I'll Take Manhattan (56 page)

“De Gaulle didn’t say that, Louis the Fourteenth said it,” Justin corrected. “He too had a tendency toward grandiosity, but that was so long before the Revolution that he could be forgiven, but Maxi, no.”

“I don’t think you’re as funny as you both seem to think you are,” she said, annoyed.

“The trouble with Maxi is that she doesn’t know when people are trying to lend her money,” said Toby.

“Oh, so that’s what this is all about.
No way
am I going to come to the two of you for money! You’ve got your own lives, you’ve got your separate interests, why should I expect you to lend me money for something that is totally a decision that I made myself? Keeping my magazine afloat
until it can swim by itself is a personal problem, and the money
has
to come from me.”

“I work for
B&B
—doesn’t that give me a say?” Justin asked.

“Look, Justin, I know you hate doing magazine photography and that you’re only sticking with it for my sake. That’s as much of a contribution as I’d ever expect you to make and I’m very aware of what it costs you to be tied down like this,” Maxi said severely. “So don’t expect me to hit you up for a loan on top of that.”

“What about me? I’m your older brother, Goldilocks. You might have tried me,” Toby insisted.

“Come on Bat, you’ve never had the slightest interest in the magazines,” Maxi replied. “You can’t convince me that you do. No, Toby, this one is my baby. It just wouldn’t be fair to rely on either of you. Surely you two are sensitive enough to understand that, for once in my life, I want to win something
on my own, by myself
. I’ve had a free ride in life and I haven’t made much out of it. This time it’s different!”

“Hear, hear,” Justin said with a slanting, loving, ironic and surprised glance.

“The real trouble with Maxi,” she continued, “is that she’s always starving, always hungry, always needing to eat. Such a bore, that girl. She gets mad when she gets hungry, so butt out of my business, you guys! Back off, you bums. When is the overrated, probably overcooked meat loaf going to be ready?”

“Maybe you should have taken their money,” Monty said doggedly, for the third time, as he watched Maxi sign checks. “Or, at the very least, you could have asked them how much they had in mind.”

Maxi shook her head. She couldn’t explain to Monty that Lily was planning to sell the entire company. This meant that she couldn’t tell him about the hope she had pinned on the survival of
B&B
, about the possibility that Lily would change her mind. It was a thin possibility, she knew, but the only one she had. If she allowed herself to indulge in self-doubt now, all would be lost without question.
Maxi changed the subject to lure Monty away from his lust for her brothers’ money.

“Monty, our last month’s circulation figures were hovering at four million copies. If we can maintain that number, when those six-month advertising contracts are up, we’ll be able to renew them at a huge hike in page rates, isn’t that so?”

“Yeah, if all your advertisers are willing to stand still for the size of the increases you plan to ask for, which is by no means certain and you’d better not count on it. After all, you still don’t really know precisely who those four million dames are, and what their income level and age level are.
Demographics
, Maxi, demographics. Madison Avenue buys specific audience with specific needs. But assuming that the advertisers do renew, you’ll start to begin to see daylight with the seventh issue. Right now every copy we’re selling at a dollar fifty is costing us two dollars and five cents to produce, not including the money Barney Shore is putting up for rack space. You’re such a raving success that you’re losing fifty-five cents a copy four million times a month or, to make it easier to understand, two million, two hundred thousand dollars monthly.”

Maxi raised her eyebrows so high that they disappeared under her rumpled bangs. “With three more issues to go, that’s over seven million dollars … still, it’s not as bad as the Defense Department. My auction had better break some records.”

“Don’t try to increase your circulation,” Monty warned her. “Success kills.”

“Don’t worry. I do understand that much. Is this the only business in the world where the product costs the manufacturer more to make than it costs the person who buys it?”

“Ever heard of movies?” Monty asked sadly. “Or theater? Or ballet or opera or concerts? Or television shows that don’t work?”

“So, essentially, we’re in show business?” Maxi summed up.

“Damn right we are,” Monty brooded.

“If you had money, would you put it into show business?”

“No,” Monty mourned. “Show business is two dirty words.”

“If you don’t cheer up, I’ll goose you,” Maxi threatened. He gave her a bleak grimace that tried to pass for a smile.

“We’d better pray that the price of paper or printing or distribution doesn’t go up,” Maxi said thoughtfully.

“And that Barney Shore doesn’t drop dead,” Monty added helpfully.

“I hope you can run fester than I can, you bastard,” Maxi exclaimed, charging at him, her middle finger already in position. “Here I come!”

“Frankly, Maxi, I think you’re bonkers, obsessed, over the hill,” India said as she unpacked the nine suitcases she had brought for a week’s stay. “If someone wanted to buy my family business, and the payoff meant that I’d have more money than I’ve ever heard of, I’d jump at the chance. You can’t even be sure that your father wouldn’t have sold if UBC had made him an offer.”

“He was only sixty-one when he died. I’m positive that he would never have sold and retired. What would he have done with the rest of his life? He lived for his magazines. They were his anchor, and he was my anchor. Don’t you understand?”

“And you identify with him? A sort of transference?”

“I guess someone like you would feel the need to put it into that particular, simple-minded jargon. I see you’ve discussed it with Doctor Florence Florsheim.”

“Naturally,” India said with dignity. “I try not to talk about you, but it’s getting more and more difficult since I met Toby.”

“And what did the good woman say?”

“She said maybe you didn’t want a hundred million dollars.”

“Oh, so she’s started to have opinions, has she?”

“About other people, sure. She’s human, after all. She just doesn’t have opinions about
me
, or at least she doesn’t tell me about them bluntly. She lets me arrive at my own conclusions about her opinions.”

“India, would it surprise you to know that she’s right? I don’t want a hundred million dollars.”

“Why ever not?”

“Ever since you became a movie star you’ve been complaining about how being publicly beautiful is a drag. How many women do you know who would understand that problem? And sympathize? You keep moaning about how this special and particular arrangement of your chromosomes has turned you into some kind of freak; how strangers get all sorts of delusional notions about you because of the particular way your cheekbones slant, because of the size of your eyes and their color; how millions of people project impossible dreams on your frail little shoulders based on the shape of your chin, the length of your nose, the color of your hair, and God knows what else. You say that no one can see ‘the real you’ but an old friend like me, or Toby, who’s blind, or your analyst, who doesn’t care. You complain that you intimidate people just because of an accident of birth; that they make you shy because you know what they’re thinking; that you can’t make friends with other women because of envy; that your looks invite the unwelcome attention of all kinds of sick creeps like that guy who keeps phoning and writing you those awful letters. Are you still getting them, by the way?”

“Unfortunately, yes.
Please
don’t mention it in front of Toby—my ‘fan’ called here today, he’s getting crazier by the minute. But let’s not talk about him. And anyway, what do weird types like that have to do with money?”

“Money invites the same kind of fantasies, only worse. You used to be smarter, India. People would read about the sale in the papers—whenever a private company is sold the details get spread all over the financial pages and leak over into the regular press, and I’d never seem even remotely human again. I’d be one of those immensely rich women whose fortunes get listed in magazines and any chance I still have of leading a normal life would disappear. As it is, it’s bad enough. When people meet me for the first time I can actually see the pupils of their eyes change, as if I glowed in the dark, had a halo or an aura. They can never see me without it; it taints every word they say, and makes them shut up and listen when I make the most banal remark.
Money is great and it’s also a serious barrier to being allowed to join the rest of the human race.” Maxi sighed, and twisted her white streak into a corkscrew curl.

“There are times, particularly at the office, when I’m genuinely just one of the gang, and it’s heaven. Being an Amberville obviously means being rich, but nobody knows exactly
how
rich, and it’s that particular detail, that number, that dollar value, that Americans get off on. And not just Americans. Everybody. It makes them crazy. And as bad as it would be for me, it would be much worse for Angelica, because at least I’m my own person, I more or less know who I am, and who my friends are, but Angelica would be so exposed, so much in the spotlight as she grew up. Now she’s still a regular little girl.”

“She may be regular but she’s not a little girl anymore. Not the last time I looked, which was this morning,” India said.

“She’s only twelve and a bit,” Maxi said defensively.

“Going on thirteen and watch out! Raging hormones. She’ll be rich
and
insanely beautiful. She’s got Rocco’s looks, that kid. You’re still terribly pretty, Maxi, even if you are almost thirty,” India said, giving her a slow, professional, critical assessment, “but nothing to compare with Angelica. No offense meant.”

“No offense taken, creep. After all I only married Rocco because he was so handsome.”

“If I remember correctly, there was just a bit more to it than that.”

“The worst thing about old friends is that they don’t have the grace to disremember. Rocco always was a miserable grouch but as he gets older he gets worse. He’s so flawed that it’s hard to pick out his worst aspect but I think that probably it’s his ingratitude. I cured his head cold and he’s never called to thank me.”

“Do you know how to cure head colds? That could be valuable; science has been looking for a way for years,” India commented dubiously.

“Only certain head colds. What’s more I almost gave him a bunch of presents for something he did for Justin. I didn’t because that’s when my money ran out, but it’s just as well. He has a basically odious nature.”

“I always liked Rocco,” India announced with determination. “He must still be divine to look at, at least.”

“Some people might think so, I suppose, but it won’t last much longer, no beauty does, you know,” Maxi said. “Not even yours,” she added in a compassionate voice.

“Tell me, Maxi, how’s your sex life?” India inquired, her turquoise eyes unswervingly observant. “Something seems to be biting your ass. I detect a little oversensitivity, a degree of irritability. Knowing you, it’s got to be a new man.”

“Ha! Who has time for sex? I’ve forgotten about it. When you’re as busy as I am, sexual appetites just go away somewhere and you don’t
miss
them.”

“So that’s what it is, lack of libido. On the other hand it’s the only thing I can think of to keep you out of trouble. Remember, you’ve taken a vow never to marry another man.”

“Who would I marry? And more to the point,
why
would I marry? Who was it who said, ‘I’ve been a man and I’ve been a woman and there’s got to be something better’? That’s the way I feel about marriage.”

“I think you’re scrambled. Didn’t Tallulah Bankhead say, ‘I’ve
had
a man and I’ve
had
a woman and there’s got to be something better’?”

“Never mind,” Maxi said. “You know what I mean.”

“Actually not. I can’t think of anything I want more than marriage,” India said wistfully.

“Not having tried it, naturally you’re tempted. Anyway, Toby is a hundred times superior to any of my husbands. If you can only manage to talk him into it.”

“That would make us sisters-in-law and I don’t know if I could live with your currently pessimistic view of the world. Cheer up. If everything falls apart at
B&B
and you end up wildly, ridiculously rich you can give it all away to charity. Or you could start your own cult. You could buy the Getty—no, you wouldn’t have enough for that. Well, you could buy a movie studio and get rid of the money that way, faster than you think.”

“Why don’t you write a novel called
Unsolicited Advice
? Or maybe one called
I Also Do Windows
?” Maxi suggested, tweaking India’s famous nose. “I appreciate your
thoughts and comments, but, you see, I am in show business already.”

Man Ray Lefkowitz and Rap Kelly, Rocco’s partners, having lunch together, sat in the Perigord Park eating shad roe and covertly eavesdropping on Maxi who was at the next table working over the most important space buyer on the Seagram account. Her voice, as it drifted over to them, was as potent as a dose of nitroglycerine wafting up a man’s spine, yielding, addictive and yet businesslike, maintaining a firm borderline that never crossed over into the overtly seductive.

“We’ve finally got the demographics, George,” Maxi said. “You’re one of the first to know.” She sounded almost clandestine yet somehow ingenuous. “Naturally it took time to collect them, but our four million readers are, on the average, working women as well as wives and mothers. She’s between nineteen and forty-four years old and last year she personally earned over twenty-six thousand dollars, which is roughly twenty-two percent of all the income earned by all the women in America put together. And George, teetotaler she most definitely is not. She buys
B&B
because it makes her feel good—that you know already. But did you know that seventy percent of our readers read
B&B
while they’re enjoying a drink? Maybe relaxing from their work, maybe just sitting around waiting for their guys to arrive, maybe making dinner—we don’t have the breakdown on that yet, but the figures should be in soon.
B&B
is simply not the sort of magazine you read when you’re on a diet and have decided to cut out wine and liquor—our reader is too busy being nice to herself, day in, day out. She’s the sort who celebrates … and if there’s nothing to celebrate, she decides to celebrate anyway.”