Shelby thought of the awful phone call, worse by far than his wife’s demented crying, from Conrad Peterson, Chairman of Coldharbor. ‘We don’t think you should resign. Just retire, Shelby. It’s better this way, wouldn’t you say? So many clients want discretion these days, not scandal, nothing flashy in the bank . . . What did you tell me? Others want publicity; Coldharbor runs from it.’
He hadn’t said too much. A call to the lawyers first, perhaps. They couldn’t fire him for having an affair. There was no morals clause in his contract.
But, whatever he thought, the ghastly image of the photos . . . being released in the press, passed round at work . . . sniggers, maybe a
bringing the bank into disrepute
line.
Jesus. He didn’t know what to do. Shelby hated everybody in the world right now, and his feckless, entitled son most of all.
Edward brought this on him
.
‘What are you going to do?’ Edward asked.
‘Do? What the hell can I do?’ Shelby paced. ‘Take retirement from the bank, I suppose. Work out a divorce settlement with your mother.’
‘Divorce! You have to fight to get her back!’
Shelby rounded on his son. ‘Do I? She hasn’t exactly stood by me, after one goddamned mistake, has she? She threw me out! No. You know what, Edward? I don’t think I owe either of you anything.’ He imagined Dina Kane, as he now knew she was called: that firm young body, the ripeness of it. Compared to his wife’s ultra-thin, waspish, menopausal flesh . . . Christ, why
should
he try to get her back? The loss of money, of status, of his political dreams – it was all bad enough. He couldn’t tolerate months of apologies to Penny as well, just to be allowed back to that sterile bed.
‘It’ll blow over, Dad.’
‘Not soon enough. When is she releasing the damned pictures?’
Edward ran his hands through his hair. ‘I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow, maybe never, if we give her what she wants: me leaving school; you leaving the race for Congress.’
‘I wish she’d just get it over with. And she wouldn’t take money?’
He shook his head. ‘I offered.’
Shelby thought about it. Leaving, leaving . . . He still had some cards to play. Give Penny the house; take most of the cash. There was an irrevocable trust – she could live off that. He could offer Coldharbor a deal, too – a quiet exit in exchange for an extra couple of million on top of his retirement fund.
It was possible to disappear without resorting to suicide. Florida – it had year-round sun, very few bankers – he was always advising middle-class clients to buy mansions there. The Homestead laws meant your principal residence couldn’t be touched, even if you went bankrupt and it was a six-acre palace with a pool.
Plus, nobody there knew him. In his current world, Florida was déclassé. The social registry preferred California for a winter haven – something chic in Malibu. He saw himself living large on half the money – living better, really – a pool, properly divorced, some good therapy, a few nubile girlfriends. And no fucking photos. It was an escape route, a fresh start at almost sixty.
Why the hell not? Let Edward make his own way. No family firm. No handouts. Penny would get the house and plenty for her needs.
He made his decision. Let them all rant and rave, he was going to drop out – in a very moneyed, sun-filled manner.
‘The photos are of me. The marriage is over, Edward. You need to stand on your own feet. I’m going to call your mother tonight – or at least her lawyers – and offer a quick settlement.’
‘But where will you go?’ Edward yelped. ‘What will happen to
me
?’
‘You’re an adult. Make your own decisions,’ he said. God, how had he raised this snivelling wimp that wanted his hand held, even now? ‘You should have thought about it before dumping on the mad girl. I’m going to leave the state. Nobody really knows me outside of New York. I will retire and go to Florida. And find myself, in peace.’
Damn, if it didn’t sound noble, put like that . . . For a moment his mood lightened a little. Perhaps that vicious little tramp had done him a favour, after all.
Dina Kane smiled to herself. The photos were already erased from the memory card, the camera dumped from a car somewhere off the New Jersey turnpike. She’d bought a prepaid phone and called Edward from that – it was in a dumpster two minutes after their conversation.
Now, maybe, it was all over. Now, at last, she could have some peace.
Sleeping with Shelby had been disgusting. But, every second, she’d kept in mind the grinning, mocking face of his son, the way he’d threatened to pass her around his friends, like a piece of meat, called her mom the ‘town slut’, turned sex into rape, shoving himself deeper, even as she struggled to push him off her. Edward Johnson: a privileged yob who stood for every man who’d ever leered at, drooled over or assaulted her – the guards who’d felt her up in Don Angelo’s gatehouse, the boss who’d let her be abused, as long as it kept the customers happy.
Dina no longer believed in love. Revenge was a much more achievable goal. She wasn’t going to send those pictures anywhere. Just let them sweat; let them all sweat – cheating, lying Shelby; Penny, who raised that pig of a son; and, most of all, Edward, who treated her like a joke.
I just want to level the field
.
Shelby would be divorced – his political dreams over. She didn’t want a rich, arrogant bastard like him anywhere near the halls of power.
Penny Johnson . . . Dina shrugged to herself. A woman who associated with these assholes was not her problem. There were lots of good divorce lawyers out there . . . And she was better off out of that fake marriage, anyway.
And Edward, the arrogant college boy who’d used her while she slaved just to make the rent. If there was no college for Dina, there would be none for him, either.
Edward Johnson screwed her. Now she’d screwed him back. It was time to move on, to put this behind her.
And Dina truly believed it would be that easy.
Chapter Six
Dina wanted a new start. With the profit from the sale of her studio, she had enough for a small nest egg and a deposit on a cute one-bedroom apartment. It was east of Fifth, but that was OK. Dina liked the neighbourhood, still home to artists, singers, poverty-stricken film-makers and their grim documentaries. The West Village was way too expensive; bankers and movie stars lived there now. But the East Village had its vintage clothing dens, its middle-eastern restaurants and its comic-book stores.
The fashionista in Dina loved it. It was up and coming – like she wanted to be.
The one-bedroom was another fixer-upper. She would insert a mezzanine platform – the ceilings were high – and sell it in six months as ‘split level’. If she kept flipping like this, Dina thought, she could have money, real money, by the time she was twenty-one.
But, of course, a job would help.
No more coffee – she was through with waiting tables.
She thought about fashion, but starving new designers couldn’t pay her anything and the glossy magazines were full of unpaid interns whose fathers came from the same social scene as Shelby Johnson. Dina experimented with photography, but she had no talent for it.
She hit the New York Public Library. It was no good trying to work her way up; she needed a qualification – some kind of badge. She knew she was good at investing in property and there were night classes to become a realtor, so Dina enrolled.
As ever, the nest egg wouldn’t last. She would have to work to support her studying, but she wanted something better than waitressing. Maybe something secretarial . . . At least she could type . . .
The Green Apothecary was a certain type of store: one that did well in the East Village. It was small enough to keep the bills down, and it catered to freaks.
Dina Kane fitted right in.
‘Do you like this brand?’
Dina glanced up. It was Hector Green, the old man with a German accent, who owned the store.
‘I love it,’ she said, honestly, turning over the small pot of cold cream in her hands. It was shipped direct from the Dead Sea, Jordan.
The tiny store had attracted her when she was out walking. Dina was tempted and had taken a break from looking for work. This was no ordinary pharmacist’s. They didn’t fill prescriptions here or sell Maybelline cosmetics. The higgledy-piggledy shelves were crammed with imported goods: perfume from Paris in dusty glass bottles, English hand-milled soaps, attar of roses from Egypt. Hipsters and old ladies in lace wandered in and out, buying mostly on the packaging, just to be cool. But Dina tried everything.
It was paradise, standing before the ancient, gold-framed mirrors, applying the creams, the buttery eye shadows, the bronze lipsticks. Aladdin’s cave. Mostly, she couldn’t afford it, but sometimes Dina would treat herself. And Hector would give her tips.
‘Try this one.’ He offered up a plain-looking ceramic jar. ‘Solid perfume from Iran. White musk – thickly scented.’
Dina dipped a finger, and was transported.
‘Don’t touch that cream.’ He warned her off a beautifully engraved compact from Paris. ‘It’s anti-aging; the acids will irritate you. All you need is this.’
She picked up the latest, examining it doubtfully. It was a cheap-looking plastic tube from Austria. ‘What is it?’
‘Primer. Once you apply a few drops, the foundation stays on for days.’
And he was always right.
Dina hung out in the store, spending a lot more time there than money, but Hector never seemed to mind. Hers was the perfect face, and the cosmetics looked wonderful on her – even strange, non-standard colours; she was a young beauty, experimenting.
‘I need some concealer. Like, stat,’ a girl bellowed.
She was lovely, under it all – Dina registered that at once. She had jet-black hair, run slightly wild, expensively artless clothes and a strong Roman nose that gave character to her face. But her pupils were tight, her skin was haggard, she had spots and her teeth were yellowed. Reddened eyes made her look a mess. She had money, but, boy, was she messed up.
Dina pegged her immediately: the unhappy daughter of one of those rich guys in the West Village; likely saw a therapist a few times a week; heir to a fortune; miserable; self-medicating with alcohol and pot. Pretty, young, up all night . . .
‘You don’t need concealer.’ Hector looked at her like she was mad. ‘You need to sleep.’
‘Yeah, thanks, Grandpa,’ she snapped.
‘Actually, you might want to try this – very exclusive – from Milan.’ Dina moved forward; she just couldn’t bear Hector’s hurt look. ‘It’s a combination: tighteners and brighteners. Use about a quarter’s worth on your cheeks and neck and you’ll look like you live on carrot juice and sleep in, daily.’
The girl laughed. ‘Get out of here!’
‘Seriously. Sleep in a bottle.’ Dina held it out towards her. It was a marvellous cream; Hector had pointed her to it after she was up all night studying and needed to look fresh for a job interview in the morning.
It cost twenty-three dollars.
‘It’s expensive though. I don’t know if you can afford it.’
Hector opened his mouth, but Dina’s green eyes warned him to silence.
‘How much?’ the girl said, greedily. She was staring at the tube.
‘It’s a hundred and twenty-three dollars,’ Dina said, coolly.
‘
How
much? That’s bullshit.’
‘Hey –’ Dina shrugged – ‘this isn’t a corner pharmacy. I understand; you might want to walk over to Avenue A. They have a store on the corner that sells Revlon. Best drugstore stick for under the eyes.’
She turned to put the tube back on the shelf.
‘No. Wait. I can afford it.’ The girl hesitated, Dina could see it. Even for the privileged, more than a hundred dollars was a big chunk out of her allowance. ‘Can I try a sample?’
‘We don’t have sample tubes. Up to you, but this will work great on you. I use it myself. We have similar skin.’
The girl cast an expert, assessing eye over Dina. She was slightly older, but her skin was still amazing and it glowed with the perfection of youth and clean living. And Dina Kane epitomised beauty. She was what everybody wanted to be.
‘Goddamn. I’ll take it.’
Without asking, Dina moved behind the counter. ‘A hundred and fifty dollars, please.’
‘I thought you said a hundred and twenty-three!’
‘Plus tax,’ Dina replied. ‘And handling.’
The girl meekly fished the bills out of her bag, and Dina handed over the precious cream.
‘This stuff really is amazing. Not like the promises you see in the magazines. It works.’
‘For how long?’ the girl said, suspiciously. Now she’d parted with her cash, she was hovering, like she might ask for a refund.
‘For two, maybe three hours. It tightens; it brightens – gets you through your hangover.’ Dina smiled. ‘Nothing lasts longer, you know. The skin is the biggest organ in your body; it can’t be changed by external creams. Temporary tightening effects are just that. This one has light-reflecting pigments and a sunscreen. You will
love
it.’ She was congratulating the girl like she’d just won the lottery.
‘OK! Great.
Thank
you.’
‘Come back; tell us how it worked out. Nobody else stocks it,’ Dina said, brightly.
The girl waved; she was already out of the door.
‘My God.’ Hector breathed out. ‘Dina, what the hell were you doing?’
‘Selling it,’ Dina said, grinning. ‘She was so rude. Besides, I think it’s underpriced. And it will look awesome on her. She’ll be a happy bunny. You don’t mind, do you, Hector?’
She laughed and offered him the little sheath of banknotes. Seven twenty-dollar bills and a ten, right there in her hands.
‘No. I don’t mind.’ Numbly he took the money. ‘Thank you.’
‘I should get going. I have another interview at a secretarial agency. Midtown.’ Dina looked hopeful. ‘Of course, if you want to give me any free samples . . .’
‘No. I don’t want to give you free samples,’ Hector Green said. ‘I want to give you a job.’
She wasn’t interested in shelf stacking; she made that clear. And he was equally clear. He wanted her.