For All the Wrong Reasons (4 page)

“Blakely's picked him because he was ruthless at Hatfield Books.”

“Businessmen should be ruthless, shouldn't they? Anyway, under Ernie, profits went up. You can't deny that.”

“I don't, but people say he was still pretty cutthroat, even by modern publishing standards. He fired over a thousand people. He closed a printing operation—”

Diana shivered. She didn't like to think of people losing their jobs. “He never told me that.”

“Why would he? I expect you didn't ask.”

“I don't know too much about his business. He probably hated having to do it.”

Milla recalled the nasty jokes that had circulated in
Private Eye
and decided not to share them with the bride to be. Ernie Foxton had legendarily issued the pink slips two weeks before the Christmas party at Hatfield's London offices so that the company's champagne bill would be lower.

“A lot of authors who had been with Hatfield for years were dropped, and they stopped publishing poetry and other prestigious books.”

“Prestigious doesn't pay the bills.”

“I suppose that was Ernie's thinking. But it caused waves,” Milla said, tentatively.

Diana frowned slightly with her beautifully shaped brows. “Well, I don't know about that. I imagine they will find other work. Ernie's job was to make the company profitable. I think he did all right, don't you?”

“He certainly did,” Milla said dryly.

Ernest Foxton ran such a tight ship they had given him the nickname “Captain Bligh.” The head of the sales force, who had been with Hatfield man and boy for twenty years, had been called up to Ernie's office and given twenty minutes to clear out of the building. The logo which had been the company's signature for half a century was instantly wiped out and replaced with bright neon colors that stood out on the shelves. New writers were dropped from the list, old staples were cleared out wholesale and midlevel authors lost the editors they had relied on as Ernie fired some staff and rearranged others. With the closure of the printworks, and the farming out of printing to contractors, Ernie had personally eliminated about a third of the workforce. Maybe it was necessary, Milla thought, but did he have to be quite so brutal? The horror stories were legion. Pack up your books and go, and if you contact any of our writers we'll sue. Pregnant women fired in their ninth month, lifelong company men sacked and told not even to expect a bonus. The atmosphere over at Hatfield had been just a little bit short of France during the Reign of Terror. It was Ernie's revolution, and it had been a corporate bloodbath.

Of course a few people had come out of it pretty well. The shareholders loved Ernie: their moribund stock had risen five and three eighths. Then there were the superstar blockbuster writers, the bestselling authors who now got an even larger piece of the pie. And finally, there was Ernie himself, who had shot up from middle-manager to big cheese. He had been rewarded with stock options, cash bonuses, a bigger office, a Lamborghini and, finally, a new job from half a world away, offering him double his salary. Ernie was a two-million-dollar-a-year executive and he was only thirty-eight. The world was his oyster now, and he could afford the delightful Diana, and any other toys he might want.

“Well, there you go then. I expect most of the talk is about how much money he made for the company. People are too tied to tradition. All Ernie did was try and give the place a facelift.”

“The company he's taking over in New York is going to be a tougher proposition. They have a very prestigious fiction list and publish a lot of well-loved popular authors. I don't think they'll react the same way if Ernie decides to go for slash and burn again.”

Diana selected a pair of Manolos that set off her outfit perfectly and congratulated herself inwardly for her luck in not having taken them down to the charity shop yet.

“Nobody loves businessmen, Milla, but they do love results. Sometimes tough decisions have to be taken. Ernie's a very kind soul, you know. He's already discussed all the charities he thinks we should get involved in in America.”

All the most visible ones, Milla didn't say.

“I'm sure you're right. I just thought you'd want to know what's being said.”

“And I do.” Diana gave her sister a kiss on the cheek. “Of course I do. You're a darling to warn me. I need to have ammunition when the New York literary establishment starts being horrible to my husband and making snide jokes at parties. You need to look out for that sort of thing. I'll watch his back, so he doesn't get insulted for twenty minutes straight without knowing what's going on.”

“Sounds good. Now tell me about your place, again.”

“Central Park West,” Diana rhapsodized, “mid-seventies, twelfth floor,
extremely
good building, the committee turned down Barbra Streisand two years ago because they didn't want photographers hanging round…”

As she launched into her description of the glories awaiting her just a stone's throw from Saks, Diana seemed so perfectly happy that Milla allowed her worrying inner voice to be quieted.

She can handle Ernie, Milla told herself. Diana can handle
anything.

FOUR

I could like it here, Diana thought. She lifted the crystal flute of freshly pressed raspberry juice her maid had brought her, and took another exploratory stroll around their apartment. Huge windows almost as high as the ceilings looked out over Central Park, and the blue lake sparkled in the sun. Beyond that, even Harlem looked peaceful from this distance. On the horizon, when the sky was clear, like it was today, you could even make out the blaze of color that was Westchester County. Ernie wanted her to go out to Westchester and find them a little holiday cottage. All the Wall Street boys and Park Avenue surgeons had places outside the city, and Martha's Vineyard, Diana thought, was just too much of a cliché. Ditto the Hamptons. Plus, there was the small matter of Ernie's finances. He was rich—such a hit at Blakely's already—but he didn't have real American dollars, the kind that Steven Spielberg and Kate Capshaw possessed. Diana didn't want something in the Hamptons if hers would be the smallest place for miles around. She preferred to head out to Scarsdale or Bronxville, and find some rustic little gem for the weekends. Westchester was full of city refugees—her new best friend, Felicity Metson, had told her it was the second-richest county in America, after Beverly Hills.

It hadn't been too hard, settling in. Paul Gammon, the chairman of the board at Blakely's, a crusty old social register stalwart who idolized the Brits, had thrown a party on their second night in town. All very select, no celebrities, just the money crowd. Diana had worn a classically simple gown of pewter silk and the drop diamond and citrine earrings Ernie had bought her the day she closed on their apartment; her make-up nothing more than a slick of foundation and a whisper of bronzer. She knew how to invoke the look of the old money she had never really had, and it worked like a charm. As Ernie boasted to the stock-market whiz-kids about his overhead cuts back home, Diana worked the wives. Business was so boring. It was much more fun knowing how to spend money. And it was the wives—sometimes the mistresses, too—who held the key to social acceptance here.

London had been a cakewalk, Diana thought, sipping her juice. A few photo shoots here, some blue-blooded relatives there, beauty and a rich husband. You could shop divinely for three weeks around Bond Street and never hit the same store twice. But grown-up exclusivity was about more than velvet ropes and your name on a guest list guarded by a gorilla in a tux. Americans had their own way of doing things, and Diana intended to fit in. The new girl in town needed all the perks of the Manhattan elite: the secret phone numbers the top restaurants gave out so that important customers always got a table; the names of the best manicurists, masseuses, dog-walkers and private shoppers; invitations to the right galleries and parties. Diana had a determined look in her eye as she moved from group to group in Mrs. Gammon's mahogany-paneled drawing room high above Park Avenue. She offered little cards, collected names, and promised a lunch here, a tea there. Ernie was a publisher, and publishing still carried prestige in New York. And, after all, women are curious creatures. Diana knew they would want to check her out.

She planned her first two weeks like a general. Helen Gammon had provided her guest list—of course Diana would do nothing so crass as to scrawl down phone numbers at the party—and she worked her way through it. A flurry of lunches, trips to the beauty parlor and expeditions to Prada and DKNY followed. Some of the ladies were fun, most were bitchy, all were rich, skinny, and bored.

*   *   *

“I'd like to throw a party,” she announced that night when Ernie returned.

Her husband looked at her absently. Diana had hardly been around the house since they'd arrived, and that was just fine by him. At work there was so much waste, so many bodies not making the sales, not pulling their weight. He was busy trying to work out who to fire first. His revolution was blasting away the corporate cobwebs, and that was exhilarating. Let Diana do her thing, as long as she didn't bother him too much. She never had when they were dating. Why should things change now that they were married?

“Party. Is it necessary?” Ernie sighed. “I've got things to do.”

“I know you do, darling. You're being so clever. But things like that help with the business. You needn't plan it, just keep the twenty-first free. And I'll need some money, of course.”

“Surprise.” Ernie grunted.

Diana pouted. “But darling, it'll be so
impressive.
”

It was the way to his heart, or at least to his wallet. Ernie liked spending money where it showed. Fast cars, flashy jewels. Maybe her engagement ring
was
just a little vulgar, it was so large, but Diana had never complained about it. Could a diamond really be too big?

“All right.” Ernie nodded. “Just one, then.” He ignored his young wife's knowing smile. She thought one would turn into two or three. But if he didn't like what she produced, it wouldn't.

At least Diana had come and asked for a budget. Some American wives just spent first and asked questions later. His girl knew better.

It's my way or the highway, Ernie thought, and returned her smile with one of his own.

“Let's go in to dinner.”

*   *   *

The dining room was a triumph. Diana had worked with Richard Hesson himself, the hottest, campiest interior designer in the city. Surprisingly, he was known for his uncompromisingly masculine rooms, maybe to make up for his uncompromisingly feminine looks, but who was she to judge? The room was all dark woods, a heavy walnut table from some eighteenth-century French farmhouse, rich red
toile de joie,
and a scarlet carpet. The maid had the table laid for two, one at each end, with crisp Irish linen napkins, small silver vases filled with creamy yellow roses, and beeswax candles in antique silver candelabras flickering invitingly. Diana almost sighed out loud with contentment as she moved to the lower end of the table, across from her husband. This was so …
civilized.
A lot better than her grotty London flat. She was only missing a little intimacy, and Ernie would probably get around to it once he had settled in more at the job.

“Tell me about your day,” she suggested, as Consuela laid the appetizer before her, tiny baked potatoes served with butter and flakes of truffle.

“Not much to tell.” Ernie forked the food into his mouth, barely taking the time to taste it. “Showing the lads how to run a modern business. Lots of bullshit talked in books.”

His wife nodded and waited for Consuela to uncork the Merlot. They would eat quietly and then she could probably get away with a long drawn-out bath and
Friends
while Ernie retired to his study, to trade stocks on the net or some such. Mentally Diana started to plan her first party. She fully intended to make a splash here.

Ernie talked away at his wife, offering up anodyne stories about his new offices, the incompetence of his assistants. Nothing of real importance, but why should he tell Diana about business? She wasn't the kind of girl to give a damn. Sure, once in a while a female came along who understood money. Usually ugly ones, frustrated types. Janet Jensen, a new underling of his, was a prime example. Ernie tried to imagine Janet spending days picking out the perfect duck-egg blue trim for the guest bathroom—impossible, the hatchet-faced old boot. Janet types had brains; Diana types were arm ornaments; and then there were sluts, Ernie's favorite kind of girl.

After dinner, he gave his wife a brief peck on the cheek before heading to his study. It wouldn't hurt for her to butter up the Yanks. It was part of the reason he'd slipped that three-carat Tiffany rock on her finger.

Ernie shut the thick mahogany door behind him. Diana's touch in the office was more old-world subtlety; dark greens, leather, a Persian rug, bookshelves crammed with Victorian tomes that might have been in his family for generations. It was a room his Eton friends' fathers might have had; a gentleman's library, complete with a muted oil of some ancient dame in a riding habit on the far wall. Ernie half loved and half loathed it. If he had dug a little deeper, he might have recognized the screaming sense of insecurity he always had around Di's good breeding. But Ernie wasn't into digging deep. He was into instant gratification.

His bride would be an hour or longer at her
toilette.
Ernie didn't want to disturb her. Who needed to see women do their private, slightly revolting, stuff? Shaving legs and armpits and plucking and waxing and filing … it made him nauseous, thinking of women like that. Ernie didn't think much of the traditional idolatry of the female body. Most of them ran to fat, let themselves go, had moles, hair and dimpled skin. Whatever his reputation as a raider, he didn't have a matching one as a playboy like so many of the wide boys kicking corporate ass in the big city. He could get it up and he certainly got around. Furthermore he realized that having the right woman was important, like having the right car. That was why Ernie had chosen Diana. She was the best, which was what he had to have. But she didn't do much for him.