I'll Take Manhattan

by Judith Krantz

  Lily looked at Cutter, striding up and down the bedroom, ruthlessly throwing his words like stones at her feet.

  “Cutter, listen to me.” She forced herself to speak as calmly as possible. “You don’t know Justin, but even so, surely you must understand that he would never ever do anything to hurt anyone but himself. Unfortunately, he does know the kind of people who would hide drugs in his place. When I realized that the two of you didn’t get along with each other, when you and Justin never grew close, when you made no effort to get to know him better—your own son, Cutter—I thought the reason was because you knew, because you sensed, well—because somehow you instinctively realized that he was homosexual. And I thought that perhaps you blamed yourself in some crazy way, thought that—”

  “Homosexual?” There was a moment of dead silence. The word seemed to bounce back and forth from one wall to another of the bedroom that was filled with Cutter’s stunned disbelief and Lily’s incredulous realization that he had not known, not seen, never even bothered perhaps, to be sensitive to his son, to wonder at Justin’s evasive mode of life and ask himself why.

  “He can’t be a homosexual, Lily. It’s not possible,” Cutter finally said in harsh denial.

  “You believed he was a cocaine dealer. Immediately, with no questions asked. Why can’t you believe he’s a homosexual?”

  “My son a faggot! No, never. If it had been Toby … but not mine. God damn it, Lily, I never wanted you to have him, but you, no, you wanted what you wanted. He should never have been born.”

  “Never been born?” Lily looked straight at Cutter as she echoed his words and he saw a face he had not dreamed could exist, contorted, ready to strike out at him, the face of a woman stripped down to the bones of an emotion he’d never seen before.

  Swiftly he walked toward her and forced her, struggling, into his grip. “Lily, Lily, beloved, I’m sorry, Jesus I didn’t mean it, not a word, not a single word. I just went crazy for a minute—I have a thing about … homosexuals … a phobia, I guess. It’s some kind of primitive reaction, I just couldn’t take it when you said that Justin … Lily, it sounds nuts but it’s my problem and I’m ashamed of it. I don’t blame you for being upset. You know how people can say things when they’ve had a shock, things they don’t mean. Lily, I’m glad we have a son—truly, deeply glad. So glad, my Lily.” He felt her relax in his hold and begin to weep. “O.K. now, darling? I love you so much. Please say you forgive me. Look, I’m going to get us both a drink and we’ll talk about it, about what we can do to help the poor guy, about what I can do for my son.”

  As he made his way down the stairs to the bar Cutter swore at himself for being the worst kind of a fool, a man who let his tongue slip when dealing with a woman. No amount of anger was an excuse. Since the minute he’d first made love to Lily he’d schooled her to be controlled, to be dominated, so that now he could turn her in any direction that suited his purpose. To carry out his intention to break up Amberville Publications meant that he must continue to have Lily’s complete confidence, her entire trust. He’d managed to make her stop publication of three magazines but there were seven more still left whose identities must be wiped out as fully as possible. He’d almost blown it. That wouldn’t happen again, he vowed, as he carried the glasses back to the bedroom. Not even if it meant saving Justin’s ass, that sick, sullen little faggot. He’d always hated him and now he knew why.

  22

  At breakfast time there is always a traffic jam at Park and Sixty-first Street, for in front of the Regency Hotel the police allow limousines to triple-park while less privileged taxis are forced into a single file to pass this expensive but basically unremarkable hotel. Its dining room has, for reasons unclear, become the most popular place for powerful men to do business with each other over coffee and dry toast. The Plaza is too far downtown, the Carlyle too far uptown, the Waldorf too far east, the new Plaza Athenée too new, so it has fallen to the Regency to garner the Tisches, the Rohatyns, the Newhouses and the Sulzbergers of the city, who often accomplish more real trading in the course of a one-hour breakfast than they may do in the rest of their day. No two men ever meet for breakfast at the Regency just to eat, unless they are a pair of rare, unaware tourists who can’t bother to wait for room service.

  Cutter Amberville had, by virtue of consistent and precisely right overtipping—never so much that he seemed insecure, yet never so little that it failed to impress—nailed down the second banquette on the right facing the Sixty-first Street windows. He had picked this table three years ago when he first came back from England, because it allowed him to sit with his back to the wall. He could not understand the men who allowed themselves to be seated at the center tables, exposed to all eyes. Obviously they knew that they would be observed, since the Regency breakfast was a declaration of courtship, potential or protracted, but why, he wondered, go out of your way to attract attention? Cutter made sure to arrive several minutes before his guest, Leonard Wilder of the United Broadcasting Company, thereby establishing subliminal proprietary rights from the beginning of the conversation. He concentrated on the man he was going to meet, sparing no thought for Lily, who had already left to get Justin out of jail.

  Leonard Wilder was a man famous for his impatience. He wore two watches and constantly checked them; he normally made two breakfast dates in a morning, one at eight and one at nine, and he never bothered to eat. He had been important for too long to bother with the courtesy rituals, the minuetlike to-ing and fro-ing of corporate affairs, and his favorite phrase was known to be “Cut the baloney, what’s the bottom line?”

  Cutter rose as Wilder was brought over to the table by the headwaiter.

  “I’m delighted to meet you, Mr. Wilder,” Cutter said as they shook hands, “and I’m particularly pleased that you could find time for breakfast on such short notice. My wife and I watched your ‘Ragtime Special’ last night, and we both agreed that it was excellent entertainment.”

  “Wasn’t bad, did well.” Wilder replied in his rapid-fire, impatient way.

  “Well then, shall we order?” Cutter studied the menu critically, giving it his complete attention. “Henry, I’ll start with the fresh strawberries and Mr. Wilder will have—no, nothing to begin with? After that, the English porridge with fresh cream. Let’s see—ah, yes, I’ll have the buckwheat cakes with Canadian bacon. Be sure the bacon is lean and cooked to a crisp, and remind the chef that my buckwheat cakes must be freshly made.” He turned to Wilder. “I’d have the same if I were you. No? They make a batch all at once every morning and then put them on a steam table to keep them warm … they’re no good that way so the chef always makes a fresh batch for me.” Wilder grunted. “And hot coffee, really hot. You can bring that right now. What will you have, Mr. Wilder? Only coffee? I guess it’s the transplanted ex-Westerner in me, but I find that with a decent breakfast I can do twice as much work before lunch than if I only gulp a cup of coffee. You’re sure? All right, Henry, just coffee for Mr. Wilder.”

  Leonard Wilder glanced at Cutter’s trim waistline. Cutter intercepted his look.

  “Breakfast like a rich man, dine like a pauper. I’ve always followed that advice. Still, diet isn’t enough, you have to keep in shape too. My wife and I are both ardent weekend athletes and we have a gym in the house so that we can work out every day. What do you do for exercise?”

  “Walk to work.”

  “Ah, there’s nothing like walking,” Cutter agreed, “but I don’t find it exercises the whole body unless you run and in this city you can’t do that, unless you’re willing to be killed by a taxi driver.”

  He sat back and sipped his coffee. “Waiter, this isn’t really hot. Could you bring another pot, please, and fresh cups? And take away Mr. Wilder’s coffee too. It’s only lukewarm.”

  Leonard Wilder ground his teeth and checked his watches. Cutter relaxed and waited for the fresh coffee.

  “I knew your brother,” Leonard Wilder said abruptly. “Wonderful man.”

&nbs
p; Cutter sighed. “We all miss him. It’s been a great loss.”

  “One-man show. Best in town. Things a mess now?”

  Cutter chuckled. “Well, Mr. Wilder, that can happen in a privately owned corporation. We both know too many cases where the founder of a business died and the business fell apart at the seams. But fortunately Amberville Publications is in a different situation. Henry, these strawberries aren’t ripe. Take them back, please, and bring me a compote of mixed fruit.” He turned back to Wilder. “That’s the trouble with out-of-season strawberries, you can never be sure. Usually there are good ones from Algeria or Israel this time of year, but those really weren’t worth eating.”

  “Amberville’s all right, then?”

  “As a matter of fact, our profits will be up considerably this year. My brother loved to tinker with the magazines. He had lost interest in the bottom line years ago. His passion was starting new magazines and giving them all the time they needed to prove themselves. You know how costly that can be. And risky. When my wife—as majority shareholder—asked me to mind the store, I decided to cut losses to a minimum. I’m afraid I had to make an unpopular decision—nobody likes to lose his job—but it turned out for the best. Henry, you can clear the fruit away. Sure you won’t join me for porridge, Mr. Wilder? It’s particularly good here. No? Henry, bring another pitcher of cream. This one is only half full.” Cutter attacked his porridge with relish, adding a judicious amount of butter and sugar to the steaming bowl.

  “Profits up, you say?”

  “Definitely. Every one of our magazines is showing increases in ad revenue and, as you know, that’s where the money is.”

  “ ‘Up’ can mean anything with a privately owned company,” Wilder said, repressing the desire to peek at his watches.

  “I don’t feel it’s indiscreet to tell you, Mr. Wilder. I’m talking about fourteen or fifteen percent, possibly more.”

  “Hmm. Nice going.”

  “Yes, it’s been a most satisfactory experience. On the other hand, Lily, my wife, is British and she misses England. She’s been really stuck in New York, except for whirlwind trips to Europe when Zachary went on business, for more than thirty years. She’s still a young woman and she’d like to spend more time abroad. Hunting, theater, all of that … Lily says there has to be more to life than the magazine business. You’re married, aren’t you, Mr. Wilder?”

  “Call me Leonard. Yes, married twenty-five years. You said up fourteen or fifteen percent, Cutter?”

  “Right. Ah, thank you, Henry. Those look good.”

  Leonard Wilder wriggled on the banquette. He was already late for his nine-o’clock breakfast and Cutter Amberville had just started on his buckwheat pancakes.

  “Could we talk round figures?” Wilder asked.

  “Round figures?” Cutter poured some maple syrup on the pancakes. “I don’t see why not. You’re known never to repeat things. Something near one hundred and seventy million in pretax profits.”

  “Near? Which way? Up or down?”

  “I don’t like to overstate, Leonard, but I expect a higher figure. There’s still some deadwood to be trimmed here and there.”

  “Business for sale, Cutter? That’s why you called me?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, there is that possibility. As I said, my wife is longing for a change and she deserves whatever she wants. I’ve urged her not to rush into any decision, told her to take her time, but spring’s in the air and she’s always been impulsive.”

  “So the business is for sale.”

  “It wouldn’t be fair to make any promises … but it might be. It might very well be. At the right price.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Now take Bill Ziff for instance, and his company,” Cutter said, between bites. “Interesting deal he just made. If you’ll forgive me for mentioning the competition, Leonard, CBS just bought twelve magazines from him for three hundred and sixty-two million dollars, books like Popular Photography and Yachting. Then he sold Murdoch twelve trade publications, Aerospace Daily for one, and Hotel and Resort Guide for another, for an additional three hundred and fifty million. Twenty-four magazines in all. Now, admittedly we’ve only got six books to sell, but each is the leader in its field, each a classic. Major magazines, Leonard. We can leave B&B out of the discussion—it’s an experiment, at the moment, unproven. But the others have revenues well above Ziff’s, far, far above. So you have to understand that we’re discussing a very large sum of money, certainly near a billion. Henry, more hot coffee, please.”

  “UBC is cash-rich, Cutter. That’s not a problem. You talked to anyone else?” Wilder demanded, his other breakfast date utterly forgotten.

  “No. Not yet. Lily only brought up the matter a few weeks ago and I didn’t see any reason to hurry. I like to give new ideas time to mature, to ripen. All in good time and no regrets.”

  “Cutter, I don’t believe in kidding around. I’m interested. Been looking for a major magazine group for years. Always liked Amberville. Got a three-man executive committee. They can commit whole board. Only ask one thing; don’t speak to anyone else before we have a chance to get together on this.”

  “That sounds fair enough, particularly since I’m in no hurry. In fact, our next statement isn’t due for almost three months and I’m so sure that it’s going to show an interesting jump that I’d prefer to wait until then. If Lily is still of the same mind, then your accountants can go to work, and judge the values for themselves.”

  “Three months … you’re sure you want to wait? We could get started a lot sooner.”

  “I’m sure, Leonard. But during that time, why don’t we get together for dinner with our wives? I feel I owe you something decent to eat. You missed a wonderful breakfast.”

  “Does anybody else know about this?” Toby asked India suspiciously, running his fingers down her belly.

  “Could you be more specific?” she asked lazily, drifting up from the glowing globe of great joy in which she floated, feeling the complicated, compelling sense of bliss she experienced at the sound of his voice.

  “This tiny scar, right here, below your bellybutton and to the right.”

  “Appendix, when I was eight. Even Barbara Walters doesn’t know about it. On the other hand, she never asked.”

  “That’s the one hundred and seventeenth thing I know about you that nobody else knows. Your ears are distinctly different sizes; your nose is out of line to the right, only by a hair but still nobody could call it straight; you have thinner eyelashes on your left eye than on the right, and correspondingly, less hair under your left arm than under your right, shave your armpits though you will; there’s a tiny mole under your pussy hair on the left outer labia—”

  “Toby!”

  “I suppose it’s not your fault if you’re not perfect. You were billed as being perfect but, good Lord, the things I’ve found would fill a book, and I’ve barely begun to look. And as for taste, let me tell you, young lady, you don’t taste the same way two days in a row. A man likes a little consistency in his woman.”

  “Am I your woman?” India wondered, knowing she shouldn’t ask, but unable to resist.

  “My woman of the moment. The only woman of the only moment. But you know how I feel … I’ve never—”

  “Spare me … never committed yourself. Coward! Revolting, timid coward. I wish I had a penny for every fink man in the country who goes around counting pussy hair and not committing himself. Have you no shame?”

  “I didn’t count your pussy hair, I counted your underarm hairs.”

  “It comes to the same thing and you know it. How did women get into this? Why are you allowed to make me love you and then refuse to love me back?”

  “I do love you back,” Toby said in a low voice. “You know I do. I loved you as soon as you threw those drinks over me to attract my attention five months ago. But commitment is something else.”

  “Where I come from, when you love somebody and she loves you and there’s no rea
son why you can’t agree to hope to keep on loving each other for good, logically that will lead to a commitment for some kind of permanent arrangement … called marriage,” India said with the same dogged persistence which had kept her flying back and forth from Los Angeles to New York almost every weekend since she’d met Toby. She had moved half her wardrobe, little by little, to his closets and now even his bed, on which they were lying, was covered with her very own hand-ironed Porthault sheets.

  “ ‘Is not marriage an open question, when it is alleged, from the beginning of the world, that such as are in the institution wish to get out, and such as are out wish to get in?’ ”

  India sat up fuming. “You dare to quote Emerson to me—I invented quoting Emerson, you skunk.”

  “ ‘By necessity, by proclivity, and by delight, we all quote,’ ” Toby declaimed in perfect Emersonian dignity.

  “It’s Maxi, I know it’s got to be Maxi. She told you how I used to torment her with Emerson, didn’t she?”

  “She may have mentioned it, in passing, as an example of girlish affection.”

  “Then the two of you have been talking about me?”

  “Naturally. It wouldn’t be in Maxi’s character to maintain a discreet silence, when her brother is in love with her best friend.”

  “What does she think?”

  “She thinks that I’ll have to make up my own mind.”

  “Some best friend,” India said bitterly. The phone rang and startled her.

  “Don’t answer it,” she said.

  “It might be from one of my managers,” Toby sighed. “The restaurant business never sleeps.” He picked up the bedside phone, listened for a moment and then hung up angrily and abruptly.