her peach-glossed mouth. “And anyway, I’m sure it’ll all soon be fixed.”

  Felicity scowled and summoned the waitress over with a snap of her red-taloned fingers. Maybe she would take some champagne after all.

  *

  “Of course, Tina,” Diana said. “We can go into Mr. Cicero’s office. Did he tell you where he was going, by the way?”

  The younger girl pushed herself up and opened the door to Michael’s office. A waft of Chanel No. 5 hit Diana. It reeked, as if Tina had taken to emptying an entire bottle over herself.

  “No,” she said, shutting the door. “He didn’t have that much time this morning, Diana—do you mind if I call you Diana?”

  “No,” Diana said, gritting her teeth.

  She did mind, she had worked hard to be made director of this company. But she didn’t want Tina to think she was picking on her, because of Michael. Then Tina might get the silly idea that Diana resented her. “Go ahead,” she said.