For All the Wrong Reasons (7 page)

The girl panicked. Nobody had ever walked out of a meeting with Ernie Foxton. Was he really going to leave? “But—your meeting—
sir,
” she blurted, “they're all waiting for you.”

“Sorry. I have some other business to take care of,” Michael said.

The elevator doors hissed open, and he stepped inside and pressed the button, ignoring her flustered cries of protest.

He rode down and out into the street. Seventh Avenue was a beeping, swarming madhouse, with glass and concrete towers jabbing their long fingers into the sky. Michael was immune to the delights of the scenery, however. He clenched and unclenched his fingers as he strode along. What had Blakely's been going to suggest? Maybe he would never know. But one thing was for sure. You didn't get respect by lying down and tattooing a big “Welcome” on your back.

If they want me that bad, they'll call back, Michael thought. He wasn't sure if that was true or not. Maybe he was insane. Maybe he'd just blown the biggest opportunity of his young life.

He hit the nearest bar he could find and ordered an early lunch. It was fifteen bucks for a burger and fries, but they would serve him up a Jack Daniel's on the rocks, cold, fiery, and nerve-settling.

*   *   *

Marcia had a fierce, whispered conference with her assistant. It was not a pleasant conversation. Then she had to push open the door to Ernie's office. He was lounging around with Mr. Davits and Ms. Jensen and several other big shots she recognized. She dreaded having to give him this news in front of them. Ernie Foxton did not take kindly to public humiliation.

“Here he is,” Ernie said.

Marcia stammered. “No sir. He just left.”

Ernie stared at her. “What?”

“He said the appointment was at ten thirty,” Marcia quavered.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a couple of the lower level execs bite their lips and look downward. They seemed highly amused, but they were hiding it really carefully. Good idea. Mocking Ernie Foxton wasn't the shortest route to career advancement.

“Yes, it was. So what?”

“Jennifer explained to him that you had been detained by business, sir, and he said he had business, too, and he got on the elevator, and—”

“OK. Right. That's enough.” Ernie held up one hand, red-faced with annoyance. Everybody took his waiting-game treatment lying down. Who was this little prick, exactly? Some broke chancer from downtown? And he was showing Ernie up in front of half the staff? He swallowed hard. An unpleasant thought came into his head—Michael Cicero making a deal with one of the other big houses, and producing serious numbers, and the story of how he, Foxton, had let him get away, spreading right around the New York scene. Whispered little jokes at his dinner parties. A snide remark from the Blakely's chairman. An unfavorable line in one of the Wall Street company analysts' reports. “Has he got a cell phone? Go look it up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hurry up.”

“Yes, sir,” Marcia blurted, and fled to her desk. Nobody in the office dared look at him; for a moment, the only sound was Marcia tapping frantically on her keyboard. She ran back in. “It's (917) 555-1455.”

“Get him for me. No, wait. I'll do it myself.”

Foxton punched in the number and forced himself to smile, like this was just par for the course.

The waiter had just brought Michael's burger and drink when the phone buzzed. He dipped a thick, chunky French fry in mustard, bit down on it, and then picked the phone up.

“Cicero,” he said.

“Hey, Mikey,” said a man's voice.

“It's Michael.”

The guy laughed warmly. “Of course it is. Stupid of me. Michael, this is Ernie Foxton. I'm really sorry I was delayed earlier.”

“That's OK,” Michael said. He felt the adrenaline crackle through him. He took a sip of JD.

“I was wondering if we could get you back in and see if we can still swing this meeting. I think Blakely's has some very exciting things to offer you. I have a good number of our people here waiting to have a little chat with you.”

Michael glanced down at his burger. It was rare and nicely bloody. The fries were home-cut, too, with sharp mustard. And besides, he'd paid for it.

“That would be good,” he said.

“So we'll see you in ten minutes,” Foxton told him.

“No can do, Ernie. I'm having lunch. How about a half hour?” Michael said easily.

There was a momentary silence on the other end.

“Right. Half an hour it is,” Ernie Foxton said, as warmly as he could manage.

The phone clicked dead. Michael gazed down at his burger. It sure looked good. He was really going to enjoy it.

*   *   *

“So what do you think?” Diana asked Claire Bryant.

Claire nodded. The newly laid terrace garden was beautiful. “I adore it,” she said simply. “Another triumph for you.”

Claire was the latest in the long line of New York wives and fiancées to come calling, and Diana was playing the polite hostess to perfection. Claire was an heiress herself and had recently become engaged to Josh Salzburg, the young king of Wall Street. She was unfailingly good-natured, well-dressed, and interesting, but, Diana reflected, there was something about Claire that made her just a bit uneasy. Claire was interested in local politics; the mayoral candidates duking it out in New York, that sort of thing. The race for the White House just made Diana yawn. Plus, Claire actually read the
Wall Street Journal
and dabbled in stocks. True, she wasn't a workaholic; Diana loathed those hard-edged New York women, the type of go-getting American girl who just made her feel bad, and she only had them over to her apartment on extreme sufferance. Sometimes the wives of Ernie's top executives fell into that career-girl category and then, to her annoyance, Diana just couldn't cut them. But Claire Bryant still seemed full of excess energy. Diana had invited her out to the shopping excursions, spas and Broadway matinees she attended regularly with Jodie, Natasha and Felicity, but Claire was busy half the time. Busy! What did that mean? Diana wondered. Sure, Claire had a little interior design business, but Diana just thought of that as another toy, something to occupy her while Josh went out and made the real money. Why couldn't Claire just relax with the rest of the girls?

“You know, you really do have a flair for design. You could work in that area. Why don't you consider it?” Claire pressed, setting down her Limoges cup.

“I simply don't have the time, darling,” Diana said, a little defensively. Claire always made her feel that way. “Let me show you out. Give my love to Josh.”

“I will.” Claire kissed her warmly. “Say hi to Ernie.”

When Claire had gone, Diana gazed out at the terrace of her apartment and congratulated herself. Really, Central Park West was the place to be. The view over the leafy greens and blue splash of water was very soothing, such a necessary contrast to the hustle and bustle of the Big Apple. Actually, though, she thought she was fitting in rather well.

It was easy for an Englishwoman to make a splash in New York society. First, there was the accent, of course, that had never hurt anybody. Diana found it conferred cachet as soon as she opened her mouth. And she thought she was very popular among all the young New York wives … she was something of a rarity, in that her husband was not in his late forties or early fifties and on the third model already. She liked to dress a little unusually, too. Most of these ladies had abandoned the big hair and shoulder pads of the eighties, but they were still stuck on that social X-ray thing … if the scale showed a hundred and fifteen pounds they screamed and went on a diet. And they were slaves to fashion.

Diana dressed differently. She had her own personal style which didn't pay attention to what the designers had in the stores. She loved to show off her firm curves and wear low heels. Diana eschewed the itsy-bitsy skirt and the designer sport-styled anoraks and went for a 1940s look. Pure classic. Tight skirts which hugged the firm curve of her bottom, neat jackets that sliced down to her small waist over her larger bust, a softly waving, sheeny-shiny Veronica Lake haircut. Of course, there were some concessions to the Natty Zuckerman set; Diana went blond at Oribe, and had her brows done weekly at John Barrett. Crisp white shirts were her trademark, along with a dinner-party menu that had nothing fat-free on it—unless you counted vintage champagne. At first she had raised some brows, sure. But when the husbands started to flirt, the wives started to take notes.

Soon her proper little twin sets and neat, tweedy skirts were the talk of the gossip columns. She was a regular in Liz Smith's column and Heidi Kirsche's page, always photographed in make-up by Chanel, with a little tote or a subtle clutch evening bag, in the sweetest designer gowns—long, always long.

She dressed like a princess and acted like one too. In a matter of months, she had become one of the most courted wives on the luncheon circuit. And, as she fondly thought, the most popular.

Her latest triumph was to redo the terrace. Surely Ernie would be thrilled. It would be a perfect surprise. Jodie Goodfriend had put her wise to that delightful Westchester gardening specialist who, for a price, would make house calls. And a few measly thousand later, she was looking at an instant garden—a leafy oasis of potted orange trees, entire beds of moss dotted with large balls of stone, terracotta urns stuffed with exotic grasses and shrubs, and delicate silver bells strung between the branches. Instant topiary hedges carved into balls and arches covered the entrance, and the clever little gardening man had promised her he would install some climbing ivy and wisteria next week.

Idly Diana flipped through her diary and looked for a space. She wanted two or three girlfriends over to enjoy this masterpiece. If it was a sunny day, they could have a wonderful girly, gossipy lunch, under her orange tree in full blossom.

Her phone buzzed and she reached for it. Ernie had had extensions installed in every room in the place so that she wouldn't have to dive for the receiver.

“Darling. It's me.”

Diana beamed. How nice, he was calling to check in on her. His gestures of affection had waned a little of late.

“I have such a marvelous surprise for you, sweetheart. I—”

“I'm sure it'll be fantastic, Di.” Ernie's common East End accent was showing through. It grated on her. She also knew it was a sure sign that something was seriously bothering him; Ernie downplayed his origins to the best of his ability. “Look, I need you here. Got to put a little dog-and-pony show together for someone.”

“But I've got a manicure at three. It takes forever to get an appointment with Marcus,” Diana said, disappointed.

He was snappy. “I really couldn't care less. Get over here, would you?”

“Who is this horrible man?”

Diana wanted to stamp her foot. It had taken her two weeks to get a slot with Marcus and this was her first time. Most likely he would take umbrage and not see her for a month now. And
all
the girls were going to him. Except her.

“Horrible is right. He's a little idiot. But we want to land him. So be a good girl, and get yourself in a cab, all right?” her husband said, and hung up.

Diana stamped her foot. Blast it. She dialed Marcus's number and prepared to grovel. Meanwhile, she decided that Ernie could be a royal pain in the arse. And who was the odious guy cutting into her alone time?

I hate him already, Diana thought.

SEVEN

Michael relaxed into his chair. It was hard, but extremely comfortable, obviously custom-made for Ernie's office. Not the kind of furniture he'd have picked himself. He didn't like showy, curvy chairs. For Michael Cicero a chair was just there to be sat on, not to be noticed. This little ergonomic number was just too accommodating, he might get drowsy on the job and that would not be acceptable.

Today, however, he permitted himself to enjoy it. Today he was being worked on, not the other way around.

Ernie Foxton was standing in front of him, concluding his presentation. The enthusiasm the Blakely's people had shown for Green Eggs Books was amazing. It made him feel like John Grisham, or something. He was taken aback by how badly they wanted to get into bed with him. Janet Jensen, the dark, intense little woman, and Peter Davits, who seemed smart, had given him the hard sell for thirty minutes apiece. Janet's department was enthusiastic about children's literature and talked movingly about the lack of intelligent stuff for little kids to sink their teeth into. Peter Davits calculated that they could bring the company up millions of dollars in net worth in almost record time. His pitch was tough to resist, too. There was streamlined distribution, with a new fleet and a hungry sales force, apparently the best in the business. Ernie told him about booksellers and the global reach and mission of Blakely's.

In summary, they were telling him he could be the next Beatrix Potter. Amazing for children, and a multi-million-dollar industry at the same time.

“You
have
to go with us, Michael,” Ernie Foxton said. His voice dripped sincerity. It was rough, and Michael recognized him as the limey equivalent of blue-collar made good. “It'll be something new for New York. For America. Kids deserve this kind of book, and not just the lucky few who live round here. It's time to go professional and stop fucking about. Don't you think so? Excuse me, ladies.”

“Yeah, I guess I do. I'm really flattered you show so much interest in the company,” Michael said, carefully.

Ernie gave him a warm grin.

“Not interest, mate, passion. Passion for books. Passion for quality.”

“I need to think it over a little and discuss it with my advisers.”

Ernie fought back a snort of laughter. His advisers? Right, like this little prick had advisers. Instead, he tossed him an oily smile.