But right now, being forced to listen to George go on and on about the costs of the different kinds of paneling in the room, it seemed like a blessing, and she wondered why the fabulous Mimi Kilroy had succumbed to marrying George Paxton. It wasn’t that he was
so
awful—summing him up, Janey could see that he had a glimmer of humor—but that he was so completely out of his element. Nor did this bode well for the “brilliant” Selden Rose: It certainly didn’t recommend him much if George was his good friend.
As George went on and on—she believed he was talking about the packing methods for shipping furniture from Europe to America, a topic on which she did not, and never would, have an interest—she spotted Pippi Maus by the French doors leading to the terrace, and was immediately reminded of the delicious young man she’d seen her with in the car. At the moment, he was nowhere to be found, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t at the party. Using the excuse of needing some fresh air, Janey strolled toward Pippi, and then, when she was nearly on top of her, pretended to suddenly see her. Arranging her expression into one of pleasant surprise, she said, “Pippi?” Pippi looked up at her with that expression that is typical of all famous people: a mixture of eagerness at being recognized, coupled with a fear of being ambushed by an overeager fan. Janey nearly snorted with derision—in her mind, Pippi wasn’t famous enough for that look, but she held out her hand and said, “Janey Wilcox.”
“Oh,” Pippi said. Janey could tell that Pippi had no idea who she was, which was all the more annoying as under normal circumstances, Janey wouldn’t have wasted her time with a chit like Pippi—after all, there was nothing Pippi could do for her. But at the moment, she was dying to find out at least the name of Pippi’s afternoon companion, so she said, “You remember? We met . . . oh God, I can’t even remember where we met . . .”
“I can’t even remember what day it is most of the time,” Pippi agreed, nodding her head.
“I think you passed me on the Long Island Expressway this afternoon.” Pippi opened her mouth in recognition, as if finally able to place who Janey was. “I’m sure we did,” she said. “We passed almost everyone. Did you see me? I was in a green Ferrari.”
Janey ignored the obviousness of her remark and said, “I
love
that car.” 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 25
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“So do I,” Pippi said. “I wish it was mine, but I can’t afford it.”
“Is it your boyfriend’s?”
“Oh no. I mean, it is his car, but he isn’t my boyfriend. Not yet, I mean . . . He’s a
polo player,
” she said breathlessly, as if that explained everything.
Janey nodded wisely, knowing that poor little Pippi, with her mousy face and eyes that were spaced too closely together, hardly had a chance, and in a voice dripping with sympathy said, “You should have brought him to the party.”
“I wanted to, but I
couldn’t,
” Pippi said in agony. “He had to have dinner with some old guy . . . Harold something . . . ?”
“Harold Vane?” Janey said, trying to hold her excitement in check. Harold Vane was yet another of her former lovers, and a good friend—she must remember to call Harold tomorrow and find out all about this mysterious polo player.
“What’s his name?” she asked casually.
“I can’t remember. Harold . . . ?”
“Oh, I
know
Harold,” Janey said, with a superior laugh. “I meant the polo player.”
“Zizi?” Pippi asked. And then the light of understanding appeared to dawn on her. “That’s what everyone calls him anyway. But I haven’t found out if he has a last name or not . . .”
“Really,” Janey said, smiling vaguely. Pippi was so dumb, she thought, and now, having achieved her aim, she wanted to escape. Turning, she saw a savior in the form of Rupert Jackson.
He was obviously looking for her, because he came right over, and in a scolding tone of voice declared, “Miss Wilcox, you’ve been very naughty. I’ve just discovered that you know this scoundrel, Peter Cannon. Is it true you actually dated the man?” Janey would have preferred that Rupert hadn’t been acquainted with this information, but it was impossible to keep secrets in New York, and in a second, her dismay was quickly replaced with the pleasurable knowledge that Rupert Jackson must certainly be interested.
“Oh really,” she said airily. “I only dated him the same way I date every man.
For a minute.”
“You
are
naughty,” Rupert said, shrieking with delight. His voice attracted the attention of nearly everyone in the room, and he said, “You must tell Uncle Rupert all about it.” And then, in full view of the party, her took her arm and led her away to a remote corner of the terrace.
The party had swelled and grown, and cries of “Isn’t it a perfect evening?” rang out across the terrace, as if the guests themselves had arranged for the weather and not Mother Nature.
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But who wouldn’t have wanted to take credit for such an evening? The night air was a temperate seventy-two degrees, there was a full moon and just the slightest hint of a breeze off the Atlantic Ocean. The soft wind mingled with the strains of music from the steel band, picking up the bell-like peals and sprinkling them over the party like so much fairy dust. Flowering fruit trees in pots, their branches trimmed to resemble lollipops, were spaced at even intervals along a bright white balustrade, and framed between two of these trees now stood Janey Wilcox.
Having moved away from the crowd for a moment, Janey situated herself to her best advantage, in a three-quarter pose facing the ocean. Her hands rested on the balustrade, and she leaned over slightly, pushing out her chest and arching her back, so that her breasts were more prominently displayed. She tilted her head back a bit and closed her eyes, breathing in the night air and knowing as she did so that she was creating the impression of a lovely young woman who was lost in thought.
But in reality, her mind was awhirl. It was, she decided, already a thrillingly successful evening for her: There was that long and promising conversation with Rupert Jackson, and then Mimi had introduced her to the new editor in chief of
Harper’s Bazaar,
who hinted that she might use Janey for a cover. In all her years as a model, Janey had never rated the cover of a magazine, and she marveled at the capriciousness of life, about how, when one good thing happened to you, other good things seemed to follow.
And then there was Mimi herself. Janey wondered why she’d mistrusted her for so many years—like most people, Mimi was perfectly nice once you got to know her. It crossed Janey’s mind that perhaps the fault had been on her side—maybe Mimi had simply suspected that Janey didn’t like
her
. But that was the wonderful thing about New York: Years of bad blood could be wiped out with a single gesture of friendliness, the unspoken understanding being that no one ever need acknowledge the previously awkward relationship.
She took a sip of champagne, and stared out over the ocean. Separating herself from the crowd was an old party trick of hers, and one that she used deliberately to allow an interested man to approach without fear. Keeping her gaze on the ocean, she wondered idly what sort of fish she would hook, when suddenly, she heard a familiar and not entirely welcome voice cry out, “Well, if it isn’t Janey Wilcox. In the flesh.” It was Bill Westacott, the screenwriter.
“Jesus, Janey,” he said, coming toward her. “I can hardly walk down the street in New York without seeing your goddamned picture somewhere. What the hell is going on?”
This should have been gratifying, but coming from Bill it was merely exasperating, reminding her of the many times in the past when Bill had annoyed her. Tak-18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 27
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ing on his subtly snide tone, she said, “Bill! What are
you
doing here?” as if she were surprised at his being invited, and he said, “Why shouldn’t I be here?” Janey gave a superior laugh, and said, “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be here, I’m just surprised, that’s all.” Moving closer and lowering her voice, she said, “I thought you didn’t
like
Mimi Kilroy.” Bill refused to take the bait. “Come on, Janey,” he said. “I may have had some issues with her over the years, but Mimi is one of my oldest friends.”
“Oh yes,” Janey said, giving him a sarcastic smile. “I forgot.”
“And I seem to recall that
you’re
the one who has a problem with her,” Bill continued heedlessly. “ ‘She’s ugly and old, and I can’t believe people still pay attention to her,’ were, I believe, your exact words.”
Janey took a step away. “I never said that,” she hissed, trying to take refuge behind a potted fruit tree. Why was it always like this with Bill? Somehow, he always managed to spin the conversation around so that everything was her fault, and it wasn’t fair.
“You did say it,” he said. “But I’m not going to hold it against you. I’ve lived in New York long enough to understand how these things work. Now you’re the belle of the ball—why shouldn’t you be Mimi Kilroy’s new best friend?”
“I’m hardly her best friend,” Janey said with annoyance.
“You will be,” Bill said casually. “You never miss an opportunity to get ahead.” And fixing her with a piercing look, he added, “And Mimi never misses an opportunity to seduce the latest star . . .”
“Oh please, Bill,” Janey said, the note of disgust in her voice conveying the impression that she wasn’t going to dignify this with a response.
Bill wasn’t deterred. “So what did Rupert Jackson want?” he asked with an amused grin.
So that was it! she thought. There it was: The old jealousy. Bill, who was married to a crazy woman and had two kids, had been her lover two summers in a row.
He would never leave his wife, but with typical male egotism, couldn’t stand her having other boyfriends, either. Last summer, Bill had nearly gone insane when he’d found out she was seeing Comstock Dibble, and sensing an opportunity to goad him, she said seductively, “What do you
think
he wants?” Instead of a jealous reaction, however, Bill laughed out loud. “I don’t know, but it’s probably not what
you
think he wants.”
“Oh really?” she asked, raising her eyebrows in disbelief.
“I’m just stating the obvious,” Bill said, with a triumphant grin. “Rupert Jackson is gay. Everybody in Hollywood knows it. The fiancée is a beard.” Janey gasped and then turned on him in a rage. “I can’t believe you’re this bitter, 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 28
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Bill. Just because your career is going nowhere . . .” She was about to continue, but he cut her off.
“In the first place, I just sold a screenplay to Universal. So my career is going great, thank you very much,” he said evenly. “And in the second, why can’t you stop being so defensive? Not everybody is out to get you all the time . . . As a matter of fact, I was just trying to give you a friendly warning. A little tip to prevent you from making a fool of yourself over Rupert Jackson, the way you did over Comstock Dibble last summer. As I recall, I was the one who told you he was engaged . . .”
“Married. You said he was married,” Janey said.
“What’s the difference? The point is, he was with someone else . . .” Well, she knew that, she thought, but stated so plainly, his words were like a little shock, reminding her of the unpleasant conversation she’d had with Comstock that afternoon. But she didn’t want Bill to see that he’d nailed her, and staring boldly into his face, she said pointedly, “So what, Bill? Haven’t you noticed that most of the men I’ve been with have been involved with someone else?” And then, as if sensing her unease and going in for the kill, Bill asked casually,
“By the way, whatever happened to that screenplay you were writing for him?” This was such an obviously nasty dig that for a moment, all Janey could think about was
why
Bill was being so mean. She’d always thought of Bill as being fucked up, but never inherently unkind. The surface of New York’s social interactions was as smooth and shiny as a sheet of ice, but underneath were water moccasins and snapping turtles—and while she knew of men who automatically became jealous of anyone else’s success, including a woman’s, she never thought Bill would fall into that category. For a moment, she soothed herself by feeling sorry for Bill, sorry that he’d become so pathetic. And then, shrugging off his comment as if it were of no importance, she said evenly, “What do you mean?” He crossed his arms and leaned toward her aggressively. “I thought the big plan last summer was to become a famous Hollywood screenwriter. Didn’t you tell me that Comstock paid you to write a screenplay?”
“As a matter of fact, he did,” Janey said, shrugging her shoulders as if she couldn’t understand what he was getting at.
“So did you finish it? Are they going to make it into a big Hollywood movie with you as the star?”
“Oh yes,” she laughed, trying to make a joke of it. But inside, she was reeling.
In the heady success of the last few months she’d managed to forget all about the fact that Comstock had paid her $30,000 to write a screenplay last summer—and while she had written thirty pages, she’d never been able to finish it. She couldn’t stand the idea that she had failed, especially at something that she’d always pro-claimed was easy, and last summer, in an attempt to put Bill in his place, she’d 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 29
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boasted endlessly about how well her screenplay was going and how great it was going to be. And now she was in the embarrassing position of having to defend herself to him.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Well what?”
“Did you even finish it?” he asked in a superior tone of voice, as if he knew she hadn’t.
“I’m almost finished with the second draft.” This was a complete lie, but she couldn’t help it. All along, Bill had told her that she wouldn’t be able to write it, and now there was no way she was going to give him the satisfaction of having been correct.