Trading Up (2 page)

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been committed against the first party, with the implication being that since both parties were members of the same, exclusive New York society, they would try to reason it out first, before resorting to lawyers or gossip columnists. But in a second, fear was replaced by indignation as Janey wondered what possible injury she could have caused Comstock Dibble.
She
was the dumpee, not he, and as far as she was concerned, he owed her. Still, it would be far better for him to show his hand first, and getting a hold of herself, she said flirtatiously, “Are we friends, Comstock?

Gosh. I haven’t heard from you in nearly a year. I thought maybe you were calling to offer me a part in your next movie.”

“I didn’t know you were an actress, Janey.”

This was a jab. Comstock knew perfectly well that she’d starred in that action-adventure film eight years ago, but she didn’t take the bait. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me now, Comstock,” she said playfully, adding, “because you haven’t called.”

She knew he was under no obligation to call her, but she also knew that there was no better way to needle a man than to make him feel guilty about fucking you and not calling for months afterward.

“I’m calling
now,
” he said.

“So when am I going to see you?” she asked.

“That’s what I’m calling about.”

“Don’t tell me that you and Mauve broke up . . .”

“Mauve’s a sweetheart,” he said, somehow implying that Janey wasn’t. This was another insult, and Janey said snidely, “Why shouldn’t she be? I mean, what has she ever had to do but inherit millions of dollars . . .” To which Comstock replied in a warning tone of voice, “Janey . . .”

“Well, come on, Comstock. You know it’s true,” Janey said, falling back into the easy banter she’d used so successfully with him last summer. There was a part of her that hated him for rejecting her, and another part that loved being on intimate terms with one of the powerful men who ran New York. “After all,” she continued smoothly, “it’s easy to be nice when you’ve never had to work for your money . . .” Comstock sighed as if she were completely hopeless and said, “Don’t be jealous.”

“I’m
not
jealous,” Janey squealed. There was nothing she hated more than having her deficiencies pointed out to her. “Why on earth would I be jealous of Mauve Binchely?” Mauve was, in Janey’s estimation, practically ancient for a woman—

nearly forty-five—and had only one good feature: her hair, which was dark and wavy and hung halfway down her back.

But Comstock had obviously grown bored with the direction of this conversation, because he suddenly repeated, “Janey, you and I have always been friends,” and added, “so I know you’re not going to make trouble for me.” 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 9

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“Why would I make trouble?” Janey asked.

“Now, come on, Janey,” Comstock said, in a low, conspiratorial growl. “You know you’re a dangerous woman.”

Janey’s initial reaction was to be pleased with this sally—in her more egotistical moments she did fancy herself a dangerous woman who might someday take over the world—but she suspected there was a veiled threat behind Comstock’s words.

Last year, when she’d been broke, people had whispered behind her back that she was a whore. This year, now that she was finally successful and making it on her own, they were whispering that she was a dangerous woman. But that was New York. In a sultry voice that belied her growing consternation, she said, “If you want to be friends, Comstock, you’re doing a pretty bad job of it.” He laughed, but in the next second his tone became menacing. “You know better than to fuck with me . . . ,” he said, and for a moment, Janey wondered if he was going to explode in one of his legendary outbursts. Comstock Dibble, while acknowledged as a genius in the movie business, was equally known for his irrational displays of temper—he often called women “cunts”—after which he usually sent flowers. There were at least a dozen powerful men like him in New York, who could be charming one minute and rabid the next, but as long as Comstock remained the head of Parador Pictures, and as long as Parador continued to be the media’s darling, Comstock would not suffer for it, and that was New York, too.

A less confident girl might have been frightened, but Janey Wilcox wasn’t that kind of girl—she’d always prided herself on not being intimidated by powerful men.

And so, in a voice full of wide-eyed innocence, she said, “Are you
threatening
me, Comstock?” as he spurted out, “I know you’re going to Mimi Kilroy’s tonight.” Janey was so surprised she started to laugh. “Really, Comstock,” she said. “Don’t you have better things to do than to call me about a . . .
party
?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said, adopting their familiar tone of bantering.

“And that’s why I’m so pissed off about this. Goddammit, Janey. Why can’t you just stay home?”

“Why can’t you?” Janey asked.

“Mauve is Mimi’s best friend.”

“So?” Janey said coldly.

“Listen, Janey,” Comstock said. “I’m just trying to give you a friendly warning.

It’s better for both of us if no one knows we know each other.” Janey was unable to resist reminding Comstock of their former relationship.

“No, Comstock,” she said with a laugh. “It’s better for
you
if no one knows you fucked me last summer.”

And then Comstock finally did lose his temper. “Will you shut up and listen?” he shouted. Adding, “You fucking cunt!”

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His scream was so loud that Janey was convinced he could be heard through her cell phone by people in the neighboring cars on the Long Island Expressway.

And if he thought he could talk to her like that, he was sorely mistaken. She wasn’t that desperate little girl he’d fucked over last summer, and she meant him to know it. “Now
you
listen, Comstock,” she said with a frigid calmness. “All you’re saying is that I was good enough to fuck last summer, and this summer I’m not good enough to know you. Well, let me tell you something. I don’t operate that way.”

“We all know how you operate, Janey,” he said ominously.

“The difference between you and me is that I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve done in the past,” Janey said. This wasn’t entirely true, but she had to admit that it sounded good.

Comstock, however, wasn’t impressed. “Just keep the fuck away from me,” he said. “I’m warning you. This could be a disaster for both of us.” And with that, he hung up.

Goddamned Comstock, Janey thought, as she pressed down on the brake. The traffic had come to a standstill and she leaned her head to the side, frowning at the line of cars.

This was supposed to be her triumphant summer, she thought angrily. Her new commercial, in which she pretended to sing and play a white electric guitar while wearing nothing more than a white silk bra and panties, had begun airing three days ago to great fanfare—and now that she was a famous supermodel, she knew this was the summer to strike. She planned to cultivate the movers and shakers who populated the Hamptons every summer; her dream was to have a “salon” where artists, filmmakers, and writers would gather to discuss intellectual topics. If pressed, she would have to admit that eventually, she wanted to direct . . . But most of all, she was assuming her new supermodel status would mean she didn’t have to deal with assholes like Comstock Dibble anymore, and would enable her to get a much better man. Naturally, she wanted to be in love, but behind every great match, wasn’t there a touch of cynicism? And there was nothing the public loved more than the alliance of two famous people . . .

But suddenly, Comstock’s phone call made her question all that, and for a moment she wondered nervously if she had, indeed, come as far as she’d imagined.

All her life, it seemed, she’d been forced to sleep with rich men in order to survive—

short, paunchy, bald men with hair in their ears and funguses on their toes, men with gaps in their teeth and fur on their backs, men with penises that never quite got erect, men, in short, whom no self-respecting woman would ever have sex with save for the fact that the man had money. She’d vowed that this summer would be different. But that one comment of Comstock’s—“we all know how you operate, Janey”—suddenly made her unsure . . .

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She gripped the steering wheel, and as she did so, her eyes fell on her bitten nails. She quickly slid one hand between her legs so she wouldn’t have to think about her fingers, and tried to reassure herself that what Comstock had said wasn’t important. After all, he was probably angry that she’d become a famous supermodel and he had let her go . . . But his words were a niggling reminder of everything that was wrong with New York: A man could sleep with as many women as he liked, but when it came to sex, there were still quite a few people in society who clung to the old-fashioned notion that a woman shouldn’t have too many partners. Oh, a woman could certainly have some sex—indeed, it was expected.

But there seemed to be some unspoken limit as to the number of men a woman could bed, and having passed that limit, a woman was no longer considered “mar-riageable.”

And it was so unfair! Janey thought furiously. She certainly did seem to have more sex with more men than most of the women she knew, and she knew that, behind her back, people had whispered that
she
was a slut. But what nobody understood was that every time she
did
have sex with a man, even if it only entailed giving him a blow job in the bathroom of a restaurant, she was doing it because she thought that maybe he
was
“the one.”

Or that was what she always told herself, anyway.

Her phone rang again, and she grabbed it, wondering if it was Comstock calling back to apologize.

“Janey?” asked a slightly familiar woman’s voice. The accent was cultured and East Coast, and then, as if the speaker had finally contacted a long lost friend, she cried out, “Mimi Kilroy here. Darling, how
are
you?” For a second, Janey was too surprised to speak. Mimi was certainly not a good friend; indeed, their acquaintance consisted of little more than bumping into each other at parties over the years. But Janey was immediately thrilled. Mimi Kilroy was at the very top of the social heap in New York—her father was a famous senator who, it was rumored, might be appointed to Finance Commissioner if the Republicans won the new election—and it was whispered that Mimi, who had been on the scene since the age of fifteen when she started going to Studio 54, secretly ran New York society. In the past ten years, Janey had barely spoken more than three words to Mimi—until this moment, Mimi had always made it a point to ignore her or to pretend that she didn’t know who Janey was—but nevertheless, Janey wasn’t particularly surprised that Mimi was calling. After all, as soon as you made it in New York, people who had never acknowledged you before suddenly wanted to become your best friend.

And so, in a voice that implied that she and Mimi were, indeed, old friends, and that Mimi had never once cut her at parties, she purred, “Hello, Mimi. You must be 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 12

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going crazy getting ready for your party tonight.” Then she sat back against the seat and, glancing at herself in the rearview mirror, smiled in satisfaction.

Oh, it was morally wrong, of course, to suddenly pretend to be Mimi’s friend—

just because Mimi suddenly seemed to want to be hers. But Janey was never one to stand on ceremony, especially when a situation might potentially work to her benefit, and in the next second, Mimi exclaimed with a touch of guilt, “I hardly lift a finger. The caterers and party planners do it all . . . I only have to taste the hors d’oeuvres!”

Janey was suddenly uncomfortable. She’d given exactly two parties in her life, both disasters (she had a miserly quality and each time the alcohol had run out), and the fact that Mimi was famous for her parties
and
was able to hire caterers and party planners only seemed to highlight the gulf between them. Faced with a reminder of her lesser status, Janey’s usual reaction would have been a snide comment. But this time she caught herself, and instead of remarking sarcastically, “Can’t you find someone to do
that
?” she merely laughed politely.

“Darling,” Mimi said, “I just wanted to make sure that you’re coming to the party tonight. There’s someone special I want to introduce you to. His name is Selden Rose, and he’s just moved here from California . . . Do you know him? He’s the new head of MovieTime, the cable channel . . . You’re probably like me, you don’t watch TV, but apparently it’s a very important job . . .
And
he’s gorgeous and forty-five, divorced, no kids thank God, so he’s relatively fresh . . . but most of all, darling, he’s terribly, terribly . . . real. Yes, I think that’s the word for it. He’s
real
.

Not a bit like us,” Mimi said, with a knowing laugh. “Of course, I don’t expect you to fall in love with him, but he’s an old friend of George’s and hardly knows anyone, and it would be so sweet if you were just a tiny bit nice to him . . .”

“I’d
love
to meet him,” Janey said warmly. “He sounds divine . . .”

“Oh darling, he is,” Mimi said. “And naturally I never forget anyone who’s done me a favor . . .”

The conversation went on like this for a few more seconds, and then Mimi hung up with a salutation of “Big kiss, darling.” And suddenly, Janey was on top of the world again. Selden Rose didn’t sound particularly promising—from Mimi’s description, he might even be another Comstock Dibble—but the fact that Mimi had called to fix her up with him reassured her that she had come as far as she’d thought. And wouldn’t that be a slap in the face to Comstock Dibble, and a way of showing him that he mustn’t mess with her. She didn’t know what Mimi meant, exactly, about being “sweet” to Selden Rose (if she expected Janey to give him a blow job in the bathroom, she could forget about it), but she would certainly pay him some attention, and when Comstock saw that she’d made it into Mimi’s inner circle, it would drive him crazy . . .