Trading Up (16 page)

t r a d i n g u p

87

underlying
pointlessness
of it all. There were nights when she went to bed and wished that morning would never come. But it did come, always.

Of course, neither George nor anyone else knew about her feelings. She would never speak of them. Her mother had always said that there was nothing more unattractive than a rich girl who complains about her life. She knew she was lucky.

She knew she was better off than nearly everyone else in the world. She tried to remind herself of it every day, she tried to spread a tiny bit of joy around, but sometimes it just didn’t work.

And then she’d met Zizi. She knew Janey was interested in him and that he was curious about her, but she’d quickly put that to rest. That little Harold Vane had warned him off her anyway. Janey somehow had a bad reputation, there were murky rumors of her being a whore, of taking money from men, but Mimi didn’t necessarily believe them. Janey’s flaw was that she didn’t quite have the élan to captivate a man like Zizi, whose father, unbeknownst to Janey and everyone else, was actually a German count. His family had moved to Argentina before Zizi was born, and Zizi, being the second son and therefore not in line to inherit either money or the title, had turned to polo.

Zizi was the man she would have married had she not married George, and had Zizi been fifteen years older. This was one of life’s cruel tricks, impossible to solve until it played itself out and revealed its true meaning. She couldn’t leave George (dealing with the resultant scandal was unimaginable to her), but for the moment, she couldn’t deny herself Zizi either. He was probably the last beautiful young man she would ever have sex with for the rest of her life.

The traffic had slowed at Sixty-fifth Street, and the rickshaw cyclist took the opportunity to turn back to his passenger and smile. “I’m Jason, by the way.”

“My name is Mimi,” Mimi said. She leaned forward to hold out her hand, both out of conditioning and in an attempt to cover up the formality with which she’d said her name. “Do you live here, Jason?” she asked.

“I’m staying with a friend in Brooklyn,” he said, and she immediately imagined a dilapidated row house—she’d only been through Brooklyn on her way to the airport, when the driver took that route to avoid traffic.

“I see,” she said.

“Only for the summer,” Jason said. “I’m from Iowa. I do this in the summer to make money to pay for school.”

“Well,” Mimi said. “I admire your enterprise.” She smiled and, glancing to the left, saw that they were passing the large sandstone building where she had grown up. Her family had had an entire floor—ten thousand square feet—with two live-in Irish maids. Looking up, she saw her old bedroom window, and was suddenly reminded of her childhood. Central Park Zoo 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 88

88

c a n d a c e b u s h n e l l

was right across the street, and when she was little, she’d hear the lions roaring at night . . . And for the first time in years, she remembered that she liked to think that her father was with the lions on the nights when he didn’t come home.

The lions were long gone, having been rescued from the zoo years ago by animal rights activists. But there
were
peregrine falcons in the park now, feasting on pigeons and squirrels and rats, and the occasional small dog—indeed, an old woman’s Chihuahua had been snatched by one of these very falcons on East Sixty-third Street when she was walking it early in the morning two days before. The incident had made the second page of the
New York Times;
it was suspected that a pair of falcons were nesting under an ornately sculpted eave in the Lowell Hotel.

Two floors below, in a large suite that consisted of a foyer, sitting room, two bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a working fireplace, a recently conjoined human pair were preparing for their own forays into the city. Selden Rose pushed a pair of gold cuff links through the buttonholes of his crisply starched white shirt as his wife, Janey, applied a thin line of brown liquid liner to her eyelid.

Selden was in the second bedroom, humming to himself. So far, everything had worked out beautifully, and he congratulated himself for having the foresight to have rented a two-bedroom suite those many months before when he’d first moved to New York. It meant he and Janey could now comfortably remain in the hotel while they looked for an apartment. The maids had moved his clothing into the closets in the second bedroom and his secretary had arranged for Janey’s belongings to be moved into the first bedroom while they were away in Tuscany. It had been a wonderful trip, he reflected; they had seen at least ten churches and many little museums, and they had gotten along beautifully, save for that third-to-the-last day when Janey had freaked out in the square of the walled town of Puntadellesia. They were drinking tiny cups of the local dark Italian coffee, having just taken photographs of each other in front of a large stone archway, below which spread a valley of patchwork quilt farms in seemingly every color of blue, yellow, and green. “When you see that kind of view, you understand where the Catholics came up with the idea of heaven,” he said, and when she nodded laconically, he figured that her lack of enthusiasm was simply due to the heat.

“How about a lemonade? Or an Italian ice?” he’d asked. And when she didn’t respond, only stared at him with those large blue eyes that were the color of sapphires, he took out his map of Tuscany and unfolded it on the round green metal table. “I thought we’d have dinner at the villa again tonight,” he said. “After all, there’s no point in going out when we’ve got a cook, and then we can drive to Mon-trachet in the morning. There are supposed to be some beautiful paintings from the 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 89

t r a d i n g u p

89

sixteenth century in the museum—the Met’s been trying to get them for years but they won’t let them leave the country, much less the
countryside
. . .” He thought that, as usual, she would enjoy his little joke, but instead he noticed that there was a peculiar look in her eyes, and suddenly, she hurled her coffee cup onto the cobblestones, where, amazingly, it bounced.

“Can’t you understand?” she screamed. “I don’t give a
fuck
about your sixteenth-century paintings.”

For a moment, they simply stared at each other in shock, both taken aback by the force of her vitriol.

“But I thought . . .”

“You don’t
think,
Selden. You just
do
. . . whatever
you
want . . . and you expect me to like it.” And then she burst into tears.

The square was filled with old people—women dressed in black with scarves over their heads and men playing chess—and they all looked over, wondering what the commotion was about. He caught a few snatches of Italian, and their words, coupled with their angry looks, told him that they were wondering why “the man” was “abusing” the “beautiful American girl.”

He threw five thousand lira onto the table and grabbed her arm. “Come on,” he said.

“I’m not going. I’m hot and I’m tired . . . Why can’t we go to Portofino or Capri, where we might at least know some people. I’m sick of all these old Italians, I’m sick of museums and dirty churches . . . Can’t you see how fucking
dirty
it is here?”

“Hurry up,” he snapped. “Unless you want to deal with the police.” She had let him lead her to the car, and once she was inside and they had begun the slow, winding descent from the town, her tears subsided. “What’s the problem?” he asked. “Is it that time of the month?”

“No, it isn’t that time of the month,” she snapped. “I’m sick of driving. I’m sick of pasta. And I’m sick to death of paintings.”

“But we discussed it,” he said helplessly. “You said you loved Caravaggio . . .”

“We haven’t seen any Caravaggio . . .”

“We will then. We’ll go to Rome . . .”

She started weeping again, silently, the tears rolling down her cheeks.

He pulled over to the side of the road. She was his jewel; he couldn’t stand to see her hurt. He put his arms around her and pulled her head onto his shoulder.

“What is it, baby?” he asked gently. “Please don’t cry. What do you want to do?”

“I want to go to Capri,” she said. “Or at least Milan. I want to go shopping.

And the prices are so cheap there . . .”

18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 90

90

c a n d a c e b u s h n e l l

“It’s too late to go to Capri, but we’ll go to Milan tomorrow, I promise,” he said, thinking, with a pang of regret, that it was a shame to leave the villa three days early when it had cost him $20,000 a week. But he was sensible enough to realize that now was not the time to think about money. “We’ll go to Milan,” he assured her,

“and we’ll stay in a suite at the Four Seasons . . .” And then, when they were happily ensconced in the $1,500-a-night bridal suite, and she was unpacking endless bags of clothing that he’d purchased (at a discount—thank God all the clerks had recognized her), he’d pointed out that if she was unhappy about something, all she had to do was
tell
him how she felt and he would understand . . .

Now, back in New York and about to begin his first day at work as a newly married man, he reflected that these little adjustments were to be expected at the beginning of a marriage, and probably even more so in this particular marriage.

Considering the fact that he and Janey had known each other only a little more than three months, they were doing amazingly well, he thought, fixing his tie in front of the dressing-room mirror. And there was that mind-blowing orgasm she’d given him that morning, and, remembering it, he suddenly missed her, even though she was only in the next room.

He snapped his gold Bulgari watch around his thin wrist and went through the living room and into the master bedroom.

She was in the bathroom, carefully applying makeup in front of a round mag-nifying mirror. Her eyes smiled at him through the reflection, and he came up behind her, lifting her hair and tenderly kissing the back of her neck.

“Hello, darling,” she said.

“Hello, Mrs. Rose,” he said. “Now what is it that you have to do all day?”

“Going to fashion shows. With Mimi. We’ve got to choose our clothing for next season,” she said playfully.

“I think
you
should be modeling the clothes.”

“Mmmm,” she said, closing one eyelid to apply mauve shadow. “It’s a ton of work . . . a big pain . . . and all the girls they use now are young and flat-chested—

they don’t want to have to pay them . . . Are you sorry you missed the Emmys?” she suddenly asked. “I saw in the paper that Johnny Block’s movie won . . .”

“The Emmys happen every year. Our honeymoon is a once in a lifetime event.”

“Yes,” she said. “I suppose it is . . . In any case, there’s always the Golden Globes. And the Oscars . . .”

“Oh, those are miles away,” he said pleasantly, not wanting to tell her that the CEO of MovieTime was always expected to escort one of their actresses. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, changing the subject as he took a seat on the edge of the Jacuzzi 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 91

t r a d i n g u p

91

tub. “Why don’t we stay home tonight? It’s our first night back, and we could order room service . . . caviar and steak with béarnaise sauce . . .” For a second, he thought he caught that same peculiar look in her eye that he’d first seen in Tuscany, but then she said regretfully, “Oh, Selden. You know we can’t.

Tonight’s the first night of Fashion Week, and we’ve got Calvin Klein’s show to go to and his dinner afterward, and then the big Visionnaire party . . . You don’t have to go, but if I don’t go, people will think it’s weird.”

“And that,” he said, standing, “is something I will never understand.”

“Oh, but you will, darling,” she said, smiling up at him. “And then we’ve got the Armani party on Wednesday and the opening of the new Prada boutique—downtown—and on Thursday, the mayor’s awards—we definitely can’t get out of that one because the head of Victoria’s Secret wants us to sit at his table . . .” Selden wanted to get out of all of it, but his wife’s eyes were so bright with excitement he didn’t have the heart to disappoint her. “Where do you want me to meet you tonight?”

“At the tents in Bryant Park. Seven o’clock—if you’re fifteen minutes late it doesn’t matter, the shows never start until half an hour after they say they will. Just go inside—they promised to give you a first-row seat next to me . . .” She suddenly turned and threw her arms around him. “Be good, darling,” she said. “I’m going to miss you so much today. I don’t think I’ll be able to stand it until seven o’clock.”

“In that case, I won’t be late,” he said, regretfully tearing himself away.

A few minutes later, he was down on the street and getting into the back of the black Lincoln Town Car that ferried him to and from work every day. He settled back against the leather seat and picked up the car phone, dialing his office.

His secretary answered. “It’s me,” he said. “Any calls?”

“Gordon White
just
called,” she said. “Should I get him back?” In a few seconds, Gordon White, his associate at MovieTime, was on the line.

“Selden,” he said, his oily voice oozing sexual innuendo. “How was the honeymoon?”

“Brilliant,” Selden said.

“Did you see the Emmys?” Gordon asked.

“Johnny Block won. That’s excellent for us.”

“But he didn’t thank MovieTime.”

Selden frowned and suddenly became a different person. “Have business affairs take a look at his contract,” he said, looking out the window as the car crawled past the Sherry-Netherland Hotel on Fifth Avenue. “There’s probably a loophole. See if you can figure out a way to take away his credit.”

. . .

18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 92

92

c a n d a c e b u s h n e l l

He’s gone!
Janey thought. And suddenly felt relief.

She could breathe.

She put down her makeup brush and flopped onto the bed. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Selden Rose—there were moments, hours, even whole days, when she felt madly in love with him. But there were also other moments, hours, and days when she felt she didn’t love him at all, when she looked at him and felt
frightened
that she’d made the biggest mistake of her life. And it was impossible to know which feeling was right, because everybody said that being scared was normal, a natural part of the process of getting married.