A Kept Woman (22 page)

‘Nearly done here.’ He nodded at her. ‘I expect Susan will be back tomorrow. You did a good job today, though. Now you can take the rest of the day off to go shopping.’

She looked at him coldly. ‘How do you know what I’m

going to do with my day?’

‘I just assumed–’

Diana gave a clipped little laugh. ‘Of course. Doesn’t everybody? But I’d rather you didn’t.’

Cicero ignored the snub. ‘What will you use your time for, then?’

Diana blinked. Was somebody actually asking her a personal question? Everybody in this bloody place had been ignoring her for weeks, much like her supposed girlfriends who’d been blanking her en masse. Diana was too savvy a social operator to ignore the signs any more. Obviously, it had to do with the separation. Why,. she couldn’t imagine. Ernie was a liability socially. She had shown thee New York witches how the game was played, and now the jealous bitches were taking this opporturrity to snub her.

‘Museums, actually.’ She’d been planning on going shopping, sure, but why let Cicero think he had her all figured out? A wave of bitterness washed over her. She smoothed the pale-blue silk around her knees. Why the hell didn’t Ernie call her? He must be going crazy without her. Some nights it took all she had to stop herself picking up the phone.

‘Really? There’s a nice exhibition at the Met, I heard.’ ‘There are several,’ Diana snapped at him. Arrogant ierk. She so objected to being thought a moron. She wasn’t a little bimbo like Helen or Kara. ‘I’m planning on taking in the St Francis of Assisi exhibition. They have some very important medieval work on loan from Italy since the earthquakes destroyed the church there.’

Michael arched one of his thick brows. His chest was very broad as he leant over her, scribbling his signature on the letters. Despite herself, Diana felt a sudden, surprising shock of desire. It had been so long since a man had touched her. Ah, but remember, honey, she told

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herself, you get all worked up, then he takes you to bed,

and it’s nothing but frustration.

Of course, that had been with Ernie. Diana thought

about the way all the businesswomen who visited this office flirted so shamelessly with Michael. It was probably just their perception of his power.

Susan Katz, that kitty cat, definitely wanted him. Definitely. Diana was savagely glad that he had a woman. She couldn’t stand Susan and her bullying ways.

It was a mystery why all these girls would chase a man

like Michael, a man without money or position.

Diana breathed in the scent of his body. No cologne, nothing but a very faint, mannish musk. She held herself in, to stop herself squirming. It would be insufferable for this macho pig to get any idea she thought twice-about him.

He gave her a sidelong glance out of those dark, thick

lashed eyes.

‘I didn’t know you knew anything about art,’ Cicero

said.

‘iDh, I don’t. But I know what I like.’

Michael grinned. Diana Foxton, the art critic. On a

whim, he pulled out two sketches from his desk drawer:

mock covers for the second wave of Green Eggs books.

‘What do you think of these two?’

Diana tilted her head, and plain gold stud earrings caught the light. Michael wondered idly what it would be like to take his thumb and stroke it along the soft ridge on the side of her neck.

‘This is much better.’ She pointed to the left-hand drawing, one of Seth’s. ‘It’s realistic. The other elephant looks like a stuffed toy.’

‘Interesting. What about this and this?’

He put down two more pictures. Diana leant forward

and pointed to the right one. ‘This one uses colour more subtly. I prefer the line detail.’

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Cicero was surprised. That was just what he thought. He pulled out his book of thumbnail sketches. ‘Which of these would you use to cover the Seven Little Tailor?’

Diana sat down, unconsciously pushing him out of the way. She had forgotten how much she disliked her boss and was lost in the pictures, blocking out everything else. Michael bent over her. He could see the tops of her breasts, just subtly revealed through the open neck of her silk blouse. Instantly, his cock stiffened.

It’s the headiness of the day, he told himself. I need Iris. I need to get laid.

‘This one.’ She flipped the page, and showed him a small image, black-and-white pencil only. He’d never noticed that one before. Sometimes you could go crazy looking at ,hundreds of different cover ideas. ‘If it was coloured, maybe a watercolour. Look at the lines, the detailing:It almost leaps out at you.’

Cicero examined the picture closer, and was shocked. It was perfect. Exactly right for his book. He’d missed it because it wasn’t a finished image, it was black-and white.

It was better than the one he’d chosen. Better than the ones Jacob and Seth had chosen, and she’d picked it out, right away.

‘You know, I think you might be right,’ he said, slowly.

‘Of course I’m right.’ God, how cold she was. ‘It’s the obvious choice.’

‘Come in earlier tomorrow,’ Michael said. ‘I may have some more work for you.’

Diana’s back tensed up. He grinned as he saw the aggravation writ large on her pretty face. He fantasised briefly about sliding that skirt up over the curves of her butt, bending her forwards over his desk, and gently palming her until she was begging him to stick it in her.

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‘I don’t think I can be asked to handle anything more,’

Diana said. ‘I work hard enough as it is.’

Cicero handed her the letters and gave her an amazingly annoying wink. ‘Yeah, well, I don’t think so. Be in tomorrow at eight.’

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‘As far as I can see, Mrs Metson is correct.’

Ernie smiled at Sir Angus Carter. He had that plummy aristocratic English voice that Ernie, the barrow-boy, always detested. Fucking snobs. Diana was from that same snob-ridden class. But he couldn’t fault the words that were coming out of Sir Angus’s mouth, even if the sound of th,em was grating.

Sir Angus shuffled his papers. ‘Mrs Foxton has no case whatever-in the United Kingdom. She has only been married for seven months, one of which was spent outside the marital home by her decision. She left without word and made no attempt to contact you, Mr Foxton. Irreconcilable differences … whatever you would like. No judge in the United Kingdom would, in my opinion, award her a penny.’

‘She has recently taken a job, too,’ Felicity chimed in. Her arm snaked through Ernie’s; her blood-red nails rested on his sleeve. She wore a pair of thin, arching high heels and a tight pink dress.

‘Indeed.’ Sir Angus pushed thin wire-rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his aquiline nose. ‘Which means she will find it hard to claim that Mr Foxton was intending to support her.’

‘I’ve taken a few preliminary steps myself,’ Ernie said. ‘I’ve put all her stuff together in boxes, and I transferred all but ten thousand dollars from the joint account. Didn’t want to close it. Thought we’d be subtle.’

Subtle, Sir Angus thought. Subtle? This moneyed oik in

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front of him was about as subtle as a neon orange ball gown. If Diana Foxton could not be commended on her pre-marital fiscal arrangements, she could be roundly condemned on her taste in men. She would lose millions in this divorce. Personally, he thought it would be a small price to pay to rid oneself of Mr Ernest Foxton.

‘Hmm. I think that is wise. Mrs Foxton has only one power in this situation. She can contest, and delay, the divorce.’

The American she-hawk with the talons paled. ‘For

how long?’

‘For five years,’ Sir Angus said gravely.

‘Unacceptable.’ Felicity jumped to her feet. ‘There has

to be something we can do.’

‘There is. You can make her an offer. Any lawyer she consults will tell her of her financial position.’

‘What about immigration? If she’s not Ernie’s wife, she doesn’t have the right to stay here, does she?’

‘Immigration is not my field, madam. I suppose it m!ght be another thing you could threaten her with.’

Ernie rose, feeling magnanimous. ‘Draw up an offer, Angus—’

The lawyer stiffened. He’d worked hard for that knighthood.

‘- and tell her that I’ll give her two fifty, American, if

she signs the papers, and if she delays over a year, absolutely nothing.’ Ernie ignored the pallor of Felicity, beside him. ‘Tell her I can wait. her out. We all can.’

As annoying as Michael Cicero was, Diana felt it was her duty to pop down to the Metropolitan and view the exhibition in case he gave her some snotty test tomorrow morning, and she actually enjoyed it. The colour and richness of the nine-hundred-year-old paintings still had the power to amaze and delight. She was moved to go down to St Patrick’s and look at the Catholic cathedral. It

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was very soothing: the candles glowing, the people kneeling at their devotions, or standing head bowed in front of fine carved statues of the saints. She felt her soul calmed to the extent that she left, walked to Barnes & Noble on Fifth and bought a novel instead of diving into Saks for some retail, therapy. It was ironic, really: the Temple of God next to the Temple of Mammon.

Diana had a sudden desire to be on her own, coupled with a ravenous hunger. She dived into a Friday’s which was right next door. It was ideal; absolutely nobody she knew would be seen dead in here. She ordered a greasy cheeseburger and fries, and ate it with a large chocolate milkshake while she read her trashy, novel. In fact, for a couple of hours she was able to forget Cicero’s demands, Ernie’s silence, and her friends’ treachery. She pulled her hair out of ‘its snug chignon, and sat reading and people watchings-savouring each crispy peppered fry and sip of creamy chocolate.

She took a cab home, and determined to wash her hair, dress, and go out. Maybe she’d call Felicity, the only one who was still talking to her. This was meant to be the city that never slept. There had to be a million fun things for a young woman with money to do.

Almost as soon as she walked through the door, the phone rang. Diana half jumped out of her skin; the phone never rang in her apartment these days. She had gone from the queen of the city to a Trappist monk in one fell swoop. She picked it up, her heart racing. Maybe, at last, Ernie had seen the light. ‘Hello?’ a soft voice said. ‘Diana?’

She felt an intense stab of disappointment. It wasn’t her husband, it wasn’t even Natasha or Jodie. It was only Claire Bryant.

‘Hi, Claire,’ she replied.

‘Diana, where have you been?’ Her friend sounded cross, which was unlike her. ‘When you go to ground,

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you really go to ground. I’ve spent weeks trying to find you. In the end I had to ring Felicity Metson, and pry it out of her.’

Diana felt slightly guilty. Why hadn’t she called Claire? It was true that Claire had made her feel foolish for thinking of work as the ultimate four-letter word, but Claire had always been there for her, when they talked. Her other so-called friends had bailed out when her husband did, except Felicity, of course. But Claire had actually made the effort to find her.

‘To be honest, I wanted to be on my own for a little while. Ernie and I are having some … slight troubles.’

‘Slight troubles? I heard it was worse than that.’ Claire paused. ‘Look, can I give you some totally unwanted advice?’

Diana sat down on her bed. ‘Go ahead.’

‘You have to see a lawyer and you have to go home. If he’s cheating, who knows what the girlfriend is trying to get out of him? Why should you be living in a cramped one-bedroom apartment when you are the wife? Go and see’ him, don’t stand on your pride. And get a good

lawyer, just in case.’

A lawyer!

‘I’m sure it won’t come to that,’ Diana protested. ‘Ernie just needs to see he can’t treat me this way. When he asks me home, I’ll come.’

‘I hope it won’t, but you can’t leave it all up to him. Look, take this number down. These are my lawyers, and they’re very good.’

‘But I thought everything was great between you and Josh.’

‘It is, but I was in the Girl Scouts. Be prepared, you know. And keep in touch. I’m here for you.’

Diana hung up and was brushing her hair, thoughtfully, up to its normal state of glossy suppleness when the bell rang.

She opened the door.

‘Ms Diana Foxton?’ Steve Santuro asked.

He blinked once or twice. Steve served papers all dy long - divorce papers, court summonses, notices telling people they were being sued. America was the litigation capital of the world, and Manhattan was the litigation capital of America. Steve made a great living, so he put up with the oaths and curses, the drunken husbands getting nailed for child support, the fat wives getting the elbow. But he’d never served papers on a chick like this.

She was wearing a simple pink cotton dress with little puffy peasant sleeves, and a scoop-neck that revealed high, lovely collarbones and golden skin. She had a thick gold bangle round one wrist, high slides in her hair, 16ng legs, and c,urves that would make a blind man see. Goddamn, Santuro thought. Her hair was blond and shiny and.it looked like it came straight out of a shampoo ad. Any second he expected her to toss it from side to side for the cameras. Her breasts in that thing! Steve felt himself bead with a light sweat. They were soft and fighting to get out of that little blouse. They even looked natural. What woman these days actually stuck with her own tits?

‘Mrs Ernest Foxton,’ the vision corrected him. Ernest Foxton was a damn fool, whoever he was, Steve thought. Perhaps he was. gay. Letting go of a peach like this? What a sexy accent, too. He loved the way those Brit chicks spoke.

‘Uh. Yeah. Mrs Foxton, right.’ Steve blushed and wanted to get out of there. ‘I, like, have a delivery for you. Could you sign?’

‘Of course,’ she said. She smiled with bright white teeth and carefully wrote her name on his board. ‘What is it? Flowers?’