Trading Up (64 page)

Selden had to agree that, in general, he did not.

“And that’s okay,” Victor Matrick said, giving Selden an encouraging slap on the back, like a kind father who has just found out that his son has been cut from the football team. “God makes all different kinds of human beings, and it’s not our 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:25 PM Page 341

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place to judge them.” And then, just when Selden was beginning to hope that he was going to get away with nothing more unpleasant than a lecture about
The Jerry
Springer Show,
Victor suddenly became serious.

He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. Now it’s coming, Selden thought; Victor was going to bring up his recent job performance . . . But instead, Victor still seemed to be obsessed with
Jerry Springer.
“Do you know the difference between those folks up there on the screen and us folks down here who are about to eat a delicious lunch in the executive-executive dining room at Splatch Verner?” Selden had a feeling that he probably shouldn’t answer that question, so he fudged it with an “Uhhhhh . . .”

“The difference,” Victor stated, “is not that we’re better than they are, but that
they can’t help themselves
. . . and . . .
we can
. They don’t possess the intelligence to know better . . . but . . .
we do
. And so, while it’s perfectly acceptable for them to provide a—shall we say—more
basic
form of entertainment to the general public . . . for
us
, for those of us who work here in this company and represent Splatch Verner, it is not.” He paused, and added, “I think you understand
exactly
what I’m saying?”

Selden gulped. “Yes, Mr. Matrick, I do.”

Even though, he thought, he didn’t. Not exactly.

“I thought you would,” Victor said. A door opened, and a young man in a uniform came in, bearing their salads.

“Ah, Michael,” Victor said. “Just in time.”

The waiter, Michael, set the salads down in front of them. Selden looked at his in despair. There was no way he was going to be able to eat all this food—he wouldn’t be able to get down half . . . Picking up his napkin, he pressed it to his mouth. “But are they happy, Victor?” he asked, feeling like he ought to say something.

“What?” Victor asked, looking at him. “Who?”

Now he was in the shit, Selden thought. “Those people,” he said. “Those people on
The Jerry Springer Show
.”

“Oh, Selden,” Victor said. He sighed perplexedly, and then, in a completely unexpected gesture, he gave Selden a look of such infinite sadness that Selden felt his stomach drop to the floor. “What do
you
think?” he asked.

Selden said nothing, watching as Victor opened his mouth wide, shoved in a forkful of iceberg lettuce and began chewing thoughtfully, looking at Selden all the while. Selden considered trying to eat something himself, but he had the distinctly unpleasant feeling that Victor wasn’t through with him.

And he wasn’t.

Victor swallowed, took a sip of water, and, without preamble, said: “You have to do something about your wife.”

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“My
wife,
sir?” Selden squeaked.

“Your wife,” Victor nodded. He shoved more lettuce in his mouth. Selden could see gooey bits of blue cheese dressing stuck to his gums where the dressing had mixed with Victor’s saliva. He thought he was going to throw up.

For a few moments, neither one of them spoke. Selden wished that the floor would open up and swallow him, or, better yet, that Victor would swallow him.

Whole. Like a lion. Or rather, more like an alligator. Lions only ripped their victims from limb to limb. Alligators drowned their victims first and
then
ate them.

And then Victor went back to watching the show
again
, forcing Selden to do the same. It was, Selden thought, like the very worst form of torture. The bleeps were like jolts of electricity, underscoring his lack of initiative. Had he fallen so far and sunk so low that he was just going to
sit there,
without the guts to defend either himself or Janey—his
wife
?

“Sir,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Yes?” Victor asked. His face was all kindliness, the visage of a modern-day Santa Claus.

“My wife—Janey—has maintained that she’s the victim in all this,” Selden said hesitantly. And she had maintained it, he thought; although whether it was the truth or a calculated attempt to rework the facts or an instinctual defense mecha-nism, he couldn’t tell. “She says she
did
write a screenplay . . .”

“If she’s telling the truth, and she
is
innocent,” Victor asked, getting right to the point, “then where
is
the screenplay?” Selden couldn’t answer that question.

“You see, Selden,” Victor went on, “the problem is simple. You can’t
handle
a woman like Janey Wilcox . . .” And seeing Selden’s face, he held up his hand for him to wait until he’d finished. “That’s not a criticism,” he said bluntly. “Because the truth is, Splatch Verner can’t
handle
her either.” He paused. “Bad choice, Selden,” Victor said. “You’re going to have to get rid of her.” Selden said nothing. His mouth was dry and he lifted his water glass to his lips.

Victor picked up his fork and began eating again. But after a moment, he put his fork down and wiped his mouth. And then, as if he were giving Selden a Christmas present, he said, “Naturally, I’ll give you two weeks to decide,” and smiled.

And at that moment, Selden finally understood exactly what Victor was saying: He was going to have to choose between his wife and his job.

. . .

Janey Wilcox’s situation was, of course, but one little story in the city’s own never-ending saga of ambition and endeavor, of striving and dealing, of triumph and failure that kept it wonderfully and disturbingly always the same, that made New York 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:25 PM Page 343

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the most exciting city in the world, and, at times, the most depressing. And so, entering Dingo’s at 1:30 that day, Janey had the sudden comforting feeling that nothing had changed, that everything was the same, that maybe the scandal had barely happened at all.

There was the usual crush at the door: The ebullient greetings of recognition between people who had but seen each other the night before, the not-so-subtle scanning of the crowd, and even the requisite out-of-town couple who had read about the place in
Zagat
’s and thought that they had accidentally stumbled into hell. With her dark glasses and a pashmina covering her famous shining blond hair, Janey elicited nothing more than a few curious glances, reminding her of how right she’d been to come.

Her sister, on the other hand, had required quite a bit of convincing. Patty did not think it was a good idea, and had told her so—and Janey had been forced to resort to threats of suicide if she didn’t get out of the suite. Naturally, Patty hadn’t believed her, but she said if Janey was that desperate . . .

“This is pathetic,” Patty said, emerging from the crowd.

“It’s fun,” Janey said firmly. “It’s always fun at Dingo’s.” They shed their coats as Janey peered through the paned glass that separated the vestibule from the first of two dining rooms. The front room was
the
place to sit, and was separated from the second dining room by a bar. Day after day, eager patrons would wait at the bar in anticipation, only to be shown to the disappointing back room, where they would find only other diners such as themselves. The front room was strictly reserved for the crème de la crème of New York society: the visiting celebrities, the socialites, the business and media moguls, the magazine editors, the showbiz people, and anybody else who happened to be in the news. But even within this heaven was a smaller circle of desirability: one of the three booths on either side of the room. The booths on the left side were considered slightly better than the booths on the right, which were closer to the door, and of the left-side booths, the middle one was the most prestigious. Janey had sat in that booth a couple of times, but most often she was shown to the booth on its left, closest to the window, which she considered not only “her” booth, but also more advantageous: It afforded not only a view of the sidewalk, but also the opportunity to display oneself to the passersby outside as well as to the patrons inside the restaurant.

Today, she noted, handing her coat and scarf to the coat-check girl, the mayor was sitting at the middle booth with the police commissioner and Mike Matthews, the senator. Her booth, she saw happily, was empty, and her mind was immediately filled with visions of success: She knew Mike well enough to say hello—and he would undoubtedly introduce her to the mayor, and wouldn’t that be something for 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:25 PM Page 344

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the gossip columns. And then there was the sheer pleasure of being seen in her old booth, and what fun it would be when she told Selden and that annoying Jerry Grabaw that they were both wrong, that her life could go on exactly as before . . .

And then Wesley, the maître d’, was hurrying toward her.

“Janey!” he said. He was frowning slightly and rubbing his hands together in consternation—not exactly the greeting she’d been expecting. But he did give her the usual kiss on each cheek, and taking advantage of the moment, Janey said gaily,

“I bet you’re surprised to see me!”

“Actually, I am, love,” he said with a slight grimace. “I wish you’d called and told me you were coming. We’re awfully booked up today . . .”

“Janey, let’s go,” Patty whispered. “We’ll come back tomorrow . . .”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Janey said with a forced smile. People had begun to notice she was there; she could tell by the sudden frisson of energy in the air. It would be impossible to walk out now—it would look like she’d been deliberately slighted—and then people might think it was acceptable to cut her, and she might not be invited anywhere again . . .

Adopting a bantering tone, she said teasingly, “Darling, my booth is free . . .”

“That’s just the problem, love,” Wesley said in dismay. “It’s been specially reserved. But I do have a nice table in the back . . .”

“Janey, come on,” Patty whispered more insistently.

This was, Janey knew, nothing less than a showdown, and if she was to succeed, she had to stand her ground. “There are no nice tables in the back, Wesley. You know that,” she said firmly.

Wesley laughed reluctantly, and Janey sighed inwardly with relief. “Wait here and I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

He made a show of consulting with his second-in-command, a pretty young woman who then made a show of consulting the reservation book. In a moment, he returned with two menus and led them into the first room. “It’s not your usual table, but I think it will do for today,” Wesley said with, Janey noted, the proper amount of obsequiousness.

While she’d been standing by the door, Janey had noticed little glances from the other diners, but now, as she walked into the room, she felt them staring openly.

The expressions, she noted, registered excitement, amusement, and disdain—it was like being on a stage, she thought. But wasn’t that what people always said about New York City restaurants? That they were like theater? If they wanted a show, she would give them one, she thought, defensively. And as she strolled behind Wesley (she assumed that Patty was following behind, but she couldn’t exactly worry about
her
at the moment), she reminded herself that she had beauty, and something more than that as well. There were plenty of beautiful women in the city, but few who 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:25 PM Page 345

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had captured the spotlight, and though she wished the light were a little more flattering, hadn’t she always known it was inevitable that one day she would be the center of attention?

Wesley, she saw, was leading them toward a small table that was meekly stationed at the foot of her treasured booth, and, arranging her features into a casual smile, as if she were unaware of the buzz around her, Janey made a beeline for the center booth where the mayor and Mike Matthews were sitting. Her table was close enough to the booth to justify this detour, she decided, and she was not going to pass up the opportunity to redeem herself in front of the potentially vicious crowd at Dingo’s. She had seen the mayor glance at her curiously once or twice, and had seen Mike stare at her in shock, and then quickly look away. As she approached the booth, she saw the three men stiffen and resume their conversation with renewed vigor, as if to pretend that they were completely unaware of her presence. But Mike had been so kind to her at Harold’s party, she thought, certainly he wouldn’t snub her.

“Mike!” she said. Her expression was perfect: a subtle combination of surprise mixed with pleasure.

And then Mike went on with his story, as if she weren’t there.

“Mike,”
she said, adding a touch of impatience to her voice.

The mayor looked up at her, forcing Mike to do so as well.

She expected his face to register at least recognition, but instead he frowned, as if annoyed at being interrupted, and in a voice that said he had no idea why she was talking to him, he asked, “Yes?”

“Mike,” Janey said, shaking her head as if to scold him for not remembering her, “it’s Janey. Janey Wilcox. We’ve met a couple of times. At Harold Vane’s . . .”

“Oh yes. Of course,” Mike said, nodding his head coldly. There was an uncomfortable silence, and finally, giving her the ultimate New York dismissal, he added,

“Nice to see you again.”

And went back to his conversation.

“Nice to see you,” Janey said, as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

Patty was already seated at the table. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Janey; when Janey sat down, Patty stared at her napkin.

“So,” Janey said, making a show of flipping open her napkin and placing it on her lap. “What’s new?”