“Supposedly, Tucker McAllen was her first lover,” Gilley said, which I’d also heard. “And Reese told me today that there’s a rumor going around that Joel Goldberg was Lover Number Four.”
Tucker McAllen was a big deal around town. The New York real estate developer owned several high-rises in the Big Apple and was always in the society papers. Gilley and I had actually had a brief encounter with him at a local eatery when McAllen had been exceptionally cruel to a female server that had dared to put the wrong dressing on his salad, berating her loudly and insulting her intelligence and her looks. McAllen had sent the young woman to the kitchen in tears, and the scene had been such an appalling display that I’d excused myself from Gilley’s company, suggesting that I had to visit the powder room, and on the way there I’d stopped by McAllen’s table to offer him a withering look and a very soft “Shame on you.” He glowered at Gilley and me for the rest of our meal.
In an added display of solidarity with the female server, after I paid our bill and we were about to leave, I managed to intercept the young woman—who was still obviously shaken from her encounter with him—and I offered her a folded hundred-dollar bill in plain view of McAllen. Glaring hard at the insufferable ass, I told her in a loud and commanding voice, “Consider this hazard pay, my friend. And please know that my companion and I think you’re doing an absolutely marvelous job!”
Next to me, Gilley grinned broadly, then turned to stick out his tongue at the boorish tycoon as we practically flounced out of the restaurant with our noses in the air. It was deliciously satisfying.
And, if I was honest, part of the reason I was looking forward to Yelena’s show was that I wanted to take some delight in the dressing-down of Tucker McAllen.
Neither Gilley nor I had ever encountered Joel Goldberg, but we knew of him, and he was an equally big deal around town. Joel came from old money, mostly gold and diamonds. His family were some of the first and finest jewelers in the City, and they’d spent generations catering to the wealthiest citizens there and in the Hamptons. Goldberg had a fine jewelry store in every major town on Long Island, with several boutiques in Manhattan.
In the society papers, he was known to throw the most lavish parties. I had been invited to one a few weeks earlier but had sent my regrets because Shepherd had a low opinion of the man. Shep had told me in confidence that Goldberg had recently had a DWI charge thrown out, even though there was substantial evidence at the hearing that he had been quite intoxicated on the night in question. The incident had happened in East Hampton’s jurisdiction, so Shepherd had been well aware of it, and he’d even done a little digging into the presiding judge’s background and discovered that the Honorable Judge Waterson was a regular attendee of Goldberg’s parties, where the judge’s wife had been photographed wearing a new diamond pendant.
“There’s a part of me that both loves the idea of this play and is also slightly repulsed by it,” I confessed to Gilley.
“Oh, pish,” Gilley said with a wave of his hand. “It’s perfectly normal to delight in someone else’s public shaming as long as that someone is a total turd.”
I laughed. “Well, when you put it like that . . .”
At that moment the lights dimmed and the buzz of conversation in the packed theater came to an abrupt halt. For several seconds nothing happened, causing a palpable expectant and excited vibe to flitter across the audience. Finally, a single spotlight appeared, shining bright but empty on the center of the stage, and the excited tension in the audience ratcheted up a notch.
More seconds ticked by, and Gilley and I exchanged a look of confusion, and Gil even lifted his wrist to mimic looking at his watch. Where was the star?
Just when a low murmur began to hum out from the audience, the unmistakable sound of heels clicking against a wood floor reverberated across the stage.
I looked toward the source of the sound, but the bright spotlight made the background all the darker, and it was impossible to see anyone approaching.
And then the sound of clicking heels stopped, and more expectant seconds ticked by, until finally, the spotlight moved quickly—almost violently—several feet to land squarely on a statuesquely shapely woman in a dramatic pose, with her chin lifted and one arm raised high overhead while the other rested demurely on a hip jutted out just so.
Gilley gasped, as did many members of the audience. The sight of her standing under the spotlight was like watching the birth of a goddess.
Yelena’s floor-length, sequined blush-pink dress was scintillatingly revealing, allowing her ample décolletage to bulge from the deep V at the neckline. A slit up the side from floor to hip allowed for one gorgeous leg to peek out from all that sparkling fabric. And while she stood still as a statue in that dramatic pose, her dress shimmered under the light, making it appear like a living thing adoringly wrapping itself around a celestial being.
“Oh, my goddess . . . ,” Gilley whispered breathlessly.
“Indeed,” I whispered back.
I’d had no idea that Yelena Galanis was such a vision, and just looking at her, I could understand why so many men reportedly fell at her feet.
I was about to say as much to Gilley when Yelena’s extended arm floated down to her side, and her chin dropped, along with her gaze. It settled on us, her audience, and I felt myself subconsciously sitting a little straighter in my seat.
Gilley also shifted. Glancing at him sideways, I saw he was bug eyed, staring up at Yelena, totally entranced. In that moment, I’m rather ashamed to admit, I felt a small needle of jealousy thread its way into the pit of my stomach.
It wasn’t that I had any romantic designs on Gil. . . . It was more.... Well, he usually wore that particular look for me. Not all the time, but sometimes when I’d dolled myself up extra special, he would swoon appreciatively, and it always filled me with such a lovely little ego boost.
And a further look back to Yelena told me she seemed to sense Gilley’s adoration, because I swear she looked directly at him, the corners of her lips lifting in a knowing smile.
My eyes narrowed involuntarily, but I quickly pushed the expression back to neutral, just in case Gilley took his eyes off Yelena for two seconds to glance my way. I didn’t want him to see the hurt and envy etched onto my face.
I needn’t have worried. Gilley seemed to sense his connection with Yelena, and he leaned forward toward her and nodded. She blinked slowly, demurely, then took a step closer toward the audience.
“Lover Number One,” she said, her voice low and smoky à la Kathleen Turner, “was from the mean streets of Lower Manhattan.”
The audience chuckled appreciatively. Gilley giggled loudly and squirmed in his seat. Yelena came closer still, and I could see her very clearly now under the glare of the spotlight. Her long black hair shimmered in the brightness, and her delicate nose wrinkled a little distastefully when she spoke of Lover Number One, whom we all knew was Tucker McAllen.
“His trust fund was built by the timber industry,” she continued drolly, holding a microphone up toward her lips, and then she turned her palm over, as if to inspect her nails. “His lovemaking. . . was not.” Yelena let the microphone fall forward limply, and the audience roared, with Gilley laughing loudest of those around us as he also clapped his hands in glee.
And yes, even I chuckled. Still something about it felt a tiny bit shameful.
“We met at an art show,” Yelena went on, swinging the microphone back to her hand while continuing to study her nails. “He liked my dress. I liked his car. He told me he called his mother twice a week, and I told him, ‘What an odd name to call your mother. . . .’”
Again, the audience erupted in laughter. I giggled again, this time a little easier.
“Lover Number One was also quite the connoisseur. In particular, he loved all things French . . . du vin, la bouffe, l’art, la culture, l’architecture, les French fries, le milkshake, l’hamburger, les McDonald’s . . .”
Yelena winked at the audience, and her h
and then made a curving motion out away from her trim stomach to indicate that Lover Number One had had a belly.
Gilley squealed and slapped his knee. He was eating Yelena’s act up. It was, I thought, deliciously gossipy, but I didn’t know. . . . There was something a bit too wicked about laughing at McAllen so publicly. Even though he’d been absolutely wretched to that server, laughing at his expense like this didn’t feel as satisfying as I had thought it would. Instead, it almost felt like we were stooping to his level.
Yelena carried on, telling us all the naughty things she’d learned about Lover Number One, winding her way through their three-month relationship and sparing him no expense. Her humor was deft. She could deliver a punch line with such casual ease that if your mind drifted for a moment, you’d be out on the joke.
Ten minutes later she’d thoroughly emasculated Lover Number One, and I had stopped giggling. I found her act more cruel than humorous, but all around me there were peals of laughter. As I glanced around at the audience, I could see people here and there mouthing, “Tucker McAllen,” to each other and nodding agreeably. It was obviously no secret whom they were laughing at, and it was a bit disturbing, actually.
“Lover Number Two,” Yelena announced, “had a thing for fast cars, loud music, loose women, and big money, honey.”
A murmur of anticipation spread through the crowd. Yelena road out a pregnant pause, gleaming at the audience as she continued to cast her spell. “He spent his days at the house on the hill,” she said, giving us another juicy clue. “Looking down his nose at all the fools that bought his act. He wasn’t born into money, but he worked the phone and always came away with a generous donation or two all the same.”
“A congressman,” Gilley said, leaning over to whisper in my ear.
I nodded. “That’d be my guess too.”
“He spent his nights cheating at cards and commitments, working his way through the wives of close friends,” Yelena went on.
Gilley joined the audience’s chorus of “Ooh.”
“And I . . . ,” Yelena said, adding another lengthy pause, “worked him out of a new Lexus and a pair of diamond earrings.”
For emphasis, she offered the audience a little hip bounce and flicked her hair with a wave of her hand, exposing the bling in question.
Again, I shifted uncomfortably. I didn’t like the fact that she felt so entitled to cheat men out of things. Even if those men were cads. It just didn’t sit well with me.
Still, I seemed to be the only one who didn’t find it amusing. The audience appeared to hang on her every word as Yelena wound her way through the sordid details of their fling.
She then moved on to Lover Number Three. “Lover Number Three thinks this show is about him, don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you, Lover Number Three?”
Yelena giggled as she moved over to put her mic in the stand and fluff her long black hair for effect. Blinking her eyes demurely at us, she continued. “Speaking of love, Number Three never met a camera he didn’t love. Or a mirror. Or his image in any reflective surface he passed by. He spent more time preening than I do. And, honeys, let me tell you, I spend a lot of time preening!”
There were murmurs in the audience; clearly, everyone around us thought it was someone different. And, for his part, Gilley was pitched forward, his brow knit in concentration, as if he could tweeze out the identity of Number Three from just a few clues.
“Now, Lover Number Three is a man of traditional values, and by that I mean he enjoys a neat house, a good meal, and a boisterous romp in the hay, but only if the woman does all the work. Which is odd for a man that likes to throw his weight around so much.” Yelena pretended to have an extended belly again, and she swiveled her hips back and forth, stumbling a little, as if her belly was so heavy, it was creating momentum and causing her to nearly trip.
Gilley kicked his feet as he squealed with laughter. I forced a smile, but inside I was wincing.
Yelena giggled again, clearly enjoying herself. “Ahhh, and if he were here, my dear, sweet, gossip-loving friends, he’d probably lead his introduction with a ‘Do you know who I am?’”
She’d lowered her voice to quote the man and added more of the stumbling belly act, and people were laughing and laughing at her antics. Gilley looked over at me, eager to share the boisterous time he was having. I forced a laugh and nodded, intent on not spoiling his fun.
She carried on this way for another grueling half hour or so, winding her way through Lovers Four and Five and Six. Each sordid affair seemed to be worse than the last, and I stopped laughing long before Yelena waved to us, announced the intermission, and walked offstage to the beat of some loud, sassy music, which continued to play even as the lights flickered on and Gilley and I got up with the rest of the audience to move out into the lobby for the fifteen-minute break.
“Isn’t she a hoot?” Gilley asked when we had cleared the doors into the lobby and were away from the loud music, which made it easier to speak to each other.
“She’s something,” I muttered, rubbing my temples. I’d developed a headache during Lover Number Four, and that last wave of music ushering us out into the lobby to purchase a drink or a snack hadn’t helped.
“You don’t look happy. What’s wrong, Cat?”
I sighed. “She’s mean.”
Gilley’s chin pulled back in surprise. “Duh. It’s what makes it all so delicious.”
I shrugged. “It’s just not my cup of tea.”
Gil seemed to study me for a long moment. “You’re probably thinking about your first days here, when you were the topic of gossip around here, am I right?”
I shrugged again. “I suppose much of it might be that, but overall, I just find her to be a narcissistic, gold-digging, self-involved bully.”
“Gee, Cat, don’t hold back. Tell me how you really feel.”
I smiled, and my hand went to my temple again. “I’m sorry, lovey. I’ve been pushing back against a terrible headache for the past half hour.”
“Do you have anything for it?”
“Not with me. There’s a pharmacy down the street, next to the coffee shop, though.”
Gilley eyed his watch, and I knew he was nervous about missing any part of Yelena’s second act. “If we hustle, we can probably make it back in time.”
I shook my head. “No, Gilley. I’ll go. You get yourself a little wine before you head back to your seat.”
“But, Cat, if you come back after the second act starts up again, they won’t let you in.”
“I know,” I said, eyeing him intently.
It took Gilley a moment, but he suddenly understood. “You don’t want to watch the second half.”
“Not particularly.”
Gil frowned. “Well then, I’ll definitely come with you.”
I put my hands on his shoulders to block him. “No, my friend. You’re loving the show. I’ve just got too much of a headache to put off taking something for it any longer. If I don’t make it back here in time, I’ll wait for you in the coffee shop next to the pharmacy, okay?”
Gilley arched a brow. “Really? You think I’d actually be selfish enough to let you wait in a coffee shop with a splitting headache while I’m back here enjoying the show?”
I grinned, genuinely amused. “In point of fact, I do.”
Gilley chuckled. “You know me too well.” But then he sobered and let out a sigh. “I’d feel too guilty, Cat. Let me come with you.”
I took his chin in my hand and kissed his cheek. “My sweet Gilley, we’re out on the town tonight for you, and just because I’ve got a blistering headache doesn’t mean I should ruin your good time. No, you go back and catch the second act. If this is intermission, then it’s only going to be another hour and fifteen minutes. I’ll be fine just down the street.”
“You’re sure?” Gilley pressed.
“Positive,” I assured him. Then, after squeezing his chin one last time, I turned and headed toward the exit.
In short or
der I made my way to the pharmacy, bought some pain-relief tablets and a Town & Country magazine, and headed outside. I looked first toward the theater and took note of the time on my phone. I still had about three minutes left to get inside and to my seat, and I knew that it’d be close but that I could make it, and still, I just couldn’t muster up the will.
So instead, I walked the ten feet to the coffee shop—cutely named Thanks a Latte. Entering the shop, I was immediately charmed by the smell of baked goods and an eclectic decor.
Only one table appeared to be occupied, by a couple in their late teens, huddled in the corner booth by the window. They were sitting side by side, displaying lots of PDA, with eyes only for each other.
I squashed an amused smile and looked away. Young love is adorable.
After I ordered a signature latte, a bottled water, and a raspberry scone, I settled down at one of the many open tables in the middle of the shop, close to the door so that Gilley would spot me immediately when he came to find me. After popping two of the headache-relief tablets, I eased back in the chair, opened up the magazine, and took a sip of the latte, prepared for a luxurious hour spent quietly perusing the pretty pictures and stately homes of Town & Country.
No sooner was I feeling an easing to the set of my shoulders than the door opened abruptly, startling me, and in came a man of short stature, with white, wispy hair and a wild-eyed expression, nearly completely enveloped by a raincoat that was several sizes too large.
After the door behind him shut, he shuffled toward me a few paces before glancing over his shoulder back at the door, and that was when his foot seemed to catch the hem of his raincoat, and he stumbled forward, then reached out to brace himself against the table where I sat.
The movement seemed to startle both of us, and as our eyes met, I asked, “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” he squeaked, standing again, but he looked pale and shaky. He wiped his brow, which was beaded with sweat, and belatedly, I saw that his hand was smeared with blood.
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