What Men Want (15 page)

I didn't have to imagine for long. A minute later the phone rang, and I told him that his Model Thin model had been interviewed on
Entertainment Tonight.

“Yeah, I went with her,” he said.

“You
went
with her?”

“Yeah, a bunch of us went over to keep her company. We hung out in the greenroom when she was on,” he said. “It was such a goof, wasn't it? We nearly fell over when they asked her about her weight issues,” he said. “I never saw a girl who could eat cheeseburgers and fries the way she does and never gain an ounce.”

“Really?” I said. “How lucky.” Then, changing the subject, I asked the question that was really on my mind. “So who's she seeing?”

“What do you mean?” He sounded confused, uncomprehending. Suddenly the award-winning copywriter had trouble with the English language?

“Who's her
boyfriend.
She said that she was seeing someone who wasn't a celebrity. I thought I'd pass it on to the gossip column.”

“Oh…I don't know. She's probably got all these guys circling her like bees around honey.”

“Oh,” I said. I didn't like the image, but then again, ever since the New Year's Eve party, there wasn't much about Bridget that I liked, except for her Fifth Avenue building. In fact, we hadn't even talked about the party after it was over. It was obvious to Chris that I didn't have the same great time that he did.

“Anyway, I'm not going to make it home for dinner. I've got to stick around—we're having a brainstorming session on where to go with the campaign.”

So much for the dinner out with him that I had been counting on. “I'll see you later then,” I said. I flipped the TV back on and sank deeper into the couch. I went from one station to another, wondering whether I'd be treated to another model interview. Finally, I shut off the set and spread the papers from Marilyn over the kitchen table, making notes about who Reilly's guests were and how many of them were repeat offenders. There was a slip of paper with Alex's name, showing that he had been to the resort three times. Then I looked back at city records documenting which films had been made in New York. Interestingly enough, Reilly's company was a major player, except during the administration of the previous mayor. It didn't look as if any of his staff had been visitors to Reilly's hotel.

By the time I finished working, it was ten and Chris wasn't back. At eleven, I went to bed. He usually wasn't this late, but it had happened before. Sometimes he went out for drinks with people from the office after a meeting. It helped him unwind. I had been in bed for about fifteen minutes when I heard his key in the door. I lay there, quiet. Should I ask him how the brainstorming session went, or just pretend to be asleep?

“Hey,” I said, rolling over. “How did it go?”

“Okay,” he said. He went into the bathroom and I heard the toilet flush and then the water go on.
After he'd showered, he got into bed next to me. I turned toward him. “Long hours, huh?”

“Yeah.” Almost involuntarily I reached over and started rubbing the back of his neck. He lay there without moving. Not even a slight sound or moan of pleasure. Very slowly, I dropped my hand and ran it over his body. I touched him softly, lightly, which was usually all it took. But this time, there was no reaction.

“Are you okay?” I asked softly.

He exhaled. “Yeah, I guess.” I wanted to ask him what was wrong, but I didn't. Like a wife who knows that hearing the truth is the beginning of the end, I kissed him and then turned over and went to sleep. In the morning, I was the one to get out of bed at the crack of dawn to go to the office. I only realized when I got there that I had put a suit jacket over a skirt that didn't match. My outfit was a mess, but at least it matched my mind.

M
y column was going to set off alarms. People from the mayor's office had gone to the Caribbean to talk business with Hollywood hotshots, taking free flights and staying at a five-star resort. It would be hard to calculate just how lavishly they thanked producers like Reilly with contracts, perks and freebies, including free car rentals—compared to other studio heads who didn't entertain them—and in the face of budget cuts for police and firefighters. But most of all, they were breaking the law and living—well, the life of Reilly! I laughed out loud.

Not only were they guests of Reilly's, they had bogus receipts to prove that they had paid when they hadn't. It would be a lot harder to point a finger at city officials who had used city funds to pay for their trips, even if the whole thing smelled. But if they of
fered doctored paperwork that made them look legitimate when they weren't, they were headed for the big house.

Did I mention that Slaid's column ran on Mondays and Fridays and that mine ran on Tuesdays and Thursdays? Well, it was Friday, and I sat down at my desk with a large Starbucks coffee, black, and a toasted bagel and butter, the soul-food breakfast of every New Yorker on the run. I flipped the pages of the paper and came to Slaid's column:

The Caribbean Film Fest by Slaid Warren

City dwellers who want to escape from New York's snow and ice don't have to go far to bask in sunshine and enjoy snow-white beaches that are often empty. The U.S. Virgin Islands offer posh resorts where you can snorkel, scuba dive, eat fish caught fresh that morning and even…yes…negotiate sweet deals for Hollywood moviemakers who want a helping hand in using the resources of our city.

And the best part? Well, if you work for the Mayor's Office of Film, Theatre and Broadcasting, there's a chance that your winter escape will cost you nothing. Why? Because purportedly, you're there on business discussing things like getting tax deductions, acquiring appropriate studio space, finding cheap
rental-car deals and hotel rooms, and closing the Brooklyn Bridge to rush-hour traffic…

 

The article went on to discuss Reilly and his film credits as well as his lavish style of entertaining. What Slaid didn't have was the damning documentation—at least not yet.

I gave the art department the receipts to photograph. Then I began to put together the story. All I needed was to call Reilly for comment before I finished. It was close to lunchtime and I lifted the receiver to phone a friend in the culture department to see if she wanted to have lunch with me. Just getting out of the office for an hour can help you decompress so that you come back to your work with a fresh perspective. I was so close to the story that I was beginning to feel as though I couldn't see it anymore.

It's always jarring to lift the phone to make a call and find someone already on the other end of it, as though they were eavesdropping on your life. I was a bit disoriented for a moment. The voice was familiar, but I couldn't place it.

“Hello, Jen.”

I hesitated. “Who is this?”

“Jack…Jack Reilly.”

“Jack,” I said, fumbling. “How are you?” I felt my pulse start to race. Even though I needed to interview him before the story ran, I wanted to be calm,
and prepared with my questions. He had caught me, unprepared.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“Actually, I was going to call you to set something—”

“Marilyn called me,” he said.

“I see.”

“So now I think we should have a little tête-à-tête before your column runs.”

“My day is terrible, but—”

“Don't run the column yet,” he said.

“Forget it, Jack.”

“You don't have the whole story,” he said. I didn't say anything.

“Look, I know you have no reason to trust me, but I'll make it worth your while.” That was a loaded last line. What was he implying? There was only one way that I could find out and I had only a few seconds to make a decision. Reilly was used to doing whatever it took to get people to do what he wanted. Why should I trust him? And why should I hold up a column that would decimate him? Still, my gut told me that if he wanted to see me that badly, there was more to the story, and it could be worth the risk to wait.

“Fine,” I said. “Where?”

“The Waldorf,” he said. “Seven o'clock.”

 

Every columnist has to have a column or two called filler that they can dredge up when a planned
piece is pulled or doesn't come together in time. I had done more research on misappropriation of funds for school libraries and much as I hated to use it, I called it up, filled in some holes and sent it in.

“More on libraries?” Marty said, shaking his head. “What the hell happened to your column on Reilly?”

“It's going to be an even better one. He wants to talk to me, apparently quite urgently.”

“Where, in a hotel room?” I gave him a dirty look. I didn't dare tell him where we were meeting.

“He tried that, it didn't work,” I said.

“Be careful,” Marty said.

“I think he wants to come clean. His former assistant who's his ex-lover turned on him.” Marty weighed that and shrugged.

“He wouldn't be the first guy to be done in because his brains are in his balls,” he said. “But don't put things off too much longer.”

 

I went home early to shower and change before meeting Reilly. Instead of the limp Banana Republic skirt I had thrown on that morning, I changed into a black Armani suit and heels. No, I wasn't trying to look good for him, I was trying to make myself feel more professional and more confident, even though I felt like such a lightweight when I was up against such a master manipulator. I was brushing my hair when I heard a key in the lock. That was odd. Chris
said that he wouldn't be home for dinner. A moment later, the door opened and he looked as surprised as I did.

“Oh, you're home,” he said before taking off his jacket.

“I was going to say the same thing to you. Is everything all right?” He looked at me for a minute before saying anything.

“Jen, I think we have to talk,” he said, looking at the floor. I walked toward him and put my hairbrush down on the side of the couch before sitting down. I didn't need this right now, I had enough on my mind, but what choice did I have? He straddled the other arm of the couch and looked down and then up at me. I was getting that uneasy feeling that creeps up on you when someone is about to tell you something that you know you don't want to hear.

“I…I don't really know what to say,” he said.

“Just say it,” I said, shaking my head. I studied him as he had his head down and noticed what looked like the beginning of a goatee. I had never noticed the stubbly chin before.

“I'm seeing someone else,” he blurted out. I sat there, immobile, staring back at him. He caught my eye for a minute to see how that registered, and then he looked off, but went on.

“You know ever since the campaign started, the whole group of us have been hanging out a lot.” I nodded. “You went down to the Caribbean, and it
just seemed like the house was empty, and so…well, you probably guessed that I was going out with Bridget.”

So there it was, out in the open. Everything that I secretly dreaded was now confirmed. I was almost relieved to hear it.

“I guess that I better start looking for a new place,” I said, getting up and starting to brush my hair again, now with greater intensity.

“Look, I don't want you to think you have to run out. You can stay here as long as you want…I feel really bad about it…we had good times…and I still love you, Jen, I care about you.”

I looked at him and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

“You love me?” I said, tears in my eyes. “Well you have a hell of a way of showing it.” Then, maybe because I was hanging around with Marilyn, and I felt some of the same venom that she did, I said, “Actually, I would have thought you would have gone for someone with more brains, but I obviously had you pegged wrong. You deserve her. I hope you have a great life together.”

“Listen, things happen,” he said, shaking his head as if my reaction was uncalled for. “It wasn't premeditated or anything. We were just together a lot, and she had broken up with the guy she was seeing, so she was sort of down…and you were so tied up with the job…” He let his voice drop off. I suppose
I should have been thankful
not
to hear him say she was just so fabulous looking that he couldn't resist. That was understood.

“And you weren't tied up with
your
job? Maybe I should have slept with someone to fill in the times when you were stuck at the office,” I said. I didn't like the mudslinging that I was taking part in so enthusiastically, so instead, I just went into the bathroom and closed the door, trying to stifle my sobs by pressing my face up hard against a towel.

He knocked on the bathroom door and I sat down on the toilet seat, unable to open it.

“Listen,” Chris said, “I just wanted to let you know that you can have the place to yourself for the next week or so.” I opened the door an inch and looked at him.

“You're moving in with her?”

He nodded. “For now.”

No wonder he had come home early. He wanted to pack. What would he have done if I wasn't there? Send me a note? A quick e-mail? Maybe, an e-card. “SURPRISE! OUR RELATIONSHIP IS OVER—START PACKING!” I looked at him and closed the door, kicking it behind me.

It was so awful that it was almost comical. I was so wound up that what came out of my throat was a wounded sound as though something had been thrown against me. The worst thing was the timing, just before the meeting with Reilly. I had to be
strong, self-possessed, not crumbling like a distraught female whose boyfriend had walked out on her.

I thought back to that day on Buck Island when Reilly and I talked about his marriage and then my relationship. He said he had a hunch that the guy wasn't the one, and it had hit a nerve. Was it all so transparent?

I stayed in the bathroom until I heard Chris's key in the door. Did he pack the bag that I'd given him? Obviously I had sensed what was ahead. But no, that was ridiculous. I put cold compresses on my eyes, and used concealer to cover the awful pink on my eyelids and nose. Some brown eyeshadow, mascara, and then a few deep, calming breaths. Then I left the apartment, hoping that most of the evidence of my emotional unraveling was gone.

 

I got to Second Avenue where I tried unsuccessfully to hail a cab because I was wearing high heels. I thought about calling a car service, but I knew that it would take at least fifteen minutes until they showed up. At the same time, I kept thinking about Slaid's reaction to my upcoming column on libraries. What a big laugh he'd get. He called less these days, but he still called or did something sophomoric and annoying. In this case, he'd probably send a library card by messenger, or worse, a donation. He'd jump to the conclusion that since I didn't have his expertise, I wasn't able to get the goods on Reilly, so the
paper pulled the column. While some other time I might have enjoyed the clever repartee, at this point, after the scene with Chris, my sense of humor had dried up.

It's one thing for a relationship to die a natural death—the attraction dwindles or one partner's life flourishes while the other's doesn't, what have you. But in our case, I felt like the one who'd created the road map for my own undoing, ending one of the most solid relationships that I had had in years. Why hadn't I had the foresight to see the implications of what I'd blurted out? But more important, did I really love Chris? Was I convinced that he was the one?

A former shrink of mine who was perpetually bombarded with dramlets about my various relationships always used to stop me from asking questions about guys' motivations. She'd turn to me and say, “But is he meeting your needs? What do
you
want?”

I'd been so consumed with being what I thought men like Chris wanted, I'd never asked myself that question. Was Chris meeting my needs? Did I want to marry him? Yes, no…I didn't know. I felt like one of those pathetic types who wrote to advice columnists asking, “How do you know if you're in love?”

Why didn't I know? Was it just that at this point I wasn't ready to make decisions about the future? I always assumed that if we stayed together long enough it would lead to something permanent. In the meantime, I was obsessed with thoughts of him
and Bridget. Was it her looks alone that dazzled him, or her personality too? If it was just a physical attraction, would he get over it? Come back to me? It probably didn't hurt that the girl was a multimillionaire who lived in a fabulous apartment, not to mention a weekend place that was probably equally opulent. She'd have all kinds of fun toys to play with—designer bicycles, probably several cars, motorcycles. Still, Chris wasn't the material type. He liked earning money, but if he earned half of what he did, it wouldn't trouble him.

I thought back to Marilyn, and how she probably felt after her affair with Reilly lost steam. To make matters worse, he was married, so unless she was living in a dreamworld, she had to know that sooner or later, he would pull the plug on things.

Unable to find a cab, I walked downtown and then east for a few blocks until I was in front of New York University Hospital. Cabs were always pulling up and I waited until one stopped. It took a few moments for the door to open. I waited, and then saw the woman inside pay the driver and then ease her way out, as if the movement was agonizingly painful. She was pale, weak, no more than forty, with a pretty but unsmiling face. Her head was wrapped in a red bandanna scarf. I reached out my hand to help support her.

“Oh, that's okay,” she said, finally pulling herself up. She caught her breath and then started to make
her way toward the door. No, it's not okay, I wanted to say. She didn't deserve to be wearing that scarf, or thinking about sickness and loss instead of life and joy and all the trivial concerns that the healthy fill their days with. I glanced at the way her slacks hung loose against her slight frame as she walked, taking small steps through the hospital door. Would she come out again? Would she get a second chance? I'd been spared problems like hers. I was free to live life and think about my future. I had had a good year with Chris and life would go on. I'd meet other men, have other relationships. I was thirty-six years old and I hoped to have years and years of good life before me. I turned to walk the other way, remembering her downcast eyes.