Promises to Keep (8 page)

“H
ow are you doing, Louis?” Mason pauses in the foyer to greet the doorman.

“Good, good, Mr. Gregory. How are you?”

“I’m great,” Mason lies enthusiastically. “Isn’t it your daughter’s birthday coming up? How old will Sophia be? Four?”

The doorman’s face lights up. “Yes. She is four, and so cute!”

“Does she like Barney?”

“No. She wants to be like her older brother. She likes SpongeBob.”

Mason makes a mental note—he will get hold of some SpongeBob books for her—and he waves good-bye as he steps onto Fifth Avenue.

It is a beautiful winter’s day. The sky is blue, the air is sharp and clear, despite the biting cold. As always, as soon as he steps outside his building and looks across the street at the trees lining the park, he feels his heart lift.

And more than that, he feels a weight lift off his chest.

He strides down Fifth Avenue—it is twelve blocks to the office—and pauses only to lift up his BlackBerry when it buzzes. Olivia. It can wait. She can leave a message. She will not be calling with messages of love or endearment, she will be calling to remind him to do something, or be somewhere, or look after the children because the nanny has canceled and she is going out.

He is beginning to realize that he may be living, but this really is no kind of life. His happiest hours are those spent in the office, when he is surrounded by dynamic, clever people who respect him and listen to him.

He lunches with authors, agents, editors. He is funny and perceptive and, most of all, light. He dreads having to leave, his footsteps infinitely heavier as he walks home up Fifth Avenue, focusing on the children, hoping that Olivia will not be home.

He has become an observer. A bystander on the sidelines, watching his life from a distance. He doesn’t want it to be this way, but he and Olivia have nothing in common, and he wonders, now, what on earth he was thinking when he asked her to marry him.

What on earth she must have been thinking when she said yes.

Olivia hated her mother. She hated her mother’s snobbery, her mother’s constant demands that she marry “someone of our class.” Mason was no slouch. A graduate of Harvard Business School, he was already, when they met, a bright star in publishing, but his beginnings were humble, and Olivia’s mother never thought he was good enough.

Of course Olivia wanted to marry him. It was the ultimate snub to her family.

And Mason? Surely he should have known better? He did, but he was intoxicated by Olivia’s world; it was so very different from anything he had ever known and he was swept away by the romance and the possibility of it.

And that Olivia, this golden beauty who was so tiny and delicate, and had such sweetness, should be interested in him was extraordinary. The fact that, even in the early days of dating, they seemed to have different interests was charming back then. He found her social nature adorable. It was a perfect foil for his more introverted personality, forced him to go out more, which seemed a good thing at the time.

Her extensive involvement in charity was impressive. He thought she was a truly good person, sitting on all these boards, raising so much money for so many good causes. He remembers being truly shocked when he asked her about one of her charities and she had no idea what they actually did. It wasn’t about raising money, he quickly discovered, it was about remaining at the top of the social ladder.

She is obsessed with appearing in
New York Times
Style section, is on air-kissing terms with all the photographers, friends with all the fashion designers, who make dresses for her, gratis, in return for publicity.

Mason is an accessory, a shadowy figure in black tie who stands awkwardly with the other shadowy figures in black tie, being pulled out by their wives for the occasional photo opportunity.

He has thought, often, about leaving, but if the thought itself is exhausting, the actual physical process of doing so would be utterly overwhelming. It isn’t that he hates his wife, or even dislikes her. He just has no idea what they are doing together. They barely speak, and if they do have a meal together—like Olivia coming to Joni’s the other day—it is because they have something concrete to discuss, in this case the logistics of their move to London.

Then there are the children to consider. He has to stay because if he wasn’t there, their lives would be filled with a series of nannies. Olivia loves her children, of that he has no doubt, but she loves them more when they are beautifully behaved, when they are dressed impeccably, when there are other people to see her perfect family.

When the children are tired, or whiny, or acting up, as all children do, Olivia will step out of the elevator yelling, “Christy?” or “Elena?” or “Dominica?” to whichever nanny or housekeeper is around that afternoon.

It is not Olivia’s fault, he thinks sadly. Her own mother stayed in the hospital for ten days after she gave birth to Olivia, sending Olivia home with a baby nurse and nanny.

She would see Olivia in the morning, when Olivia was sent downstairs for breakfast, dressed and washed, and for a short while again in the afternoon, before Olivia was taken to the nursery for tea. Her mother was English and, despite living in Texas, followed the English upper-class traditions exactly.

When Olivia was excited, or upset, or had cut her knee, or had a fight with her best friend, or got into trouble in school, or didn’t like her music class, or fell off her pony, the person to whom she ran was Nanny.

Her mother was busy lunching and socializing, and had little time for Olivia unless it was on her rigid terms.

Now the pattern is being repeated with Olivia’s own children. Except instead of one long-term nanny to love them and raise them, there is a series of young girls, none of whom has ever lasted beyond a year.

When their knees are scraped, or they are happy or sad, it is Mason to whom they come running.

This is why he will never leave.

He is in the office by six o’clock every morning, and home by six every night. He thanks the nanny, tells her she can leave, then gets down to the serious business of what to make the children for dinner.

If Olivia is there, she insists on taking over, but it’s never for long. One cry, one raised voice, one meltdown, and she immediately hands them over to Mason, and they are his for the rest of the evening, or until they go out.

 

“Jim? It’s Mason.”

“Hey! I haven’t heard from you in ages. Where’ve you been?”

“Busy as ever. I was wondering if you wanted to grab a beer tonight.”

“Great. Usual place?”

“Sounds good. Six?”

“See you then.”

 

O’Hanrahan’s is dark, crowded and loud. Mason pushes through the crowds to the bar, raising a hand and waving at the barman, who reaches over to shake his hand.

“Haven’t seen you in an age,” he says. “How are ya?”

“Busy, Declan,” Mason says. “Have you seen Jim?”

“Down the other end. Pint of the usual?”

Mason nods and shuffles through Manhattan’s chattering work-force, everyone delighting in letting off steam at the end of the day.

Olivia has just returned from London, and tonight she is taking the kids to some charity tea party, hence his ability to meet Jim. They were college roommates, but don’t see each other much anymore. Once a month they try to meet up for a drink. It used to be several times a week, but Mason is busy with work and family, and Jim is busy chasing women.

“Buddy!” Jim’s face lights up. He reaches over and they grip each other in the universal man hug.

“You look good!” Mason steps back. “Have you been working out?”

“No. You won’t believe it, but I think I’m finally in love.”

“What? You? You’re quite right. I don’t believe it.”

“I know. The eternal bachelor may be about to retire. Cheers!”

“Cheers. So who’s the lucky girl?”

“Françoise. She’s French. Came here as an au pair years ago, and stayed.”

“Uh-oh. Years ago? She’s eighteen, isn’t she?”

“I wish.” Jim grins. “She’s thirty-five.”

“No! You’re kidding. A grown-up!”

“I know. Who would have thought it?”

“I thought your cutoff was twenty-five.”

“It was, until I met Françoise.”

“So what’s the secret?”

Jim sips his beer and shrugs. “She gets me. And I get her. She’s independent, clever, hardworking. She wasn’t looking for a man and doesn’t want to get married. She loves me, but not in a needy way. She’s just . . . cool.”

“That sounds great, Jim,” Mason says. “It’s about time the beast was tamed. But not marriage? She doesn’t want to get married?”

“That’s the thing. She doesn’t want to and I do. For the first time in my life, I want to get married.”

“There’s no rush,” Mason cautions. “Are you living together?”

“She’s agreed to move in. That’s the first step.”

“Marriage is a big commitment. You don’t want to make a mistake. Trust me. Get to know each other really well before you even think about marriage.”

“Speaking of which, how are things with you?”

“Two ships passing in the night,” Mason replies. “Same as always. Kids are great, though. You should see them.”

“Maybe we should all get together,” Jim says. “Françoise and me, and you, the kids . . .” His voice trails off. “And Olivia, of course.”

“That sounds great,” Mason says, knowing that it will never happen, at least not with Olivia there, for she has never approved of Jim, doesn’t approve, in fact, of any of his friends. “But with London looming, I don’t know if we’re going to be able to do it.”

“Christ.” Jim hits his head. “I totally forgot. London. That’s huge.”

“I know,” Mason says and sighs. “But I really don’t know if this is a good thing or not.”

 

Mason gets home just after seven, stepping out of the elevator to find the apartment quiet. He drops his briefcase in the hall and walks into the kitchen, where the children are sitting at the kitchen counter, tucking into a bowl of berries, while a housekeeper cleans up the room.

“Daddy!” Sienna leaps off the stool and throws herself into Mason’s arms.

“Hi, baby!” He squeezes her tightly, opening his arms to encircle Gray, who appears seconds later. “How was the tea party?”

“Boring,” Sienna says. “Charlotte was mean to me again.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie. Were you sad?”

Sienna nods.

“They had giant cupcakes with M&M’s on them,” Gray says, his eyes lighting up. “It was awesome!”

“It sounds awesome,” Mason says with a laugh, looking over at the kitchen counter. “No wonder you’re not eating any dinner. Where’s Mommy?” Sienna shrugs, then climbs back on her stool.

“Mrs. Gregory is in her room.” Elvira, the housekeeper, turns from Windexing the microwave door. “She is getting ready to go out.”

“Again?” Mason frowns. “I thought it was just the tea party tonight?”

“Dinner for the Central Park flower thing.” Elvira shrugs.

“Oh God.” Mason has clearly forgotten something important. He grimaces as he walks down the corridor to Olivia’s bedroom and knocks on the door.

“Come in.” Her voice is faint; she is clearly in the dressing room.

“Olivia? It’s me.” He pushes open the door into what used to be their shared master bedroom until Olivia complained that his snoring kept her awake, and he was relegated to a different room at the other end of the corridor.

“In the dressing room,” she calls. He walks in to find Olivia sitting at her dressing table, with Megumi expertly applying her makeup. On the table, Megumi’s curling iron heats up, with an assortment of hair products standing at the ready.

“Hi, darling,” she says smoothly, opening her eyes for just a second to glance at him. “We’re almost done with the makeup. Megumi, as usual, is doing a spectacular job.”

“Olivia, I feel horrible. I totally forgot about tonight. It must have just slipped my mind, but I don’t think I can make it,” he says. “I have a ton of work that has to be done by the morning . . .”

Olivia opens her eyes and raises a hand, Megumi obediently stepping aside so she can talk to Mason.

“It’s okay, darling,” she says, for she always uses an endearment when there are other people around. “I know how you hate these things. Kent is taking me.”

“Oh.” Mason inwardly breathes a sigh of relief. “So I didn’t forget?”

“No. I didn’t tell you about it.” She turns to Megumi and beckons her back, raising her face for Megumi to finish brushing the blush on. “I hope that’s okay,” she adds quickly, as an afterthought.

“Of course.” Mason starts to leave. “Kent has always been much better at these things than I have.”

“He’ll be here soon. Would you mind giving him a Scotch when he gets here? Tell him I’ll be ready in just a minute.”

“Sure.”

Great, he thinks, walking back toward the kitchen. Kent Beckinsale, formerly gay walker to the stars, and now, it seems, to his wife. Kent with his good looks, effusive charm and funny stories. Kent, whom he doesn’t trust for a second.

Kent lives in an apartment left to him by Rose Thorndike in a surprise last-minute change to her will. A surprise because she was so addled by Alzheimer’s she didn’t know who anyone was, and why she should suddenly change her will, leaving all the important items to Kent rather than her beloved charities, was something of a mystery.

Nor was it the first time wealthy dowagers had left surprising gifts to Kent. A part of Mason thinks there is an element of quid pro quo: he looks after them, which he does beautifully, so then it is only fair they should look after him.

He doesn’t like the fact that Kent has become Olivia’s companion du jour. Not that he can say anything to Olivia. If he were to say anything, the rebel in Olivia would probably have her seeing him even more.