sex.lies.murder.fame.

by Lolita Files

  Quit, he thought. Fuck no! What the fuck?

  “Quit? Quit what?”

  “My job, silly. I’ll quit my job.”

  “But babe, you’re one of the best editors in the business. Why would you wanna do something like that?”

  Beryl’s eyes were smiling, as much as her eyes could, as she looked adoringly into his, then kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his chin, his lips.

  “Because I love you, and because I want to be a real wife, full-time, not somebody chasing deadlines and up to her eyeballs in manuscripts and meetings. I want to be your editor exclusively, at home, the one whose opinion matters most to you, the way Tabitha is for Stephen. I love publishing, but it’s a rat race, and the rats keep getting bigger and bolder, and the race is overcrowded. I’d trade life in the literary grind for domestic life with the man I love any day of the week.”

  He liked the idea of her being his personal editor. The marriage thing was an all-out lie, but he could deal with that later. After he’d gotten everything that he wanted. First things first.

  “I like that, babe,” he said, “but only if it’s what you really want. You don’t have to leave your career for me.”

  “It’s what I really want. I’ve spent half my life in publishing. It’s time for something more. This could be my swan song, and oh, what a swan song it would be.”

  “Wow,” Penn said. “This is…man, I don’t even know what to say. God is so awesome. It’s like he’s giving me everything I’ve ever asked for, all at once. I almost don’t want to go to sleep tonight. I’m afraid this whole thing might just be a dream.”

  “It’s real, babe. For both of us. We’re both getting our dreams.”

  She melted into him, planting wet kisses all over his face.

  That was a good one, he thought. Please. He’d never asked God for anything. He believed in Him about as much as he believed in the lottery. Less, actually. The lottery operated by a system of odds, odds that operated against most people, but odds that had a payout nonetheless. He’d met a woman who’d hit the lottery once. She was the mother of a girl he had messed around with briefly at NYU. The girl had gotten a fair share of money from her mother and given it to Penn.

  So yeah, the lottery was real, but he had yet to meet anyone who’d ever met God. Met him for real, flowing robes, white hair, überwisdom and all, not the kind of “I’ve seen God!” that born-agains always proclaimed. That was just change-of-heart shit. If someone really saw God, it would be all over the news.

  But then again, he had hit a bonanza that defied natural possibilities.

  He had cracked the code on Sharlyn Tate, and would be hitting that in a few hours, less than twelve, per the silver IKEA clock on the wall. And he had gotten Beryl back. Beryl, the one he’d feared was a lost cause if there ever was one. She had returned of her own volition, and had done so with visions of love, a lucrative book deal, and marketing genius dancing in her head.

  A twofer. The universe had given him a twofer.

  Hardly. The universe had given him nothing. This was the result of hard, hard work. Opportunity meeting preparation.

  Two doors had opened, and he had entered both at once.

  No cosmic assistance necessary.

  He chuckled at the way it was all unfolding.

  “What’s so funny, babe?” Beryl asked.

  “Life, babe. You just never know how it’s gonna turn.”

  “No shit,” she said. “Meanwhile, we have to get you an agent. A real player, someone everyone knows. Even though this’ll be rigged a little, we still need a pro to run everything. A pro who won’t know what’s up, of course, but who’ll know a good deal when he sees it.”

  “Any ideas?”

  Beryl stared up at the ceiling for a moment, her lips pressed together. Her face lit up.

  “Ah. I’ve got the perfect person.”

  “Who’s that, babe?”

  “Have you ever heard of Spanky Katz?”

  Brookie had

  …brought her a pig’s foot, one of those fuschia-tinted kind that sat in a giant jar on a bodega counter, steeping in red-dye-number-three-colored pickling juice, jammed up with more red-dye-steeped porcine hooves. And Shar had eaten it, eaten it while she was standing, had bitten through all that thick, bristle-covered skin that covered even thicker fat, and had sucked it clean, all the way down to the bone, pickled pig juices running down her chin and arm, dripping past her elbow, and she was ashamed, ashamed in the way she should have been ashamed for letting that stranger gnaw at her genitalia an hour before, but wasn’t.

  She glanced up nervously, looking around the room for hidden cameras. In an age of spies and hackers and an Internet gone wild, she couldn’t imagine the embarrassment of having this image of herself blasted all over the Web.

  The bellman who’d brought up her laptop bag was practically recoiling as he handed Shar the paper sack with its raging vinegar fumes, fumes that were probably still polluting the elevator and the rest of the hall. She had snatched the bag, humiliated as she crammed a fifty into his hand and slammed the door. She’d intended to ask for change for that fifty. Not that she was cheap, but fifty dollars was much too egregious a tip by her standards. For a bellman delivery. If she gave him fifty now, he’d spread the word that she’d upped the ante and all the employees would expect at least fifty every time they brought something up.

  She’d planned to give him twenty, which was generous and what she was known for doling out freely to the staff at both the Plaza Athénée and the Sherry, but once she’d gotten a whiff of that pig’s foot, she was too embarrassed to do anything that might cause the guy to have to linger and be aware of the fact that Someone. Like. Her. Dared to stay at the Sherry-Netherland and have pig’s feet sent up. Even though she had a reputation for fabulousness and had been on the cover of every magazine from Ocean Drive to Vanity Fair, she knew that, from now on, in the mind of this person of supposed lesser station, she would only be…the pig-foot eater. He had sniffed his nose at her. Word would spread within the liveried nerve center of the Sherry-Netherland. Soon the rest of the staff, behind her back, would be sniffing their noses at her, too.

  Damn that Brookie. Fucking passive-aggressive bitch.

  But between that embarrassingly delightful pig foot and her happy snatch, Shar had written and written—oh, how she had written!—and The Magic Man was taking shape. Between the hours of three A.M. and seven-thirty A.M., she had knocked out thirty pages. She took a break to call Brookie to get her to bring a printer, some paper, and a change of clothes over to the hotel.

  “What kind of clothes would you like, Mrs. Tate?”

  “Some jeans and a big, loose top. A hoodie or something. And some sneakers. And socks. Something I’ll be comfortable in, but can wear on the street if I need to. And oh, I might spend the night here again, so bring enough clothes for two days, and some lingerie. Something sexy.”

  “Any preference? The La Perla? Or maybe some of your Victoria’s Secret?”

  “Hmmm. No. I think I want the Agent Provocateur.”

  “Ooh, yes,” Brookie drawled, “those are nice. Which ones?”

  Shar kept her lingerie separated not by type, but brand. She took it even further, with drawers for different lines within the brand.

  “The Virginie,” she said. “The bra and panties. And the Fifi. The bra and the briefs. And some black fishnet thigh-highs. And a nice pair of sexy black shoes. Pumps, not sandals.”

  “Which ones?”

  “I don’t know. Be creative. You’ve got excellent taste.”

  “Why, thank you, Mrs. Tate.”

  Shar was so relieved none of her requests would come as a surprise to Brookie. The girl was accustomed to her boss playing lingerie dress-up when she wrote, or pretended to write, just to get in the mood. Cosabella for when she was writing glitzy tales. Victoria’s Secret was for more pedestrian stories. It wasn’t unusual for Shar and Miles to have trysts at hotels (not at her writing hideaways, of course), j
ust to keep her in the creative spirit. Miles didn’t know the Hotel Plaza Athénée and the Sherry were Sharlyn’s secret writing places. Having private, interruption-free writing zones was necessary for her to produce. Miles understood that, and had never given her any kind of problem about it. Even Beryl didn’t know where Shar slipped off to when she churned out her work. The only one who knew was Brookie, and despite the fact that Miles was her cousin, Brookie had been sworn to professional secrecy, and Shar believed Brookie took that oath to heart.

  It was the perfect setup for an affair. Shar had never realized that until now.

  “Would you like a scarf?” Brookie asked.

  “A scarf? For what?”

  “The weatherman said the wind’s going to be a little high today and—”

  “No, Brookie, no scarf. Just the clothes and the printer and some paper.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And Brookie?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Tate?”

  “Do not, I repeat, do not, bring anything other than what I asked for.” She was firm, stern, determined that Brookie obey her this time. “You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Tate.” The girl was sweeter than ever, her words dripping with deference.

  Shar knew this was a passive war of wills. Brookie heard what she wanted when she wanted. They never spoke directly of the appetizingly gauche foodstuff, but Shar knew Brookie knew what she meant.

  The items arrived at the front desk less than an hour later. Brookie had brought, as instructed, the printer and paper, a pair of 501s and a dark blue Phat Farm hoodie, some white Nikes and white footies, a grass-colored Juicy Couture velour sweatsuit, the requested Agent Provocateur items, and some standard-issue patent leather Stuart Weitzmans. But she’d also had the insight to see that a better shoe would go with the lingerie, so she’d brought a pair of Kate Spades, the heart satin open-toed slingbacks with a three-and-a-half-inch heel and a sexy bow. Smart girl.

  She also left a brand-new cartridge of black ink for the printer, just in case the other ran out.

  And a Pucci scarf.

  And a tasty fried bologna sandwich, smushed together, the edges of the meat dark and crunchy, nearly burnt, with just the right amount of mayonnaise to smooth it all in.

  She heard the card key in the door.

  It was exactly three o’clock.

  She had showered and moisturized and preened her body to dainty perfection. A masseuse had come up two hours earlier and beaten away the tightness in her shoulders that came with pecking away at keys.

  She’d written sixty pages so far. The laptop was closed. The Fifi line of Agent Provocateur lingerie was working her curves like someone had threatened them if they didn’t. She was in the fishnets and Kate Spades. And, like Marilyn Monroe, was touched with just a few drops of No. 5. Something classic. Something simple. A timeless beacon of familiarity in the midst of imminent sin.

  It was a different scent than what she wore with her husband. She’d had the concierge fetch it. She didn’t want to smell the same.

  Moments later, after the Chanel had been delivered, she’d remembered something else, and had thrown on the 501s, pulled on the hoodie, tied the suddenly useful scarf around her head, and slipped downstairs, walking until she found a Duane Reade drugstore, where she discreetly purchased condoms and Astroglide. Just in case he didn’t have any. Just to make sure. Because she couldn’t send the concierge for condoms and Astroglide. Not when her well-known husband was out of town. Not as long as there was a Page Six, whose faceless, ubiquitous spies were legion.

  The door slid open and he stepped inside, golden, resplendent, as lovely as she remembered. Nothing followed him in. Not remorse, not dread, none of the ghosts of the day after that haunted the characters inside her books. Those ghosts had yet to make an appearance. Perhaps they never would.

  There was nothing but him and goodness. She felt a Pavlovian rush between her legs.

  He was right on time.

  She was right on ready.

  Beryl was

  …exultant.

  Penn had said the m-word! He wanted to get married!

  He said that was his ultimate plan, just as it was hers. She couldn’t wait to get started on the planning. There would be no definite date anytime soon, of course, but she could start, couldn’t she? After years of hopeful waiting, her life could begin. Her world was finally complete, as Ripkin soon learned on the Thursday she announced,

  “He’s here!”

  “What’s that? Who’s here?”

  He was sitting in his chair and she was in her ritual pose, stretched out and yammering. Admittedly, his mind was adrift, fixed on the duck confit he would be having for dinner in just shy of an hour, an hour and a half at the most, and he was so ready for it, starving even, because it had been a particularly depleting day. He was contemplating what wine might go best with the bird—a pinot noir, or maybe a nice Riesling. He didn’t want to rely on the sommelier’s recommendations, which tended to be hit-or-miss. Perhaps he should go with an Australian Shiraz. And maybe he would have the pear-and-apple tarte tatin for dessert, with a semisweet Blanquette de Limoux. Ah yes. He could almost smell the sparkling wine’s bouquet paired with those succulent pieces of carmelized baked fruit. That would be deli—

  “Doctor, you’re not listening to me!”

  “What? Yes!” said a salivating Ripkin, swallowing the moisture that had gathered in his mouth. “Of course I am. You said ‘he’s here,’ and I’ve been trying to get some clarity about what or whom you might mean.”

  What a superb liar I am, he thought. Perhaps it really is time to retire.

  “Dr. Ripkin, who else was I expecting?”

  She was staring at him in that impudent way of hers. He bit back his exasperation. Dinnertime couldn’t come quick enough.

  “Are you trying to tell me your Mr. Right has arrived?”

  “Yes. Finally. Some comprehension on your part.”

  There was silence as Ripkin counted in his head and tugged on his ear.

  “Why don’t you tell me about it,” he said after a time. “You seem quite excited. How can you be so sure it’s him?”

  “Becauuuuuuse,” she said, “it happened just like I always thought it would. It was so obvious. It was fate.”

  “Ah yes. Our dear friend fate. At long last, he has decided to rear his head.”

  Beryl’s expression was stern.

  “I knew you were going to do this. I was all prepared for your cynicism. I told myself, ‘Dr. Ripkin’s going to try to ruin this for me, but I’m not going to let him do it.’ And I’m not. Just because you’re jaded—”

  “This isn’t about me, Beryl. My beliefs and values are my own. We should be using this hour wisely. Tell me about your Mr. Right. How did you meet him?”

  “At a book signing,” she said, grinning. “It was so weird. I was there for one of my authors, Canon Messier, you know, the one with that book, Apple Pie—”

  “Yes, yes, go on,” said the hungry Ripkin, pushing away the image of apple pies of any sort.

  “He was just standing there next to me,” she babbled, “I don’t know, it was like he just materialized there, like some sort of genie—”

  “Materialized, you say?”

  “Yes, materialized. Don’t be sarcastic.”

  “My apologies. I wasn’t aware that was how I was coming across.”

  “So anyway, he said something to me and when I turned to look at him…Oh God, Doctor…this was so embarrassing…”

  She was all atwitter, Ripkin noticed. He wasn’t going to interrupt.

  “…it was awful. He was so good-looking. I really do think he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

  Ripkin adjusted himself in his chair. A beautiful man and Beryl? This was interesting indeed.

  “I was so shocked by how attractive he was, and how he was just, you know, right there, you know, in my face, out of nowhere, that I”—she laughed nervously—“I still c
an’t believe I did this—”

  “We’ve less than an hour, Beryl.”

  “All right, all right. I had a cataplexy.”

  “You had a cataplexy.”

  “Yes, Dr. Ripkin, I had a cataplexy. The very thing I feared exposing to the man of my dreams was the very first thing I did the second I met him.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Interesting?” she said, sitting up. “That’s all you have to say?”

  “Had you taken your medication on schedule?”

  “No. Not until late. I hadn’t picked up my new prescription.”

  “Oh dear. And were you under great duress or some sort of extreme pressures that day?”

  “No, Doctor, that’s just it. It was just one of those moments. It was that bolt from the blue, lightning striking, love-at-first-sight thing that people like you don’t believe in. It actually happened, just like I imagined it would. It happened for both of us. He feels the same way, too.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. Really.”

  “And he told you as much.”

  “Yes. He said the words. ‘Beryl, I love you.’ There was nothing for me to have to guess at or read between the lines about. He made it very, very clear.”

  “That he’s in love with you.”

  “That he’s in love with me.”

  Ripkin rubbed his right eyelid. His stomach growled.

  “Pardon me,” he said.

  “I suppose your stomach’s a cynic, too.”

  “Does this man know why you had a cataplexy?” he asked, ignoring her comment. “Does he realize what actually occurred?”

  “He knows everything,” she said.

  “What do you mean by ‘everything’?”

  Beryl stretched out on the couch again, her hands behind her head.

  “I mean he knows about my parents and he knows about me. He knows I’m narcoleptic.”

  Ripkin was startled.

  “So you actually took my advice and chose to tell him the truth? That’s great news, Beryl. Quite a bit of progress for you. Does he know about your obsessive-compulsive disorder?”