They were having lunch at an exclusive restaurant on the Upper East Side. Molly was excited; you never knew who you'd run into there. It was one of those storied places, filled with pop culture, that no one knew about unless they were invited by someone with special connections. This had been one of the less publicized old haunts where Truman Capote had lunched with his swans. Lee Radziwill supposedly still went there on occasion, though Molly had never seen her in person. But there were always tons of other famous people moving around. Once, Molly had run into Joanne Carson, Johnny Carson's ex-wife, while Joanne was in New York talking to her publisher about a new book.
When the taxi dropped her off at one fifteen in the afternoon, there was a doorman waiting to escort Molly into the restaurant. He knew her well; he welcomed her and walked her into the waiting area.
"Is Mr. Denny here yet?” Molly asked a young man standing behind a tall podium. “I'm meeting him at one.” She was fifteen minutes late on purpose, knowing Marco had never been on time for a luncheon date in his life.
The young man smiled. “He's not here yet. Would you like to be escorted to your table, Mrs. Page?"
"I'll wait,” Molly said. She hated sitting alone in a restaurant as much as she hated being called Mrs. Page.
But when she crossed to the other side of the waiting room, she saw Yves Marisano walking out of the men's room.
"Yves,” Molly said. “I'm so glad I ran into you. I've heard some wonderful things about the night you filled in for Marco on the TV show. People raved about you. I'm so happy for you.” She felt bad about Marco, but she was thrilled poor Yves had found a small glimmer of success, even if it only had been for just one night.
"I'm just glad I got through it without ruining the whole show,” Yves said in his typically humble voice. He was wearing a dark suit and a white shirt open at the collar. “I'm glad I wasn't a disaster."
Molly didn't find it unusual Yves was there until Harris Wolfe walked up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.
"He was just stupendous,” Harris said. “I was amazed at his talent and his ability to take full control.” While he spoke to Molly, he stared into Yves's eyes and smiled.
"So you heard all about it, too,” Molly said. She was smiling for Yves, happy he'd been such a smash.
"I was
there
,” Harris said. “I saw the entire live show from the audience."
"You were there the night Yves filled in for Marco?” Molly asked, still smiling, but wondering why he'd been there at all.
"It was a lucky coincidence,” Harris said.
"We're having lunch with a Hollywood agent today,” Yves said, changing the subject fast.
"That certainly is good news,” Molly said. She was surprised. Yves had only done one show and people from Hollywood were already after him.
"It's just lunch,” Yves said, sounding even more humble than earlier.
"It's nothing serious,” Harris said. “Yves is going to be a famous model and he has no intention of going to Hollywood right now."
Molly stopped smiling for a moment. Harris Wolfe seemed to have taken quite an interest in Yves Marisano. Molly had no idea they'd become this close.
"I assume by the way you're dressed you're having lunch with someone special,” Harris said, touching the upper sleeve of Molly's new Chanel suit.
Molly smiled. She couldn't tell if he was smiling or making a face. It was a question, not a comment. She'd always hated the way Harris had looked her up and down, as if he were analyzing her wardrobe. Molly wasn't a fashion model; she didn't care what anyone thought about her clothes. “I'm meeting Marco. He was supposed to be here at one, but you know how Marco is about keeping time."
"I have a feeling Marco be much later than you think,” Harris said.
Harris left Molly standing there with Yves. He crossed to a small table next to the podium and reached for a copy of his own magazine. He opened the magazine to the center and handed it to Molly.
"Why don't you read my latest column in this month's issue?” Harris said. “It just hit the stands today. I'm sure you'll enjoy it.” Then he nodded at Yves and said, “We should go inside and meet our lunch date now."
After they said goodbye and walked into the dining area, Molly smiled and looked down at the magazine. Normally, she didn't read Harris's columns in
Menswear Monthly
. Molly had little interest in the fashion industry and even less interest in Harris Wolfe or what he had to say. Though she was friendly with Harris when she saw him in public, if it hadn't been for the fact her husband worked in the fashion industry she would have ignored him completely. Harris's dry wit made her stomach turn. His snide comments and his effeminate mannerisms made her feel sorry for all the gay men in the world like Marco and Frazier who were just ordinary men. Harris Wolfe was the kind of stereotypical gay man who made other gay men look bad. Unfortunately, he had a very loud voice.
Molly sat down in a leather chair to wait for Marco. She lifted the magazine and crossed her legs at the ankle to get more comfortable. But when she read the first line in Harris's latest column, she grabbed the arm of the chair and leaned forward. Her heart began to race and her eyes opened wide. She continued to read:
When talented young male models like Yves Marisano come along, what happens to aging male models like Marco Denny who refuse to step down from the runway? Something interesting happened two weeks ago when Yves Marisano was forced to fill in for Marco Denny on Marco's hit TV reality show. The viewers were actually treated to what a real male model is supposed to look like instead of watching the remnants of what a top male supermodel used to be
Molly stopped reading and took a deep breath. She felt a lump in the pit of her stomach and she couldn't continue reading. Harris Wolfe wasn't just promoting Yves Marisano in his column. He was going after Marco at the same time. She put the magazine down on the table and stood up. When she left the restaurant without saying anything to anyone, she hailed a taxi and told the driver to take her to Beekman Place. She knew Marco had seen this column and the last thing on his mind was meeting Molly for lunch. Marco never missed one of Harris's columns about the fashion industry. No one in the industry did, which made all this even worse for Marco.
When Molly arrived at Marco's penthouse, Jane Francis escorted her into the living room. Jane Francis looked up at the ceiling and walked back to the kitchen. Marco was pacing back and forth, holding the magazine in his right hand.
"Did you see this?” Marco shouted. “I can't believe that vile old nellie queen would have the unmitigated gall to print something like this about me. And to praise that slimy little gutter whore, Yves, is even worse. I'd like to string them both up on meat hooks and swing them back and forth. I can just see them dangling in mid-air over an open fire pit."
"Marco,” Molly said.
Marco didn't want to listen. He continued to pace. His face was red and his teeth were clenched. “Did you read this part?” Marco asked. “Listen to this trash: ‘
We've all heard them talking about how forty is really the new thirty, and fifty is really the new forty. But that's only in the real world, not in the world of male models selling new fashion trends to a youth-oriented market that is only getting younger as I write this column. Marco Denny is over thirty-five, not twenty-five, and no matter how hard he tries to pretend he isn't, it is what it is.'
Can you believe this shit?” Marco shouted. “He's making me sound like I'm ready for Medicare. Did you read it yet?"
"I only read part of it,” Molly said. “I couldn't bring myself to finish.” She sat down in a chair across from the fireplace. She'd never seen Marco this upset before.
Marco slammed the magazine with his fist and said, “Ah well,” he said, “it only gets better and better. Harris goes on to say I'm well past my prime and I've had my day. He says I should think about stepping down to allow new young talent like Yves Marisano to have a chance. He even said, ‘
it's time the supermodels like Marco Denny started thinking about sharing the wealth.
’”
"I don't know what to say, Marco,” Molly said. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, hoping something wise and calming would come to her so she could try and calm him down.
"Share the wealth?” Marco asked. “What does he think I am, the United States government? And he knows how I loathe being called a supermodel. He knows how it makes me cringe. He used that word on purpose. He wrote this column to ruin me."
"I'm so sorry, Marco,” Molly said. She wanted to hug him, but she knew it wasn't the right time to get sentimental. When Marco started talking about hanging someone up on a meat hook, smart people stepped back a few feet so they wouldn't get in his way.
"And did you happen to read what Mr. Yves Marisano said?” Marco ranted, banging the magazine against the fireplace with one hand and shaking his fist in the air with the other. “There are a few direct quotes from dear, shy Yves in the column. Yves told Harris, ‘
I think it's time the wonderful older models like Marco Denny stepped down and made way for younger models like me. We have new things to bring to the table, and at the end of the day, the public wants something different.’”
Marco kicked the chair and a table fell over. “Oh yes, that Yves is certainly something special,” Marco said. “He's just one cliche after another. And no one saw it coming but me."
"I can't believe Yves would say something like that,” Molly said, frowning. “And I can't believe he'd be part of a column like this with Harris, especially after all you've done for him."
"I'd like to know how Harris Wolfe and the rest of the media knew about Yves standing in for me that night,” Marco said. “It all happened at the last minute. Is he goddamned psychic, too?"
"Maybe it was one of those social network things,” Molly said, “where they make announcements on those Twitter and Facebook things.” She knew nothing about social networks. She was just reaching for an explanation.
"I'll bet that fucking slithering snake oil salesman called everyone he knew,” Marco said. “I wouldn't put anything past Yves Marisano. But he's not going to get away with this kind of slander. If my attorney can't sue, I will go after both Yves and Harris Wolfe and I'll grab Yves by the back of the head and shove him right up Harris Wolfe's wrinkled old ass."
Molly was about to speak. But when she opened her mouth, Frazier jogged into the living room. He stopped at the entrance and stared at Marco. Frazier been down in Atlanta for the two weeks. He'd been working on getting his new line ready for the first live segment on home shopping television. He'd opened a showroom down there to make it easier. Molly knew Marco and Frazier hadn't seen each other since they'd argued the weekend before Marco went to Vermont alone. Marco had told Molly they'd spoken on the telephone, but Marco was still mad at Frazier since they'd made Yves Marco's back-up model.
Frazer stared at Marco for a moment, then said, “I flew back the minute I read the column this morning. I would have been here sooner but there was traffic coming into the city."
Marco turned fast. He crossed to the living room window, lowered his head, and closed his eyes. From where Molly was sitting, she could see a single tear roll down the left side of Marco's face. She'd known him well, and for a long time, and in all those years she'd only see him cry twice: when his mother died and when his brand-new puppy had been run over by a car. Molly pressed her palm to her throat and sighed. For someone like Marco who had always lived for his career, it must have been devastating to be mocked in public this way. In all the years Marco had lived his life in the public eye, there had never been a scandal or a negative word. Marco had always based his image on being a normal, unpretentious guy. Most of the thousands of fan letters he received each year, Molly knew, were from young gay men who told Marco he was their role model because he was openly gay and he was just like everyone else.
Frazier jogged up to Marco and put his arms around Marco's body. When Frazier hugged him, Marco turned and rested his face on Frazier's chest. Marco didn't sob; he didn't cry out loud. But Molly suspected there were tears in his eyes.
"I'm here now,” Frazier said. “I love you so much. Everything is going to be okay. I'll take care of it all."
Molly sniffed back and smiled. A tear fell from her right eye and she wiped it with the tip of her ring finger so her makeup wouldn't run.
Then Frazier, still holding Marco in his arms, turned to Molly and smiled.
She stood up from the chair and said, “I think I hear my husband calling me.” She didn't want to intrude any longer. Marco had Frazier now and that was all he needed.
Frazier laughed, trying to let her know in a polite way it was time for her to leave. “Is that what I heard in the distance?"
Molly smiled and nodded, then turned around and headed for the front door to make a quiet exit. On her way out, she took a deep breath and smiled. Though Harris's vicious column would scar Marco for a long time, making him even less willing to trust people than he already was, at least it had brought Marco and Frazier back together again. Molly had been worried about them. She'd never seen them go so long after an argument without talking, and though Frazier had come running to Marco's rescue just in time, Molly was still worried about how they were going to survive what Yves Marisano had done to their lives and to their wonderful relationship.
"It's disgraceful,” Jasper said, holding a copy of
Menswear Monthly
up to his face.
"It's the worst piece of rubbish I've ever read,” Molly said. “I'm shocked at Yves.” They were having cocktails at home, and Jasper had been reading Harris Wolfe's column about Marco.
"I'm talking about the way Harris twisted poor Yves's words around in his column,” Jasper said. “He made it look like Yves is on a mission to ruin Marco's career."
Molly sat back in her armchair and smoothed out her cocktail napkin. “He twisted Yves's words?” she said. She didn't sound sarcastic, just curious. She wanted to see Jasper's reaction.