I'll Take Manhattan

by Judith Krantz

  Noiselessly she opened his door. As she had thought, he was fast asleep. Maxi burrowed under the covers and found Rocco’s big toe. It was the gentlest way to be awakened. She tugged on his toe with a light touch until he stirred, and kept tugging until he emerged from under his pillow.

  “Juice time,” she trilled as prettily as Julie Andrews.

  “I don’t fucking believe it,” he moaned and sneezed ferociously. She gave him a fresh Kleenex and a full glass of orange juice, holding it with impersonal dignity. He drank deeply and grunted something that could be taken for thanks. She poured another full glass and put it into his hand.

  “You’re dehydrated. That can be dangerous,” Maxi warned him.

  “Later. Just put it down. And go.”

  “I will, but only when you’ve finished,” she promised. He drank it quickly, to show her how anxious he was for her to leave, and then fell back on his pillow and closed his eyes. Maxi waited a few minutes for the vodka to have its calming effects on his nervous system.

  “Rocco?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Feel any better?”

  “Maybe. A little.”

  “In that case I suggest that you take a nice long shower, and while you’re doing that I’ll make your bed.”

  “Shower? You’re crazy. Change of temperature at a time like this could kill me. Kill me.”

  “Don’t take a hot shower, take a room-temperature shower. I guarantee it’ll make you feel so much better, honestly.”

  “Sure?”

  “Positive. And fresh, cool, lovely sheets … wouldn’t they feel good?”

  “Couldn’t hurt. Since you’re here. Then you’ll go? You promise?”

  “Of course. More orange juice?”

  “Maybe—try another glass. Seems to help.” He tottered happily toward the bathroom, carrying the glass with him. Maxi bustled about. One thing she could do was make a damn good bed. She heard him in the shower, not singing but not sneezing either. She moved the forsythia to the hallway with the pile of discarded bed linen and pulled the draperies almost shut.

  Ten minutes later Rocco emerged to find an empty bedroom, with just enough light in it for him to make out his newly made bed with the quilt pulled high, just the way he liked it. With a sigh of relief he flung himself into the heavenly sheets and stretched out, groaning with pleasure.

  “Aiiiii!” He bounded off the mattress. His foot had just touched something alive.

  “For goodness’ sake, it’s only me,” Maxi whispered. “I thought you could see. Sorry.”

  “Whatcha doing in my bed?”

  “I must have fallen asleep. It’s such a big bed to make, so hard to get around.”

  “You’re naked,” he pointed out.

  “I am?” she said sleepily.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Hmm … that’s odd, so I am.” She yawned. “I must have thought I was at home. Do forgive me.”

  “Don’t scare me again. Hate being scared.”

  “Of course you do,” Maxi murmured maternally, pulling his head to her marvelous breasts like sun-warmed fruit of the gods. “Of course you do, poor thing, poor, poor Rocco, it’s so terrible to have a cold.”

  “I’m catching,” he sighed, starting to suck on one of her nipples.

  “No, no, don’t worry, I never caught your colds.” She was kissing his shoulder and a particularly tender spot at the back of his neck where he was especially fond of being kissed if memory served.

  Memory served. Blissfully, sweetly, and soon irresistibly, memory served, lulled by Russia’s gift to the world and assisted by Maxi’s dexterous lips and limbs, memory was gloriously celebrated.

  Hours later, toward twilight, Rocco woke up with a floatingly light head and a profound sense of uneasiness. Something had happened. He wasn’t sure what. He wasn’t sure when or how but something had happened. Instinctively, with inching caution he explored his bed. It was empty. Something was still wrong. He turned on his bedside light and looked around the room. Nobody was there. He got out of bed and listened to the sounds of his apartment. He could tell at once that he was entirely alone. Why did he feel so worried? He returned to his bed and gazed at the ceiling. Memory returned. Oh God. Oh no. That bitch. Memory unveiled itself further, disclosing details. Not once, not twice, but three times. He knew it. She was trying to kill him. Three times in a row. What was he supposed to be, fourteen fucking years old? She’d raped him, that’s what she’d done, or was it sexual harassment? Could you claim rape three times in one afternoon? Angrily he realized that he was grinning like an imbecile. Rocco whacked his pillow until the feathers flew out of it. How like her, to take advantage of a sick man. A vampire, that’s what she was. She knew, that vicious, unpardonable, victimizing, manipulative, unspeakably evil creature, she knew perfectly well that when he had a head cold he always got horny.

  “So, schmuck,” he said out loud to himself, “how come you’re not sneezing?”

  24

  “Maxi, could you come into my office for a minute?” Monty asked, grabbing her by the arm. “Your office is a madhouse and we have to talk.”

  It was early in the morning of Monday, April 15, and Maxi had just started working on the final corrections of the proofs of the September issue of B&B which was to go to press in a week. The article by Madonna called “The Easy-to-Come-by Joys of Narcissim” needed more pictures and Dan Rather’s piece, “Nobody Knows How Shy I Am,” had developed into a regular column, with celebrities vying with each other to expose the adolescent terrors they still endured. “Those Necessary Lies: Why You Must Never Feel Guilty” by Billy Graham had brought so many readers’ letters that more of them had to be reprinted on the letter page than anyone had expected and the “I Wish I Were” monthly article for September, in which Johnny Carson wished he were Woody Allen and Elizabeth Taylor wished she were Brooke Shields, had somehow gotten screwed up, so the way it read now Woody Allen wished he were Brooke Shields. What was more disturbing, something in the “pace” of the issue that was laid out, pinned page by page on the walls of her office, was slightly off to Maxi’s eye.

  “Couldn’t it be after lunch, Monty?” she pleaded. “This stuff is urgent.”

  “Now, please.” When Monty said something in that emphatically unalarmed tone of voice, Maxi had learned to question him no further. She led the way to his office, tucked away in a far corner of the additional space she’d rented after the first issue had sold out. On the way she passed Julie’s all-white office where her fashion editor was huddled over the telephone. Ever since the story linking Jon and Justin had appeared in the newspapers Julie had tried to avoid her, but Maxi had seen her proudly concealed anguish and immediately guessed at its cause. She felt intense sympathy for Julie but to express it would be to show her that she knew why her friend was so deeply wounded, and Maxi judged it was best to let her be for a little while. Eventually time would heal, Maxi thought, as she walked along the busy corridor and responded to greetings. It was an old cliché, cold comfort indeed, but it happened to be true. If she had found out that Rocco was gay when she worked on Savoir Vivre, how much time would it have taken her to get over him? Six months? No. More. A year? Probably more. Her reverie was interrupted by Monty who ushered her into his office, closed the door firmly behind him, and stood with his back to it so that nobody could come in.

  “Lewis Oxford just called. He must have gone crazy but he sounded sane. He told me that he was putting us on notice that Amberville Publications is shutting down B&B. Everybody here is fired as of the end of this business day. He has already called Meredith/Burda to notify them that Amberville will not authorize payment for printing the September issue. They’re calling all our suppliers to tell them not to extend us a penny’s credit. He’s acting on direct orders from Cutter Amberville, who is acting for your mother.”

  “She would not do that. He’s simply wrong.” Maxi spoke with the anesthetized coldness of shock.

  “When was the last time you talked
to her?”

  “Just last week, when Justin was freed. We’re on the best terms we’ve been on in years. Look, Monty, this is some trick of Cutter’s. He’s trying some new tactic that I can’t understand until I talk to her. You just sit on this absurdity until I go uptown and see her—she’s always home in the mornings. And keep your lip buttoned, or whatever.”

  “Obviously. But I’m worried about the printer. If we lose our time on the presses, if they’ve already replaced us for next week, we won’t get the issue out in time even when you straighten things out. They sell their time months in advance.”

  “Call Mike Muller, the Burda business guy at the plant, and tell him that I personally guarantee payment. Me, Maxime Amberville.”

  “Will do,” Monty said, looking as if he would like to ask more questions. Maxi hurried out of his office and rushed downstairs to where Elie was waiting for her.

  She burst in on Lily who was conferring with her chef about a dinner party.

  “Mother, we have to talk right away.”

  “Maxime, I’ve been trying to reach you all weekend. Jean-Philippe, I’ll finish this menu later. Where were you, Maxime? I’ve been so anxious to speak to you.”

  “Out,” Maxi answered mechanically. “Mother, Lewis Oxford just called to say we didn’t have any more credit, that B&B was out of business.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear, this is exactly what I didn’t want to have happen! That fool Oxford! I warned Cutter that I wanted to have a meeting with you and Toby and Justin all together, first, but obviously Oxford didn’t check with me to make sure it had taken place.”

  “What does that mean, ‘first’? Why do you want to talk to the three of us? What does it have to do with B&B?”

  “Maxime, do stop shouting. Oh, dear, I so wanted this to be an orderly event, and now it’s spoiled.” Lily actually wailed in distress.

  “Mother, you are going to drive me out of my mind. What in holy hell are you talking about?”

  “I can understand that you’re upset, dear, hearing it like that. I wanted to tell you all at the same time.” She paused for a few seconds and then continued, resolutely, “I have decided to sell Amberville Publications to the United Broadcasting Corporation, but now it’s been announced in the worst possible way.” Lily twisted the head off a rose in a silver bowl.

  “Mother! I don’t give a damn what form this decision comes in! How can you sell? I … I don’t understand anything you’re saying. Sell our business? Sell Father’s business? Sell Amberville? It’s … it’s—you just can’t do it—it’s—unthinkable.” Maxi sat down opposite her mother, her legs drained of strength, her heart sinking as she read the stubborn expression on Lily’s face, only agitated by the way in which she had to present a decision on which Maxi could see she was determined.

  “Now, Maxime, do listen to me and stop saying the first thing that comes into your mind. It’s not at all unthinkable. It makes great sense. Since your father died the company has been without its founder. It’s kept on going by momentum but that momentum can’t last forever. UBC is interested in buying the company and Cutter believes that in three months, when the sale will take place, the price will be close to—well, more or less a billion dollars. This is an opportunity that may never come again and it’s obvious that I have to act on it. Maxime, you and Toby and Justin will receive a hundred million dollars each. There’s no way in which any of you can realize your ten percent unless I sell, but that’s not the only reason I’m doing it.”

  “Mother …”

  “No, wait, Maxime, don’t interrupt until you hear me out. I can’t run a magazine publishing company, Cutter doesn’t want the responsibility and I don’t blame him, Toby obviously has his own life, Justin has his, and although you’re having fun with your fling at turning out a magazine, you obviously aren’t cut out to run a vast enterprise. If the company is ever to be sold, the time is now, not later. I know that B&B is having a dear little boom but you have to admit that it’s costing the company a fortune. Cutter reluctantly had to tell me how much money B&B loses each month and I was horrified. It’s too expensive a toy even for you, Maxime, and UBC will be buying Amberville on the basis of what Cutter called a very sick-looking balance sheet if it continues to be published.”

  “So it was on your orders that Oxford called?”

  “Yes, of course, but I had intended to explain it all to you before any of you heard from him. Nobody is supposed to know about the sale until it’s gone through, except the family. I’m deeply distressed that you had this shock. If only I’d been able to reach you over the weekend …”

  “I was out,” Maxi repeated. “Mother, don’t you understand that a new magazine automatically loses money no matter how big a success it is, until it starts getting enough income from the advertisers? I literally almost gave away the advertising to get the magazine off the ground, and it costs more to print an issue than I can sell it for on the racks.”

  “That was clever of you, I suppose, although I’m no judge … it sounds to me as if you willfully took a big risk. But that’s neither here nor there, Maxime, since the decision to sell is mine to make, and I’ve made it. I’m being guided by Cutter in how to handle Amberville affairs until the sale is official and he is quite adamant about stopping publication of B&B right now. I’m sorry for your disappointment, dear—”

  “Disappointment.” Maxi’s echo was flat. The gap between the way she and her mother felt about B&B was so vast that no words could bridge it, no emphasis of tone could make any difference. Her mother would never be convinced by anything she could say that B&B was not just a plaything but the only tribute that was in her power to make to Zachary Amberville and the great love she had for him.

  “Well, I know you’ve been having a terribly amusing time and I’m really proud of how well it’s selling, but obviously you couldn’t have done it without using the company’s money, could you?” Lily continued.

  “No, as a matter of fact, I couldn’t. No way,” Maxi admitted.

  “Well then, you do see, don’t you? It’s not like a real magazine, is it, dear? It’s subsidized, it’s not paying its own way.”

  “No, that’s wrong, Mother. It is a real magazine. Millions of women pay a dollar fifty for it every month. I have a fantastic staff working their hearts out. B&B exists, it’s growing like mad, the September issue has two hundred and fifty pages, it’s crammed with ads and photographs and articles and we get thousands of letters from our readers, it’s as real as any other magazine, it’s just young,” Maxi said passionately.

  Lily laughed indulgently. “Maxime, Maxime, I’m pleased to see you sticking to something for such a long time, and if your father were alive he would have been delighted, but you just have to accept the reality of the sale of Amberville. It’s in all of our best interests.”

  “Mother, look. If, before the sale goes through, I can show you that Amberville Publications isn’t losing money because of B&B, if the company is worth just as much as it would be without B&B, would you reconsider your decision to sell?” Maxi asked quietly.

  “First of all, you don’t know how Justin and Toby will feel. I’ve told you how Cutter and I feel. No, Maxime, I can’t promise to reconsider.”

  “If I don’t ask you to ‘promise’ to reconsider; if, just before the three months are up, I come to you and just ask you to think about it again …” Maxi asked imploringly.

  “I’m afraid that the answer will still be no, dear, but, of course, you can always come and ask,” Lily said gently. She found it hard to refuse Maxime absolutely when she obviously cared so much and was being so reasonable. There was no harm in letting her “ask” again since it was obvious that she couldn’t accomplish the impossible and publish without money. And if she didn’t insist that her daughter accept her decision right now, it would end this upsetting interview so much more quickly and pleasantly. She’d have time to finish planning the menu for her dinner party before lunch.

  “Where to now, Miss A.?�
�� Elie asked.

  “The Amberville Building,” Maxi answered. She must talk to Pavka. He was the only person to whom she could go for advice. At the offices of B&B everyone would be looking to her for leadership but she needed help herself as she had never needed it before. She prayed that he was in his office and not out enjoying one of the long lunches for which publishing was more guilty than Hollywood. She had to talk to Pavka before she went to speak to her accountants to get the money to keep B&B operating.

  “Is he in?” she asked Pavka’s secretary anxiously, skidding to a halt before her desk.