They toasted Will and the conversation moved on. The phrase had merit, Peter thought. It was like something Tyler and he had been working on, during the previous week, but much more elegant.
“Nice job,” he whispered to Will later, after dessert, when McCaw got up to visit the other tables and people started table-hopping.
“Oh, thanks,” said Will, slightly tipsy. But he was being pulled away by Peyton, who was terribly interested in magazines and wanted to know more about Will’s magazine.
As the guests moved back to the salon for coffee and petits fours, Peter stood talking with Mary and an insurance executive she brought over. The man was kind but dim, and Peter delighted himself secretly by glancing across the room as often as he dared at Will, who was looking so sharp, in his Prada and sneakers, and seemed to be doing so well. He was installed in one of the seating areas with Peyton and some of the other ladies. Laughter periodically pealed from the group.
Then, as Peter was excusing himself to go find a powder room, McCaw’s brother-in-law appeared and introduced himself.
“Oh, hey,” said Peter. “I had the pleasure of talking with your wife over dinner.”
“Nice,” said Miller. “Hendy said I should find you and say hello.”
“Are you in advertising?”
“God, no,” said Miller, with a laugh. “Right now, I’m helping some people get a media venture off the ground.” Miller described the project, which sounded vague, but Peter saw no harm in responding positively. There was something of the charmer about Miller, even the dilettante. He was very handsome, in an overripe sort of way. Peter realized that he had seen the guy around before. One of those idle pleasure-seekers . . .
Then it dawned on Peter: This was the guy whom McCaw wanted him to meet! Fiona probably even knew! Did McCaw really think that Peter would be interested in such a creature? Did he think that an acquaintance with Peter would serve as some sort of corrective for Miller? The possibilities were absurd.
“Are you a partner, then?” said Peter. “Or an investor . . . ?”
“I’m all that—sure,” chuckled Miller, with a wink.
Completely unserious, Peter judged. This was a type that Peter knew well. In the old days, someone like Miller might have been called a playboy; and the ambisexual vibe was part of that, Peter knew, not because it represented self-discovery or a philosophy about sexual identity, but because it was easy.
“Cool,” said Peter. “Well, how awesome for you to have this place as your home. Fiona mentioned that you live here.”
“Yeah, and I grew up here,” said Miller. “For a long time, it was just my mom and me. And then she moved to Singapore and I moved upstairs, into the guest apartment. We were going to rent the place out, and then Jenna and Hendy decided to move in. The more the merrier!”
Peter spotted Fiona on the other side of the room, chatting intently with a much older man with scraggly hair. Poor girl, he thought.
“You and your friend might wanna drop by for drinks some time,” continued Miller.
“Drinks?”
“Fiona and I try to do a proper cocktail hour, when she’s in town. Sometimes we get the Carlyle to send over a bartender and some nibbles and a piano player. It’s kinda nice.”
“Really?” said Peter. “Wow.” Not in a million years, he thought.
The powder room was downstairs—a classic chapel in marble and chrome. The details were impeccable: the black-and-white checkerboard floor, the onyx-trimmed faucet handles. Peter guessed the room represented an expensive “modernization” that had been done in the ’20s and kept intact ever since. The mirror reflecting a pleasantly buzzed dinner guest in black tie, framed by a voluptuously wrought molding of white marble, had probably already been in place for decades, Peter thought, when his own family’s house was built, in the mid-’50s. It seemed so solid, McCaw’s powder room, the whole mansion. The walls felt three-feet thick. The tin magnate had undoubtedly called for the finest materials, the best construction. Peter’s place was a wood-framed split level, built on the cheap by a gang of locals his father had always referred to as the “Baxter boys.” His first sight of the house, as a child of three, had been horrifying, because, as yet only a shell of two-by-fours, it was transparent, incorporeal. His father was proud because the place was so big; all Peter could think of was that it could never shelter anyone from one of the electrical storms he hated so much. His mother explained what it meant to build a house, which helped. So did her asking him to help pick out decorative tile from among the samples the Baxter boys had brought, for the bathroom that would be his.
The party was beginning to break up when Peter rejoined Will, who was talking with Miller and Fiona, Peyton and Reynold, and some of the others. Will seemed to fit right in. Even his sneakers were drawing compliments, though whether this was in genuine admiration or patronizing tolerance wasn’t clear. Peter remembered once caring about the difference between the two. Now, he knew it really didn’t matter.
Good-byes were the usual nice-nice, as were the promises of getting together again soon. Jenna and McCaw, who were saying good night to people at the front door, were noticeably nice to Will.
“Come back and see us again,” said McCaw. Security was now outside, on the sidewalk.
“Thanks, guys,” said Will.
In the car, Peter and Will were quiet, in a contented way. There was a lot to say about the evening, but it seemed better to sink into the calm of the backseat and only map out, for the moment, some of the territory that they would undoubtedly be discussing in detail for months.
“Intense,” said Peter.
“Ooof,” said Will.
“But basically fun.”
“It was fine.”
“The ladies loved you.”
“Ladies usually do.”
The car would take them to Queens, where it would drop Will, then take Peter on to Brooklyn Heights. It was around midnight. Traffic on the FDR was light.
“Fiona’s a trip,” said Peter.
“Right? It turns out we have some music people in common.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm, from London.”
“Cool.”
If Will were nursing any antipathies toward McCaw, or if some of these had been blunted by his enjoyment of a preposterous party, he didn’t let on. Masses of city glittered and glared through the dark, as they slid by.
“She’s pretty smart,” said Peter. “We talked a lot about her work—global compliance for a movie studio.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Though what she’s doing with a guy like Miller . . .”
“Ya never know,” said Will, settling deeper into the seat’s leather plush.
Peter remembered Will laughing at one of Miller’s jokes, when they were all standing there in a group, at the end of the party.
“You guys seemed to know each other,” said Peter.
“I guess we’ve met before.”
“You guess?”
“We must have run into each other at a party.”
“Gay?”
“Who knows.”
“Did you know he was there—I mean, before dinner?”
“I saw him.”
“You didn’t say hello?”
“It’s not like we’re friends, Peter. Besides, we were talking to all those nice people.”
“I’m . . . surprised.”
Will patted Peter on the knee, shaking his head.
“He manages my funds,” said Will.
“Very funny,” said Peter. But Will seemed tired—his eyes were closed—and Peter decided not to press.
They were silent for a while; then, when they were crossing the bridge, Peter spoke.
“He’s not such a bad guy, McCaw.”
Will came back immediately.
“He’s evil and so are all those people.”
“You think so?” said Peter. “You didn’t let on.”
“I have manners. And I am capable of thinking two though
ts at the same time.”
Peter laughed.
“That’s the key, isn’t it?” he said. “Two thoughts at the same time.”
“I mean, I’m happy to drink the guy’s wine and be civil to his friends,” said Will, “but did you hear what some of those people were saying, what they think?”
“I know.”
“You’re working for that.”
“I know.”
“At some point, my not-boyfriend, it’s gonna get real sticky for you.”
Peter brightened.
“Did you just call me your not-boyfriend?” he squealed. “That’s so sweet!”
Drowsily, amusedly shaking his head, Will gave Peter’s knee another pat.
Peter sat back and tried to enjoy the view. Was he really going to help direct the national conversation, as Mary said? It was nice to think he had the power to do so. Advertising had afforded him the power to direct certain kinds of conversations, but this new alliance with political ambition had fostered both the power and the ambition to do something larger with his talent. Peter liked being at the table with players—though of course McCaw and his chums were not the players he would have chosen. And this created a dilemma. Peter had blundered up to this new level of power. He hadn’t chosen it, precisely; he had been chosen for it, and accepted. But the real point of playing on this level, he’d begun to see, was to choose the players and to set the agenda. The point was autonomy, and real grace was possible when one’s strongest interests served the largest common good. Otherwise, what was talent for? Yet given the position he was in, and the contract he had signed, what was he to do now? Begin charting his own direction more aggressively, which would mean breaking with McCaw and seeking out those with whom politically and culturally he had more in common? This was a much more aggressive mode of living than he had ever practiced before, and he wasn’t even sure he wanted that. A sensible course of action, it seemed, would be to play a bit longer at the table where he was, and observe all he could about the way things work there, and about how that kind of power and his own temperament might map onto each other. He was discovering something new about himself every day, through this gig—about masculinity, even adulthood—and it was exhilarating. Couldn’t he just keep going and have a good time, and stay aware of all the compromises that were possible, and build some kind of protective structure for himself, to shield him from the dark side?
Will was dozing. Peter would have to wake him when they arrived at his house.
It was a place to visit, McCaw’s world, but not necessarily to live in, Peter decided. If there were really insights to be gained there about power and influence, and how these meshed with talent and intelligence, then fine. It would be a growth experience—and how nice to have such a propulsive one, at the age of almost sixty! And there to help him think clearly, and help protect him, if necessary, would be Will....
CHAPTER 20
Laura was furious when Peter told her he’d taken Will to McCaw’s dinner party.
“What were you thinking?” she squawked.
“It was a social invitation,” said Peter.
“C’mon, honey. There’s no such thing as social. This is business.”
She was standing at the door of his office, having stopped by to ask how the evening went. As it happened, she knew the Sandersons and some of the others, and was thrilled to hear about Sunny’s spectacular earrings.
“It was fine,” said Peter. “Will was a big hit.”
“You should have taken me,” said Laura. She was dressed in one of her power outfits: a black suit whose jacket buttoned rakishly on the diagonal.
“I wasn’t aware we were dating,” said Peter.
“Seriously,” she said dourly. “You represent this company when you attend things like that.”
“Don’t lecture me, Laura,” said Peter. “I wasn’t attending anything. I was a guest in someone’s home. Besides, Will said something over dinner that really tickled McCaw’s fancy—something about the simple versus the complicated.” He didn’t want to tell Laura the exact phrase, for fear of hearing her thoughts about it.
“What do you mean?” she said.
“It was just dinner talk, but McCaw’s been really hyping on it.”
“Simple versus complicated—what is that?”
“This is one of the directions that we’ve been working with, that his team really likes. Will hit on a formulation that really adds strength to what we’re doing.”
“What is it again?”
“We’re cooking it, Laura,” said Peter. “I’ll put it in our weekly thing.”
“All right,” she said, knowing she had little choice but to let the creative star be the creative star.
“He called Will ‘brilliant,’ ” said Peter.
“And this kid’s a bartender or something?”
“Laura, I told you—he’s an editor.”
“Oh, right,” she said, suddenly interested, after Peter reminded her which magazine. “Do we need to hire him?”
“Go away and let me work. You look great today.”
Actually, what McCaw had said to Peter, earlier that morning in a video call, was, “That date of yours was brilliant! I like the way he thinks.” Which made Peter feel proud and icky all at the same time.
“Gee, I thought that if anything would get you to say something, it would be McCaw,” said Will.
The therapist smiled in a kindly way.
“You want me to say something?” he said, after a suitable silence.
Unlike the psychotherapist in Santa Barbara that Will saw briefly as a child, a friend of his mother’s who spoke lots and kept asking him if he was comfortable in a bathing suit, this therapist said very little. Still, Will liked the guy, who’d come very well recommended through a friend of Luz’s. Will felt he could say anything in his presence—though, despite his best efforts to concentrate and not waste time, Will often heard himself filling sessions with babbly, inconsequential bullshit. His initial account of the McCaw dinner, for instance, had been a list of magazine-article details—the crystal decanters in the bar of the limousine, the daring décolletage of an older guest’s dress, the book-matched, veined marble slabs of the powder room wall....
“He’s an asshole—a world-class monster,” said Will. “Isn’t he? Also, little feet. Perfect little shoes—loafers, pumps, whatever. Pristine. Ya know what I mean?”
Silence.
“And Peter is working for the guy,” said Will.
“Yes,” said the therapist.
“What a jerk.”
“Peter?”
“McCaw. Despite all the, you know, money and power. I dunno. He treated me well enough, though.”
“Peter did?”
“No, McCaw.”
“Ah.”
“Made it a point of asking me stuff, listened to what I said.... Still—he’s hugely evil. I could feel it, all night. From all of them. And I couldn’t say anything. . . .”
“Right.”
“I kept wondering if Peter felt it. . . .”
“And?”
“Well, we couldn’t exactly talk about it then and there.”
The therapist gave Will an inquisitive look.
“Did we talk about it later?” offered Will. “No. Not yet.”
“OK.”
“Maybe . . . I wanted him to protect me? Maybe . . . I wanted to protect him, through this dinner?”
Silence.
“He says I’m ‘immense,’ ” continued Will, “and I have no idea what that means.”
“McCaw says this?”
“No, Peter. ‘Immense.’ He said it again, just the other day.”
“It sounds like he sees a lot in you.”
“Yeah. Or maybe he’s blowing smoke up my ass. Like he does with his boss.”
“Do you really think that?”
Silence.
“No,” said Will.
“Could he see a lot in you?”
Will shifted in his seat, a
well-worn leather armchair that faced the matching one his therapist was sitting in, at a slight angle.
“You mean, is there anything in there to see . . . ?” mumbled Will, with the generic sarcasm of a sitcom character.
“C’mon, Will,” said the therapist. “Don’t play games.”
“Sorry. I dunno. I guess so.”
The screening of Jonathan’s work-in-progress took place on a Monday evening at a new boutique hotel in Tribeca. The hotel’s facilities included a 100-seat screening room attached to a luxuriously appointed foyer, which is where a reception for the invitation-only audience was taking place when Peter arrived at the suite upstairs that Jonathan and Aldebar had also booked for their stay in New York. Because of his condition, Jonathan had decided to go down to the screening directly, and bypass the reception.
Aldebar greeted Peter warmly at the door of the suite and led him into the living area, where he was readying Jonathan for the event.
“Everything set?” said Peter, giving Jonathan a kiss.
“Absolutely,” said Jonathan. He was in his wheelchair, where he would obviously be remaining for the entire evening. He was emaciated and looked weak. He was dressed in jeans, a black blazer, and a crisp white shirt, open at the neck. Though his face showed a subtle bit of enhancement from the makeup Aldebar had applied, the toneless flaps of flesh under his chin told a truer tale. Wordlessly, he nodded his assent when Aldebar showed him a foulard pocket square, and sat passively as the nurse inserted the square in his breast pocket and gave it a tender foof.
“We’re all organized,” said Aldebar, with a kindly wink toward Peter.
“You look great, Jon,” said Peter. “I don’t know where you get the strength to do this.”
“Entertaining a hundred people? Easy,” he said, though an attempted laugh was more of a facial expression than a sound—and, actually, the facial expression more a sketch than a fully executed thing.
“Is Connor Frankel coming?” asked Peter.
“He’s downstairs already, at the reception,” said Aldebar. “They thought it would be better if he . . .”
“He’s playing host, so I don’t have to,” said Jonathan.
Nearby on a table with a tray of mineral water and some glasses was an invitation to the screening—a beautifully designed and printed card whose cover featured a stark and probing portrait of Frankel that Jonathan had taken, plus the film’s working title, Shacks and Mansions. That probably wasn’t going to be the final title, Jonathan had said, since it sounded too brainy for a movie. Then again, he admitted, the film was never intended to be commercial, but something more intellectual: an investigation, through words and images, of the life and work of one artist through the creative lens of another, and perhaps something of the times in which they lived. The title derived from a series of snapshots and magazine photos they were using as a kind of armature for the film, to trigger Frankel’s recollections—pictures of him in the various houses, studios, and other places where he had lived his life and done his work. Thus the film, as Jonathan explained it, was “about the physical structures and mental constructs we inhabit until the next ones are built.”
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