He hated her. He remembered her body. Underneath the drunkenness, it stirred him.
Edward pushed himself to his feet. He wanted women; he wanted pussy. There were drugs that could make the booze go away.
‘I’ll put it on your tab, sir, shall I?’ asked the waiter.
But Edward Johnson was already gone.
‘It’s selling extremely well.’
Dina was standing in the executive offices of the Glamour store on Fifth Avenue. She nodded as Jane Bowes, the buying director, scrolled through her slides.
‘As you can see, another seventy-five per cent volume in the first month. But our customers are complaining about wait times. It’s bad for the store if we have to tell them to hold on.’
Dina nudged Hector, standing beside her, awkward in his new three-piece suit.
‘We understand,’ she said. ‘We are shifting production. There’s another factory lined up, in Canada. And one in Milan that will service Europe.’
‘Glamour wants to be first in line.’
‘You are a premium customer. We’re going just as fast as we can.’
‘Maybe you’d consider developing a new product, just for Glamour. Say, a night cream. We hold, as a chain, to ethical production methods . . .’
‘We know that,’ Dina said. ‘No exclusives.’
The girl ignored her, addressing Hector directly. ‘A million-dollar advance before you sell a single pot, Dr Green. And all your sales on top of that.’
Dina stood up. ‘This meeting is over.’
‘I understand you have an interest in Meadow cream, Ms Kane, and we respect that, but Dr Green is a free agent, isn’t he? You don’t own all his future work.’
Dina glared at Hector. ‘We are leaving. Are you coming?’
He looked wildly from one woman to the other. Christ!
A million dollars.
He’d never have to work again. And before he sold a single pot . . .
And yet there was the girl, his young partner, glaring at him, like she was eighty years old and his mother . . .
‘Yes. Coming.’ He felt resentful. He had mentored this girl, offered her help, assistance. And she was ordering him around – had done from the start. Now his cream was working and Dina was taking half. Sure, he was grateful . . . and she was energetic . . . but if they wanted to give him a million . . .
She was in her twenties; he wanted to retire.
We are leaving
. So easy for her to say.
But he got to his feet, and regretfully followed her out.
‘We need to talk, Dina. I am not happy.’
She passed a hand over her forehead. ‘Christ, Hector. It’s all happening. Do you realise how much money you’re making?’
‘You don’t understand. I just want to have enough – to stop – not to do this again.’
‘And we will. It’s going to be more than that; it’s going to be millions . . . if you stay with me.’
He bristled. ‘You treat me like a child. It’s my cream.’
Dina saw red. ‘Which you wouldn’t market, Hector; you wouldn’t borrow a dime. You’d have been happy to sell it in our cramped little store.’
He flushed. ‘That shop is my home. You were happy enough when I hired you.’
She paused. ‘This is stupid. We have to work as a team.’
But Hector was brooding. ‘It was wrong of you to take half the rights. And now you want the rest of my work?’
‘You have to be kidding. I put everything I have on the line for this cream.’
‘I’m calling that woman back,’ the older man said. ‘I want a million dollars. It’s my research; nothing to do with you.’
Dina blinked back tears. ‘Hector—’
‘Really,’ he said. ‘You are the one who brought in lawyers. Just let me be, now, Dina, OK? I have a life without you.’
‘I’m worried about you,’ Brad said.
Johnny’s little sis, the model of control, of command, the workaholic – she looked a mess.
They had read about the beauty cream. Nice – Dina looked to be set up for life.
But here she was at his apartment, late at night and shaken. Her skin was grey and she was crying.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Dina lied. ‘Just a business thing, breaking up. That’s all. Hector’s right: he can do what he wants.’
Brad, Johnny’s boyfriend, came over. He was in awe of Dina Kane – so strong; so ferocious. Old beyond her years and, from what Johnny had told him, he could guess why. But today she looked just like a twenty-year-old: upset and lost, stiffed by the older guy.
‘He can’t, actually, Dina,’ Brad said. ‘I don’t know what’s gone wrong, but you have half of the Meadow product. Why don’t you get yourself your own lawyer? I’m guessing he can’t use the name, or anything in connection with the first cream, without you.’
She bit her lip. ‘Yeah. Maybe.’
‘You’re not thinking straight.’
‘I don’t know. It hurts. Hector meant a lot to me.’
Because you never knew your father
, Brad thought. But he wasn’t a shrink. Johnny, his love, was a messed up, insecure, lazy, sexy delight, and that was OK – Brad was grounded enough for the both of them. But Dina was more like him, full of duty and responsibility and the need to get on. Besides, she was going places; you could tell that the second she walked in the room.
‘I would just get a lawyer – not the local guy you had run up the contract – a good one.’
‘I spent everything I had on this cream. The packaging, the manufacture, everything. My apartment is hocked up to the eyeballs. It’s selling, but the money takes a while to flow in, and all the lab bills have to be paid first and—’
‘I’m sorry.’ Brad patted her on the shoulder. ‘Just my two cents.’
He had his own worries. He looked over at her brother. Two weeks ago, he was planning to drive Johnny to Vermont, ask him to marry him. Gay marriage was legal there. They could get a little place. He had his first job lined up: tax law at a small firm in Manhattan. It was a good gig for an Iona graduate, and he figured he could do well, get a promotion, get more money. He wasn’t going to wind up on the Supreme Court, but they could have a nice place together. Maybe Johnny would do social work; maybe he’d just be a hippy peace activist. Brad didn’t really care when he had those smooth limbs wound around him and that handsome face purring in his ear. It was white-picket-fence time, and he couldn’t wait. If he was boring, Johnny brought the fireworks.
But . . . maybe a few too many fireworks. Johnny was drinking; that was nothing new – he’d been drinking since he arrived at college. It started out of relief about getting away from home, or maybe guilt over the little sister without any college tuition. Then, as Dina pulled herself up from the pit, it was just drinking to party. Brad told him off; Brad worried. For a while, he switched to weed. The grades were plummeting, so he got a prescription to treat ADHD and crushed his Adderall. Next it was cocaine, just a little, here and there, when they were offered it at parties . . .
‘I’m OK,’ Johnny said. ‘I’m holding it together.’
But his grades were bumping along the bottom. Brad was anxious. Maybe he’d get chucked out. Maybe he’d get addicted . . .
Now here Dina was, and Brad didn’t know if he had anything left in reserve.
‘Poor little sis.’ Johnny stumbled over and gave her a bear hug.
‘Johnny, you stink of whiskey.’
‘Jack Daniel’s don’t stink.’ Johnny pouted. ‘What’s the problem? We don’t all want to be a party pooper, like you . . .’
‘Here, baby.’ Brad came over with a big glass of ice water and two Alka-Seltzers. ‘Take these.’
Dina looked up slowly, shaken out of her self-reflection. Suddenly, Meadow cream seemed miles away. Johnny was in trouble. Johnny – the only family she had. It was obvious from the look on Brad’s face. She didn’t want him to get sick, but maybe he was already.
‘No way,’ Johnny slurred. ‘I’m getting some ecstasy; Stacey has some down the block. She works porn, did you know that? She always has the best fucking shit. We’re here; we should party . . . You think too much, Dina. You worry too much . . .’
‘Johnny –’ her voice was sharp and commanding – ‘take the glass from Brad.’
He tossed his head, but he took it.
‘Now swallow the pills. And the water.
All
of it.’
He did.
‘Thanks.’ Brad passed a hand over his face. ‘I’ll take him to the bathroom, get him to bed. Can you stay a minute?’
He was back out in five, with Johnny moaning in their tiny bedroom like a stuck elephant.
‘He needs help.’
Dina nodded. ‘How long has this been going on?’
‘Maybe a month, maybe two. But we have to stop it before it gets any worse. I don’t know how.’
Neither did Dina. For once, her self-possession deserted her. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll go and see Mom. She loves him.’
Even if she doesn’t love me
. ‘She can decide what to do.’
‘Does she know yet . . . ?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Dina said, with more confidence than she felt. ‘I’ll tell her.’
The train out to Tuckahoe was a long thirty minutes for Dina. Every stop was redolent with memories. Bad memories.
Her golden dream was going wrong all around her. Hector was drifting away from her, corrupted. There would be lawyers . . . lawsuits. Her job was gone, with all she’d ploughed into it. It might have been only a year, but to Dina it was an age – it was her life.
And now her darling Johnny needed help. Something was rotten in his soul, something from childhood. They dealt with it in different ways, he and she. He wanted to get along, quietly, and hope it went away. Booze made pain go away. So did drugs.
‘Woodlawn,’ said the conductor. ‘Wakefield next . . .’
She shivered in her seat. It was January – icy cold in New York. Dina was dressed for it, though; the ticket inspectors did a double take; the louche teenage boys sprawling across the banquettes were openly leering. She didn’t notice any of them.
Everybody else riding to the suburbs was bundled up in so many layers they looked like the Stay-Puft marshmallow man. Not this girl. Dina Kane was dressed with effortless style. Her silk T-shirt was copper, with a bronze cashmere sweater draped lightly over the top. The blinking ticket inspector didn’t notice the thermal vest under that shirt, keeping her warm without thick layers; she was just stunning, her hair long and loose, her legs chic in chestnut leather trousers.
But the thing the ticket inspector noticed most was the determined look on that beautiful, minimally made-up face. He shot a warning look at the boys:
Leave the lady alone
. And then he walked on down the carriage. No catcalls on his train, no trouble, no thanks.
Dina was oblivious.
Even on bad days, she lived for beauty. She wasn’t trying to attract attention – this was something she did for herself. Looking her best was her comfort, her armour. She felt stronger when she looked better. Today she wore Meadow cream – a perfect bulwark against the cold – and a light, airbrushed foundation from the store, a little number imported from Germany. Her eyes were playful: dark green shadow at the lashline, copper mascara, golds and browns up to the brow. And her lips were plain – nothing but a tangerine gloss. To her, this was as simple as putting on moisturiser. Why wouldn’t everybody do it? Five minutes, and you could almost be someone else . . .
Today she wished she was someone else – someone with a normal family, a normal life. One of these kids, heading into the suburbs.
Oh, no, you don’t
, chided the small voice in her head.
Not at any price.
‘Tuckahoe.’
She grabbed her Mulberry purse and stepped out of the train. Good clothes, good cosmetics: these were luxuries for some, necessities for her. Dina invested, every time she stepped up the ladder. She bought key pieces, classics that worked, and let her face be her canvas.
It was her business. Had been, anyway.
She walked carefully up the stone steps by the platform and found herself at the centre of the village – the post office to her left, a diner to her right – just a few minutes’ walk from Ellen’s house. They hadn’t spoken in a year, other than a snatched phone call on her mom’s birthday and at Christmas. Dina hadn’t gone back. What was the point in pretending things were great?
The house was there, much as she remembered it: tall, neat, well painted. Maybe there was some relief in that. Dina noticed that the curtains were open. She could see her old room; it had been repainted, and was now a garish pink.
She rang the bell.
‘Yes?’
Her mom looked her up and down. There was a slight start of recognition, then shock.
‘My God, look at you!’ She couldn’t keep the admiration out of her voice. Then it coloured with jealousy. ‘What are you, some kind of model?’
‘I work in beauty, Mom. In a store.’
‘Right. You could never be a model. You’re not tall enough. Not skinny, either.’
Ellen was wearing black slacks and a matching polo-neck, with ballet slippers. Her hair was a darker blond, cut straight; she wore a little powder, some blusher and mascara. Nothing on her lips, and Dina knew right away she was too proud to show the fine lines she had there, to let anything bleed. She was stylish, still, but nothing to match her daughter.
‘Can I come in, Mom?’
‘I guess.’ She opened the door.
‘Wow. Things are different.’ Dina glanced around. Every trace of teenagers had vanished. There were pictures in frames, though, portraits of Ellen and Paul, the family together, lots of frames of Johnny. No pictures of Dina, unless she was with her brother.
‘Yeah. This is the house my way.’
‘You want to give me the grand tour?’
Ellen shrugged. ‘You can go round if you want.’
Curious, Dina mounted the stairs. Johnny’s room was there; the posters had been taken down, but his bed was the same, his rug, his framed artwork. In Dina’s room, the pink walls were just the start; her bed, her carpet, her toys, everything had been removed. It was a Home Shopping Network fantasy, with a double bed made up in pink and gold, and matching drapes over the windows, a shagpile rug and silk roses in a glass vase.
‘You got your guest room,’ she said, lightly, once she’d returned downstairs. It only stung a little bit; she was hardened to her mother’s hurtfulness at this point.