“Oh yes,” she said, coldly, walking back to the couch and sitting down. For some bizarre reason he followed her and, as if he had nothing better to do and they were old friends, sat down next to her. “I’m truly happy,” she said, “my husband is great . . .”
“Yes, I remember him. Selden Rose. He seemed like a nice guy.”
“He
is
a nice guy,” Janey said, suddenly irritated by the fact that calling Selden
“a nice guy” seemed to somehow diminish him.
“You look well,” Zizi said. He stared at her as if he were assessing a piece of horseflesh, and Janey felt herself tingle under his gaze. How was it possible that his mere presence managed to conjure up all the feelings she’d had for him the summer before, and with a slightly trembling hand, she unzipped the boots, distressingly conscious of her feet—she had corns—in their beige panty hose.
“Why wouldn’t I be well?” she said, motioning to the salesman. “I’ll take these,” she said, and then, leaning forward, reminded him in a whisper that she had a thirty percent discount.
She gave Zizi a bold look, daring him to give her grief about the discount, which she got in nearly every designer store as a courtesy for being in the fashion business and for potentially being photographed in the clothes. But he didn’t say anything, and she said pointedly: “
You
seem to be having a good time. I keep reading about you in the gossip columns.”
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He laughed—it was like a Greek statue suddenly coming to life, Janey thought—and replied, “You’re one to talk. I see your name everywhere.”
“Yes, but . . . ,” she began, torn between being pleased that he’d been keeping up with her and wanting to tell him off. What could she say—that she knew he was fooling around on Mimi? But she wasn’t even supposed to know about the affair, and given his dismissal of her the summer before, she knew that accusing him of sleeping with other women would only make her sound bitter.
The salesman returned with her boots and her credit card; as she signed the slip she realized that she’d completely forgotten about Selden’s present. That would have to wait, she thought, glancing at Zizi—she told herself that right now, all she wanted to do was to get out of the store and get away from him. She was suddenly furious that he’d rebuffed her advances, and standing up, she wondered what his problem was. Perhaps, in his warped Argentinean sensibility, he hadn’t found her
“good enough.” Holding out her hand she said coolly, “It was nice to see you, Zizi.”
“Oh, come on,” he said, rising slowly as if he had all the time in the world. “I thought you and I were friends.”
That was a damn insult, she thought, but if she showed her feelings, he would know that she cared. Tilting her face up to him she said smoothly, “Of course we’re friends, Zizi . . .” And in that moment, she suddenly knew what she had to do.
It was an evil plan, but it would show Mimi once and for all the true nature of Zizi’s character, she thought, as she opened her purse and rummaged around for her favorite lip color, Pussy Pink. Walking to the mirror, she puckered her lips seductively; catching Zizi’s eye, she gave him a questioning look. Sure enough, as she’d known he would, he answered her with a wink.
This was all the information she needed then, she thought grimly, winding down the lipstick with an expert twist. He’d ignored her all summer, but now, away from Mimi’s watchful eye, he was practically making a pass at her!
Poor Mimi! she thought again. Like most women, she probably didn’t understand how untrustworthy men could be, but Janey knew. All her life, she’d been fighting off advances from men who were “in love” with other women, who were married, who had children, and this harsh truth had shaped her ideas about relationships—was it any wonder she was cynical? Look at what had happened to poor Patty, she thought. Turning to smile at Zizi, she was determined that the same thing wouldn’t happen to Mimi; as a friend, she owed it to Mimi to show her the truth.
If she could prove to Mimi that Zizi was unworthy, she would be saving her a lot of future heartache. Besides, she didn’t necessarily
have
to sleep with him, she thought, eying his slim physique, and then letting her gaze slide down to his crotch, which was encased in a tight pair of worn blue jeans. But if things
did
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the fact that Zizi would sleep with her best friend might snap Mimi to her senses and cause her to drop Zizi once and for all.
Taking a step toward him, she said casually, “I never see you anymore, Zizi. Are you enjoying my apartment?”
“The apartment is very nice . . .”
“How I miss that sweet little apartment,” Janey said, with a sigh. “I have so many memories of the place . . .”
This should have been his cue to ask her over, but instead, he took her bag and, walking her to the door, said, “Which way are you going? Can I get you a cab?” For a moment, she was taken aback by the ease with which he was letting her go, and she suddenly thought that maybe she’d miscalculated. But she would probably never have another opportunity like this—with Mimi safely on her way to the airport and Selden at work—and biting her lip, she said, “I haven’t decided. Where are you going?”
“I’m going to walk home. I love to walk in New York City.”
“Do you?” she said, with surprise. “I do, too.” There was, in fact, nothing she liked less, having spent most of her early years in New York having to walk because she couldn’t afford taxis and was frightened of the subway. But if she had to walk in order to get him to seduce her, she would. “I’m going that way, too,” she said. “We can walk together.”
They set off up Madison Avenue. He was so tall, and good-looking, and, catching their reflection in a shop window, she was struck by what a perfect couple they made. If she were with Zizi instead of Selden, she thought, how much more glamorous her life would be, for there was nothing the public loved more than a beautiful young couple. They would be invited everywhere, and would probably become part of the young, international jet set, going to parties at Elton John’s castle in En-gland and on Valentino’s yacht in the South of France . . .
Then she suddenly remembered that he had no money and, laughing to herself, was struck by the fact that all her fantasies about him were just that—fantasies. If they were together, they would probably be living in her apartment, squeezed into four hundred square feet like two mice stuck in a shoe box.
She
would be the one buying him clothes and spending her precious money on $20,000 gold watches, although if he were with her, she thought, glancing up at him out of the corner of her eye, she would make sure he didn’t have the opportunity to cheat . . . And suddenly, she was struck afresh by the offensiveness of his behavior: At the very least, he should have the decency to act like a woman, and be faithful to the person who was supporting him . . .
As usual, the conversation between them seemed to have dried up. If she was going to get him into bed, she was obviously going to have to make more of an 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 163
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effort. Matching her step to his, she asked sarcastically, “Exactly what do you do in New York, Zizi? Besides going to clubs, that is. After all, there aren’t any horses here . . .”
“I’m about to start traveling for the
patrón
,” he said. And then, in a joking voice that contained a trace of sexual innuendo, asked, “Will you miss me?” This was reassuring, Janey thought; he was clearly one of those men who liked to think that every woman had him on her mind. “Oh yes,” she said, nodding her head and taking up his tone. “I’ll miss you terribly.”
“Good,” he said. “Then I will be sure to return to New York.” Ha! she thought. Was he really so stupid that he actually believed she would think he would come back to New York for
her
? Why, they hardly knew each other.
But apparently, he couldn’t help himself . . .
“Well, whenever you come back, Zizi, you know I’ll be waiting,” she said. Her tone was bantering, but the look in her eyes suggested that she knew there was something between them—at any moment, she was sure he would make a pass . . .
But instead, he frowned, and looking straight ahead as if there were something that interested him in the distance, he picked up the pace. After a momentary silence, he asked, “Where do you live now?”
“Oh. In a hotel,” she said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice.
“On Sixty-third Street.”
“Here we are then,” he said courteously. “I suppose this is where I leave you.” She looked up in annoyance and saw that they had indeed reached her corner; across the street was the familiar Roberto Cavalli store, with its mannequins dressed in sumptuous silk and fur dresses; next to her was the newsstand where she bought her magazines. She had to stall for time, and there was no way she could invite him up to her place. Walking to the newsstand, she called over her shoulder, “Do you mind? I just want to get a paper . . .”
She mustn’t let him get away, she thought; and yet, the way he was shifting his feet seemed to indicate that he was longing to escape from her. Of course, he would
have
to act like that; to pretend that he wasn’t interested . . . After all, she was Mimi’s best friend. He was like most men, then: He would pretend to himself that it wasn’t his fault; that what had happened was out of his control; therefore, all he needed was an excuse. Pretending to look for a magazine, her eye fell on the
Star,
which was hanging from a clip attached to a string. The banner across the top read:
“Rock Star’s Wife Breaking Up the Band,” and it was yet another installment of the Digger and Patty debacle, which the
Star
had picked up and now followed weekly like an ongoing soap opera. Janey had already read the story, which was about how Patty had gone to meet Digger on tour (true) and was watching him like a hawk, not allowing him to hang out with the other band members (probably not true), but 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 164
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she suddenly saw that she had her solution. Emitting a small scream of shock, she snatched the magazine from the clip. For a second, she felt a tiny bit guilty about using her sister’s misfortune to further her own means, but then she justified it by thinking that it was only fitting to use a cheater to catch a cheater.
Her maneuver had its desired effect, and in a second, Zizi was by her side, with his arm around her shoulder as he asked what the matter was. She turned away, and in a voice that was near tears, said, “It’s too awful . . . too embarrassing to talk about . . .”
“Hey. Are you going to pay for that?” the proprietor asked.
“If it’s so terrible, perhaps you shouldn’t read it,” Zizi said, pulling her away.
“Oh no. I have to,” Janey said, staring up at him with wide eyes. “It’s about my sister. My poor, sweet sister, who never did anything wrong . . .” Zizi’s face was filled with concern; without taking his eyes off her he measured out the required change. “Are you okay?” he asked, taking her arm and bending his head down to hers.
She shook her head. “I . . . I think I might faint. I really feel like I should sit down . . .”
“I’ll take you to your hotel. It must be right near here . . .”
“Oh no. I
couldn’t,
” she said forcefully. “It’s very stuffy and proper . . . They’ll all wonder what’s wrong, and then they’ll read
this
. . . And then Selden and I might be asked to leave . . .”
“Because of a story in a paper? I doubt that,” he said. “What is this paper anyway?”
He was trying to be reassuring, Janey thought, but really, he was just being stupid. Why was it taking him so long to get with the program? Clutching his arm to steady herself, she said, “I’ll explain it all later . . . I just need to go somewhere to think . . .”
“I’m sure there’s a coffee shop up the street,” he said, patting her gloved hand.
“I need someplace quiet . . . where there are no other people around,” she said, placing her free hand over his. Looking up at him with plaintive eyes, she asked:
“Would you mind if we went back to your apartment? That is, if you’re not expecting anyone . . .”
Ten minutes later, she was following Zizi up the dirty narrow stairs that led to her old apartment—a small one-bedroom on the third floor of an ancient brownstone on East Sixty-seventh Street. As she stared at his muscular bottom, she marveled at how well those tried and true methods of female manipulation worked on men, especially, she thought, on a man like Zizi, who wasn’t, in her opinion, particularly smart. She knew that nowadays, most women felt they were above using feminine 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 165
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wiles, but Janey had no such scruples, especially when the deployment of these tac-tics made it almost pathetically easy to get what she wanted. Without thinking about it, Zizi had hailed a taxi and bundled her into it, and during the short cab ride, she’d sat with her leg touching his, as she’d explained what had happened to Patty. He was incensed; striding up the stairs in front of her, he was moving with the purpose of a man on a mission. And then, on the second-floor landing, he suddenly turned around and she almost bumped into him.
His handsome face was slightly twisted in pain, as if the effort of thinking were almost too much for him. “But how do you know?” he asked.
“Know what?” Janey said.
“That he
is
guilty. How do you know that Digger isn’t telling the truth? That maybe this girl is lying . . .”
Oh God, Janey thought. She hoped he wasn’t going to bang on about Patty and Digger all afternoon; if he did, it might make it really difficult to get him into bed.
“Well, Patty certainly seems to believe him,” she said, brushing past him in the hope that he would follow her—she had a feeling if she didn’t keep him moving, they might get stuck talking in the stairwell—“but then again, she’s in love with him.”