It was early morning. Any second now, Diana would be here and he could get on with the business of making serious money.
Michael gazed up at the black monolith of the JanCorp tower. His office was up there. The phones and faxes would already be starting to buzz with the hymn of success he loved so much. Last week had been fun, sure: sticking it to Ernie, a day he had waited for and planned.
There Was that Italian revenge thing. Michael wasn’t the type to use a concrete overcoat or a baseball bat, but watching that bastard’s careercrumble, in his own building, in front of his own board … that had been satisfying.
CNN had announced Ernie’s resignation on its business news. The shot of him, harassed, rushing out of the conference room in the middle of the meeting had been worth staying up late for. If he had been younger, Michael would have taped that to watch it over and over.
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But not now. He was more concerned with the future than the past.
He took a deep breath, sniffing in the scent of coffee and gas fumes and blossoms and doughnuts, everything that made New York what it was. Then he pushed open the door to the lobby.
‘Good morning, Mr Cicero.’ Sally, the receptionist, greeted him deferentially as usual. She hastily shoved something she was reading out of sight. She blushed. ‘Your assistant, Mr Plato—’
‘Harry’s in already. Good.’
‘Yes, sir, he’s been in for an hour, supervising the PR response.’
Michael paused and looked down at her. Damn, he was handsome, Sally thought, that square jaw and broken nose, the muscles on him under the well-cut black suit that brought out his eyes. Every woman in the place was half in love with him. And who knew? Maybe after the scandal he’d be a free man again.
She reminded herself to stock up on lip gloss.
‘PR response to what? Surely there’s not that much more to be said on Blake|y’s. I thought the phones stopped ringing a day or so ago.’
‘No - no,’ Sally stammered. She wasn’t sure what to
say. ‘You mean you haven’t seen it?’
‘Seen what?’ Michael demanded.
Furtively Sally kicked away the copy of Big City she had let tumble to the floor. Oh man. If he caught her with it … Who was going to be the one to break it to him? Not her. They always shot the megsenger.
‘There’s an article in a magazine I think Mr Plato wants you to look at,’ Sally whispered, lamely. Cicero was fixing her with that intense, dark stare. ‘Please, sir—’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ He smiled confidently, and she was able to stop a tremble before it started. ‘Whatever it is, I’m sure you had nothing to do with it.’
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‘Oh no.’ The girl went scarlet and shook her head violently. ‘Nothing at all. Really. I never even knew her. Except when she came in in the mornings.’
Michael smiled reassuringly at her. What was the girl’s
name? Sally?
‘I’ll sort it out. You have a nice day, honey.’
He stepped into the elevator as Sally looked longingly
after him. Most guys here were afraid to wish her good morning in case they got slapped with a sex-harassment rap. But Michael always called her baby, or doll, or honey. How she wished she was his honey.
‘You too, sir,’ she said wistfully as the chrome doors
hissed shut.
The fact was, she suspected, he was about to have the
worst day he’d had in a long time.
Michael stepped out on the ninth floor. He instantly noticed something was amiss. The normal early morning office chatter and buzz was muted and subdued. Nobody was even playing Quake on office time. The programmers weren’t in yet, of course, but the marketing staff were, and they were nearly as bad; swearing, rock music, ‘empty pizza boxes. This morning they were keeping their heads down. He greeted a couple of his lieutenants. They both just smiled briefly and scuttled away from him.
Michael’s radar picked up. Danger, it bleeped at him. He strode to his office, noticing that Harry, the executive assistant who had replaced Tina, had gone inside. He glanced down at Harry’s phones and saw all the lights blinking. At least six calls were on hold.
‘Emma.’ He turned round and gave a brisk order to his office manager. ‘Pick up all the calls that are holding, apologise and say we can’t speak to them at this time. Take messages. Then divert all my calls to Harry’s voicemail until further notice.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Emma Harris said. She was a pretty, efficient
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young woman, usually very exuberant. Today, she was twisting her fingers. ‘Can I just say I’m very sorry. I don’t believe it, anyway.’
What the bloody hell is going on? Michael thought. He pushed open the door and let himself into his office.
‘Fill me in,’ he snapped at Harry once the door was shut.
Harry winced and simply handed over a copy of Big City.
The picture on the front was unmistakable: Diana, looking regal, as classy as she had ever done, in a long dress of light mint-green silk, with Brad Bailey holding her arm, her hair swept up in a glossy French knot, diamonds dripping from her earlobes and draped over her throat. She screamed class and elegance. Michael had a momentary pang of jealousy; he hated to think Brad had once been her date. Or that any man would touch those curves other than himself.
But that was only for a nanosecond. The blaring headline at the bottom could not be ignored.
IS THIS THE BIGGEST GOLD-DIGGER IN NEW YORK.) it
yelled. Underneath, in bold red letters, was written, Home-wrecker… Hustler… Fortune-bunter… The
thrilling accusations of the rival she replaced!
‘What the luck?’ Michael said, angry. ‘It’s your ex-girlfriend. Tina Armis. She spilled her guts.’ Harry flicked over to the centrefold article, where Tina was spilling more than her guts. Marissa had coaxed her into a swimsuit and then her lingerie. Her slender legs tumbled out of the staples clad in little more than frou-frou slippers, and a G-string at the top consisting of a tiny vee of dark lace. She was holding a spray of feathers over her naked, tiny little apple breasts. She looked like a young stripper. Michael felt himself flush with rage. Oh, great. Look at the way Harry was biting back a grin. And he couldn’t blame him; Tina was
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a great piece of ass. But it was like having his former sex life splattered all over New York. Michael’s thick jaw set in distaste.
‘I guess I need to read this,’ he said. His stubby fingers flicked through the inky rag, over glossy photos of Tina in a red suit, curled up half nude on a bearskin rug. They had kept it skimming just above Playboy, but barely. Next to her were the haughtiest photos of Diana that they had on file. Attending premieres and balls, with just that one shot of her in jeans looking for a cheap apartment.
Breathlessly, Marissa Matthews led her readers through Tina’s sad tale. She was just a put-upon little girl … whom, Michael read, blinking, he had apparently forced into bed with veiled threats. Despite this abuse she had come to love him, until Diana Verity had arrived on the scene.
Michael couldn’t, believe they would try this. He would sue them, destroy them. What proof did they have for any of this?
And then he came to the piece de rsistance. Tina claimed she had had a heart to heart with Diana, and ‘Diana had boasted.of Brad’s colossal wealth. According to Tina, she said she had ‘traded up’.
‘Ernie Foxton wasn’t good enough for her,.’ Tina was quoted as saying. ‘He didn’t have enough cash. She was determined to show the world the husband she could snag. But then she found out about Michael’s - my Michael’s - deal with Mr Jankel.’
They stopped for a tiny photo of Art. Michael cursed. Art Jankel was a recluse. He would detest this.
‘So suddenly Michael stops being worth a few million and he has serious money, from JanCorp, I mean. And Diana just laughed at me. I wasn’t fancy like her. She said she knew moneyed men. She could have Michael any time she wanted.’
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Marissa asked Tina why Diana would prefer Michael to Brad. Tina replied (‘with tears in her blue eyes,’ said the old hag, sympathy overflowing) that Brad could see through her but Michael was hooked. ‘He told me once he hated women who married for money. But he’s blind and he’s forgotten what Diana is.’
His breath coming hard through his nostrils, Michael ripped the magazine into shreds, balled it in his fists, and flung it into the wastepaper basket. He turned to his assistant. ‘Diana Verity is head of our publishing division. Our response to any enquiry about this story is no
comment. It’s not worth commenting on. Got it?’ Harry nodded hastily. ‘I got it.’
‘Good.’ Michael pushed to his feet. ‘Where is she?’
Ernie chuckled. He was in the car for the last time, heading out to JFK and his first-class ticket back home. It looked like maybe the new job was going to fall through. Those stupid fuckers, why not take advantage of world class talent when it presented itself? But whatever, it wasn’t his problem. He’d had a couple of lines of blow and nothing could puncture his good mood. He’d find a way through this just like he’d found a way through all the other messes. Meanwhile, there was the fantastic bloody magazine article for the flight over lying next to him on the leather seat.
Ernie glanced at thepicture of the thin chick who had sold the story. Nice. Skinny. How he liked them. Probably be happy to try a little experimentation. And wasn’t it fantastic to think of Manhattan waking up to this, everybody from the cops grabbing their doughnuts to the socialite wives who pretended not to read trash, but who secretly loved it. Yeah. Everyone he knew in town would be acquainted with it. It made Diana look little better than a hooker, a sort of rich lowlife, just a phony with an accent. He thought of Michael Cicero, the
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poor boy who carried himself so solemnly. Well, Michael looked like a fool now, didn’t he? Once he got back home they’d be calling him to confirm this little story and he, Ernie Foxton, would love to help ‘em out.
Diana obviously thought her little appearance at his meeting had been the end of the story - pushing him out of the apartment, that small, ordinary little place she had, nothing to notice in it. Rejecting him. Him, Ernie, who she had set her little money-grabbing cap at, whose money she’d ploughed through. Just like Felicity. All women were the same, of course.
But it wasn’t the end of the story. Not by a long shot. Ernie’s only regret was that he wasn’t the one sticking it to Diana. If he had had a hand in this, it would have been very satisfying.
He flicked through the pages again, staring with hatred
at Diana’s proud face, while New York slipped past and
the limo plunged into the Queens-Midtown Tunnel.
But maybe there was something he could do.
He tapped the window in front, making the chauffeur
slide it back. The guy had a phone up there.
‘Get me Michael Cicero on the phone,’ he said. “‘Imperial Games. Tell him it’s Ernie Foxton calling. And I only want to speak to him, personally.’
Diana couldn’t believe it. She’d seen the paper at seven, because Claire Bryant came right round with a copy and a bunch of Kleenex.
‘Look at the little tramp,’ Claire said. ‘Nobody will
believe it. And … it’s a boring story, anyway.’
Her voice quailed on the lie.
‘Oh God,’ Diana breathed. She sat down. She felt nauseated. Her friend bustled around the apartment, fixing her coffee, chattering, refusing to let her spirits sink.
‘Pay it no mind.’ Claire brought her a tiny, steaming
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cup of espresso. ‘You know you married Ernie for love,
right? You loved him … that’s why you married him.’ Diana stared bleakly at her.
‘If only that were true,’ she said.
Michael scowled at Harry. His day was just getting worse. As soon as Diana had come into the office she had barricaded herself in a three-hour meeting with some Japanese affiliates. He suspected she’d planned that deliberately, but Ellen swore she hadn’t, that it had been planned for weeks.
‘She told me her day would run as normal, sir.’ Ellen quivered. ‘Do you want me to fetch her out of the meeting for you?’
‘No. That’s OK.’ Michael turned on his heel and stalked out of Cloud Nine. Now he couldn’t even speak to her, to comfort her.
And now Harry wanted him to pick up some damn call. Fuck it. Let the press whistle for it. He wondered if they were waiting outside the building to snap him and
Diana as they left the office. More than likely.
‘I told you, no goddamn calls, Piato.’
‘I think you’ll want to take this one,’ Harry said quietly. ‘It’s from Ernest Foxton. And he says he won’t speak to anybody but you.’
Michael’s brow arched. Very well. He supposed he at least owed the little prick the courtesy of taking this call.
‘I’ll go into my office. Put him through there,’ he said. ‘And Harry - tell me the minute Ms Yerity gets out of her meeting. I want to see her.’
Michael shut the door softly and sat down. His heart was beating a little fast. Like a predator confronted with a trapped, broken prey, bleeding, with nothing left to lose, he was smart enough to know that he was in danger.
‘Michael Cicero,’ he said, picking up.
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‘Hey, Michael. Read the papers? Course you have. It’s
why I called.’
Ernie’s thin little voice was babbling a mile a minute.
Coke, Michael thought, with pity.
‘You have something to say, Foxton? Or is this a social
call?’
‘Ah yes, the wunderkind of the Wall Street Journal,
and all that. So businesslike. So rushed.’
Cicero waited impatiently. Doubtless the jerk would
get, ito it soon.
read the papers too. Gotta say, you got nice taste.
Girl has an ass like a boy.’
‘I always hated that about her.’
‘I guess so. Like Diana’s big booty, huh? Cold in bed though, ain’t she?’
‘If you want to swap dirty stories, Foxton, you came to