2 Death of a Supermodel (11 page)

“You heard about Thomasina Wente dying during our show.” Laura despised thick silences.

“It’s hard to not hear about it,” he replied, his tone implying that there were bigger injustices in the world that might take up more space in the newspaper. “Another rich woman dies, and we’re all supposed to drop everything.”

“Oh, my God!” Ruby exclaimed. “Are you doing that thing again?”

“You mean standing up for the little guy?”

“No,” Laura said. “I think she means complaining about the coverage of rich ladies dying while you write a book-length article for the
New Yorker
about exactly that thing.”

She knew that was not what Ruby meant at all. Ruby had just been annoyed and probably hadn’t even noticed the duplicity. And though Laura had no intention of raking Stu too far over the coals for it, the rustling sound from the bathroom kept her from dragging out the issue even another five seconds. She didn’t want Tofu to hear her breaking Stu’s balls over that or anything. For some reason, she wanted the new girlfriend to worry about her, which ran totally counter to her own interests, but she had no control over the perverse impulse.

Stu helped her out by looking at Ruby and saying, “Touché.”

“Okay, we all have to get on with our day,” Laura said, still worrying about the person about to emerge from the bathroom. “Can I ask you for a favor? Because I know you know everything and everyone.”

“Naturally.” He sat down next to Ruby on the couch.

“I looked through Thomasina’s things by accident.”

Stu nearly spit out a mouthful of coffee laughing. Ruby elbowed him. “Sorry,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“All the stuff in her wallet was made out to Sabine Fosh. Credit cards. EU driver’s license.”

“Library card?” he asked.

She ignored his joke. “Her brother said this was kind of a persona she put on so she could travel and go to the grocery store and whatever without people knowing who she was. But you know, she was so rich that she probably had her maid go to the store. And she wasn’t ashamed one bit of who she was. So, can you find out the deal with this person?”

“Sabine Fosh?”

“No, the brother.”

He looked at her as if he was trying to read the book of her intentions. “What else? I’ll need all the details. Where and how you came upon this information and exactly what Rolf said.”

He already knew Thomasina’s brother’s name. Very impressive. Yet she didn’t want to go too far into how she’d inspected the bag after she knew whose it was, not in front of Ruby at least. She told the story without the one o’clock in the morning visit to the office and the photocopies of the receipts while he poured her a cup of coffee and Ruby a juice. Ruby interjected where she could, telling him what a really awesome friend Thomasina was, how the whole runway thing had just been an unfortunate incident, and how even her beast of a sister had grown to like the German heiress.

As the bathroom door opened, Stu said, “Same deal. I get you whatever you need, if I can. My sources are an open book. But it’s my story. I have exclusive first rights to everything you guys do or say regarding what happens with the Thomasina Wente case.”

“You’re becoming quite mercenary, Stuart.” The woman’s lilting voice had an accent so slight it only seemed to add music to the perfect speech. Five-nine and not a hair over a size six, she was radiant and clean in jeans and a white shirt. When she smiled warmly and genuinely, Laura felt guilty for hating her so completely.

She held out her hand to Ruby. “I’m Tofu,” she said, except that wasn’t what she said at all. What she said sounded like an exotic fruit of subtle sweetness.
Tah
-fuh.

Ruby shook Tofu’s hand, and Laura realized that Tofu thought Ruby was her, because if someone were to describe her and her sister without pictures, he or she might use the same words. And if one felt threatened by someone, and there were two people in the room, well, one might assume the more attractive of the two was the problem one. One might think the competition was an equal. But no, it was a woman three inches shorter and fifteen pounds heavier. And with half a face made up, as if she were starring in
A Clockwork Orange.
All she needed was to be leaning out of a triangle with a knife. She shook her head a little so her hair covered her eye.

Ruby looked at her pointedly. If she could shoot thoughts out of her eyes and into Laura’s brain, her look would have said, “Wear it like you mean it.”

Laura brushed the hair away, exposing the overdone eye. “I’m Laura.”

Tofu was the picture of social grace as she redirected her attention and shook Laura’s hand, firmly and dryly. Like a total bitch. “Nice to finally meet you,” she said.
Finally
. As if Laura were Stu’s long lost sister or Canadian ex. “Honey,” she said to him, showing ownership, “did you get the tent down from the hall closet?”

“It’s by the door.” Then he turned to Laura. “Tofu’s doing an action at the I.I. building today.”

International Insurance had been busted for evading taxes and selling fancy financial products that amounted to legalized gambling to investors, hedge fund managers, and the federal government’s pension fund. The CEO got a nine-figure bonus, and the pensioners had gone broke. Oldest story in the book. It bored Laura into a coma. Ruby was already picking her nails.

“Our dear should be going, too.” Apparently,
our dear
was Stu. Tofu must have had a streak of old lady in her. “But he’s too busy using his talents to support big publishing.”

“The
New Yorker
is not big publishing.” But by the look on his face, Laura could tell he was conflicted, and by the faux-light tone of the conversation, she knew that had been discussed until the issue was raw at the edges.

“Darling…” Tofu touched the side of his face. “A hundred small, struggling papers that support our cause would have your story. Even the
Village Voice
. Not that that’s perfect, but at least they put a left polish on the issues.”

“Of magazines with any kind of circulation, the
New Yorker
is considered the most progressive magazine in the country, bar none.”

She rolled her eyes. “Is there any coffee?”

“Oh, sorry.” He pointed at Laura, who clutched the cup that apparently contained Tofu’s coffee.

“Do you want more?” Tofu asked.

Laura put down the mug. “I was just going. It was really nice to meet you.”

“You, too!”

Ruby said good-bye, but from Tofu’s bare-bones reaction, the enthusiasm in her salutations had been based not on warmth, but on the perception of the threat to her territory.

At the bottom of the stairs, Stu opened the door for them. “I’ll call you when I have something.”

“She’ll nag you if you take too long,” Ruby interjected.

Laura ignored her. “She’s nice, Stu. And pretty.”

“Glad you approve.”

She heard a touch of annoyance in his voice, as if he either thought she was being disingenuous or she was focused on the wrong thing. So she had to do something to impress him, and the only way to impress that particular hipster was to be honest to the point of pain. “I didn’t say I approved.”

“I like that you never change,” he said.

But she didn’t like it. Not at all.

They stood in line for coffee at the hipster place. Her fourth cup of the day. She needed some kind of drug to get her through the next hours, and the medication of choice was caffeine. Ruby tagged along, even though Laura knew she had someplace to be.

“You coming to the showroom?” Ruby asked.

“No, I have to bring Yoni some fabric approvals, or she’s going to give birth to a squid.”

“Not nice. You shouldn’t wish that on her.”

“Why? You think I’m so powerful that Thomasina bit it because I wished her dead when she pushed you?”

“You
didn’t
!”

“God, you are such a little sentiment fascist. What’s your deal?” Laura turned away, making mental notes of what she saw: striped jeans with voluminous geometric tops and old lady glasses, tiny floral prints, muted colors. Teased hair was apparently making a comeback. She dubbed it Geriatric Nouvelle and filed it.

“Bringing you to Stu was a mistake,” Ruby said. “I should have dragged you to Jeremy’s. That would have cheered you up.”

“Anything would have been better, actually.”

“He’s your friend. You shouldn’t cut him out.”

“I know,” she said, her voice barely audible under the white noise of the coffee place.

“I know it’s hard, but—”

She couldn’t listen to a platitude, so she interrupted, “You know what
is
hard? That he was it? He was my chance to be with someone who wasn’t interested in you, and to have someone you couldn’t steal.”

“I don’t want—”

“Exactly. I liked him, and he was safe, and he was a sure thing, and I blew it. Do you know how hard it is to listen to you talk about real relationships, and I have zero experience? I’m so tired of wondering what it’s all like. I can’t even read books anymore without getting jealous of the characters who are actually… you know.” She lowered her voice too late. The guy behind them had heard, even if he pretended he didn’t.

Laura looked at Ruby and could feel a big apology, or compassion that came right from the gut. But she didn’t want anything more than to run away from the whole conversation.

Like a blessing from above, they reached the end of the line. She ordered something, but forgot what it was, then babbled about old lady stylings in the hipster set before Ruby could offer a dose of saccharine or sympathy.

CHAPTER 7.

Ruby knowing about Jeremy had not worked in Laura’s favor. She dealt with constant winking and nudging, especially after Stu turned out to be such a dud. The innuendos and coy looks drove her up a tree, and more than once, Jeremy had pulled her to the side and asked if Ruby was okay or if she had a case of Tourette’s that would damage her usefulness in the showroom. Of course, once he introduced them around and saw how Ruby took control of the situation, how she was inviting, warm, personable, and made immediate friends, he respected her professionally. After that, the favors streamed in, but he never really warmed to her. Laura thought it a pleasing turn of events. Even though she officially wasn’t interested in her old boss any more, she still harbored a slight, annoying possessive streak, at least where Ruby was concerned. Her sister had stolen enough boyfriends over the course of her life to convince her that if Jeremy wanted Ruby, her sister would be willing to meet him halfway. And everyone wanted Ruby. She was like a force of nature.

It wasn’t even just men. Women craved Ruby’s friendship as well. Thomasina had been no different. It was always Ruby’s choice to be a friend or a lover or not. Even Bob had purred the first time he met Ruby. Married men were over the line for her, and apparently, she took his vows more seriously than he did. Laura couldn’t imagine how Bob thought he had the energy to have an affair with Ruby as well as Thomasina.

What had been in it for Thomasina? Money seemed too easy an answer. She had more than most people would see in a lifetime. He had no prestige, no special knowledge outside of a football field, no access to people she didn’t. Laura refused to believe there was some deep attraction there. People like Thomasina didn’t go near people like Bob unless there was money or connections to be had. Actually, Laura had pinned her as the kind of woman who would
only
have affairs with guys like Bob because they saw money and connections as the point of having affairs.

It was a long walk out to Tudor City, where her, and Jeremy’s, production person was laid up, and she spent that time worrying about whether or not Bob would shell out another dime, with or without Ivanah’s interest in the design end, if a certain supermodel wasn’t alive to encourage him.

Yoni was not a woman who stood still. She was wildly productive, accurate to a fault, sharp, detail-oriented, and big-picture conscious. She could be running her own company, but seemed too busy to start one.

So Laura imagined the worst when she went up to see her in her Tudor City prewar co-op, and because being around someone who idled at a hundred miles per hour made her forget her problems just so she could keep up. There was no way Yoni was actually sitting still, even if the doctor ordered it, even if the doctor strapped her down. That was why she was freelancing for Laura while on maternity leave. No one could keep a good woman and her fetus down.

A stout woman with skin like a boiled pierogi led Laura to a back room without really looking at her. The apartment went around corners and hallways, where little tables held little doodads that looked perfectly proportioned and painted to be next to the little things beside them.

Yoni lay in the bed with her feet up, her seven-months-pregnant belly barely distended. Her fingers tapped, and her toes wiggled. The TV displayed some relaxing music and ambient abstract shape-changing thing that wasn’t actually meant to be watched actively. Books lay everywhere, open a third of the way through, bookmarked, upside down. Yet there was a certain aesthetic order that made even a mess seem somehow right.