“Really?” he said, as if he didn’t believe her. “You’ll have to let me read it.”
“Oh, I
will,
” she said.
They looked at each other, locked in a stalemate—after all, Bill couldn’t prove that she hadn’t written the screenplay—and Janey took a step forward as if to signal that the conversation was over. But then she had another shock: Coming toward them and completely unaware of their presence was Comstock Dibble himself, deep in conversation on his cell phone. In a few seconds, he would reach the balustrade and be a mere three feet away, and Janey knew that Bill was just vicious enough to mention her screenplay to him.
And what would Comstock say? She looked around for an escape, but she was trapped—wedged between a flowering fruit tree and the balustrade, she could either knock Bill over or jump over the railing.
Bill caught the look of distress on her face and turned around to see what was bothering her. Comstock still had no idea they were there. His face was red with anger, and he was covered in his usual coating of thick sweat. In a raised voice, he said, “If they think they can pull this kind of crap on me, they’ve got another thing coming . . . I’ll fuck with their kids, for Christ’s sake.” Snapping his cell phone shut, he suddenly turned and saw them.
His eyes narrowed and his lips pulled back into a vicious grin, revealing two front teeth separated by a large gap; Janey had a secret theory that his mother drank when she was pregnant and that Comstock Dibble, who wasn’t more than five feet, six inches tall, had suffered from fetal alcohol syndrome. And then, in mounting confusion, she saw that his smile wasn’t for her, but for Bill, and that he wasn’t even going to acknowledge her.
“Westacott,” Comstock said, holding out his hand. “My buddies at Universal tell me you did a great job with that screenplay.” Bill suddenly morphed into the Hollywood professional, folding his arms and standing with his legs spread apart, so that he no longer towered over Comstock.
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“They’ve just given it the green light,” Bill said. “Rupert Jackson’s agreed to star . . .”
“Really?” Comstock said. “I love Rupert and he’s a fine actor, but you’ll have a hard time getting him out of bed before eleven . . .”
“I’ve heard that,” Bill said. And then Janey, unable to contain herself any longer, said defiantly, “I’ve just had a long talk with him, and I think he’s a doll . . .” As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she realized how stupid they sounded, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t going to stand there, being ignored, and she looked from one man to the other with an expression on her face as if daring them to challenge her.
Bill looked at her with mild surprise, but Comstock regarded her blankly, as if he had never seen her before and had no idea she actually talked. “Well . . . ?” she said, faltering. And then Bill, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice, said,
“Comstock, you know the lovely and talented Janey Wilcox, don’t you?”
“I’ve never had the pleasure,” he said. His words were mild enough, but the expression on his face said, If you fuck with me, I’ll break your kneecaps.
He held out his hand and Janey, shaking with anger, took it. How dare he do this to her, and especially in front of Bill, who
knew
that they’d had an affair. She was still in the process of forming a retort when Comstock’s cell phone rang, and turning away as if there were nothing going on beyond the usual burdens of being a high-powered movie producer, he said to Bill, “Sorry, the office. They never leave you alone, no matter where you are.”
“Time difference,” Bill said. “Try Australia.”
“I
have,
” Comstock said, and holding the cell phone up to his ear, he barked,
“Yeah?” into it and began strolling away.
All Janey could think was that Comstock was getting away scot free, and she took a step toward him, intending to give him a piece of her mind. But Bill stopped her; as she expected, as soon as Comstock was out of earshot, he began making fun of her. “Didn’t you have sex with him?” he asked mockingly. “What the hell did you do to him—bite his penis?”
A dozen nasty responses flittered through her mind, but Janey caught his expression and hesitated. He was taking too much pleasure in her obvious distress, and instinct told her that an angry display was exactly what he was hoping for.
Lowering her head and pouting like a wounded child, she stared up at him through long dark lashes.
Faced with this display of female submissiveness, Bill’s protective male instincts kicked in, and he gently put his arm around her shoulders. “Come on, Wilcox,” he said. “I was just kidding, and everyone knows Comstock is an asshole. There’s no point in bothering with men like that unless you have to, and besides, you’re too good to have sex with such a disgusting little fart anyway . . .” 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 31
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“I’m not upset,” she insisted. And then, suddenly feeling that Bill was the one person who could understand, she blurted out, “I only slept with him because I thought it would be good for business!”
Bill’s face registered surprise at her unexpected candor, and he laughed. “I can’t say I agree with you,” he said. “But that’s probably the most honest thing you’ve said in years.”
Janey glared at him, suddenly realizing she’d been caught. After all, she’d officially convinced herself that she was in love with Comstock, and she’d probably told Bill the same thing. “If you’re implying that I’m a liar . . . ,” she said.
“Oh, I’m not implying anything. I’m stating it as fact,” Bill said. “You are a liar, and worst of all, you lie to yourself . . .”
“My goodness. You two look like you’re embroiled in a lovers’ quarrel,” Mimi said, coming up behind them.
Janey gave Bill a dirty look, furious that they’d been caught unawares in such an obviously intimate conversation. Bill was dangerous; in the future she’d have to be careful not to let him back her into a corner—after all, she’d let him do it before and every time they’d ended up in bed. But Bill wasn’t fazed: He casually stuck his hands in his pockets and, leaning back against the railing, said, “Janey and I are old friends. We always fight like brother and sister.” Mimi gave Janey a sympathetic look. “And that, I’m afraid, is Bill’s definition of friendship,” she said. “He’s been fighting with me since we were in the sandbox together as kids.”
“That’s only because you wouldn’t let me play with your shovels,” Bill said.
“You were a bully then, and you haven’t changed a bit,” Mimi retorted. “In any case, I’ve come to tell you that we’re sitting down to dinner . . . Janey, you’re next to Selden Rose . . .”
At the name Selden Rose, Bill suddenly smirked. “Janey will eat him for breakfast,” he said.
“Oh, Bill. Stop it,” Mimi said, giving him a warning look. And then, with a glance that indicated that Janey should follow her, she said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with Bill. He seems to get more and more bitter every year. Do you think he has money problems?”
Janey had no idea, as she’d only known Bill for two years, and he had always been this way. But there was no reason to tell Mimi this, so she said, “I think Bill just hates women, period.”
Mimi stopped and looked at her in surprise. “You know, I think you’re absolutely right.”
“I’m sure it has a lot to do with his wife,” Janey said, giving Mimi a meaningful look.
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Mimi smiled and, in a conspiratorial gesture, took Janey’s arm. “I’m sure it does,” she whispered. “Poor Helen. She used to be such a nice girl . . .” And as they entered the dining room together, the sting of that embarrassing encounter with Comstock and Bill began to fade. After all, for tonight anyway there was no one more important in the room than Mimi Kilroy—and Mimi was treating her as if she were one of her very best girlfriends. And her pleasure was complete when Mimi indicated a place in the center of the room and said, “We’re right here, Janey. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve seated you at my table.” 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 33
t h r e e
three day s l ater, at just after one o’clock in the afternoon, Patty Wilcox was sitting on a bench outside the Ralph Lauren store in East Hampton, waiting for her sister, Janey, to show up.
Patty wondered why, when she knew Janey would be late, she had rushed to leave the house so that she would be at the store at precisely one o’clock, which was the time they’d agreed to meet. It wasn’t, she thought, looking fruitlessly down the street, because she thought Janey might actually be on time. But rather that when Janey spoke, Patty jumped. Theirs was a typical big sister–little sister relationship, and there were times when Patty was just a little bit afraid of Janey . . .
That morning, at eleven o’clock, Janey had called her up, and in her usual cheery voice, which implied that everything in
her
life was just fantastic, thank you very much, asked Patty if she wanted to go shopping that afternoon.
“I don’t know,” Patty said hesitantly. “I’m not sure it’s appropriate.” Janey’s laugh indicated that Patty was being ridiculous. “You don’t have to
buy
anything.”
“It’s not that,” Patty said. “I’m just not sure if I should be seen out shopping right now.”
“It’s not like you have photographers following you around, Patty. I mean, no one’s going to know who
you
are.”
No, Patty thought, but they
would
know who Janey was, and although Patty had no evidence of this, it crossed her mind that Janey was entirely capable of calling up one of the gossip columnists and telling them that Digger’s wife, who had been bilked out of a million dollars by Peter Cannon, was out shopping at Ralph 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 34
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Lauren. And then, as she always did when she thought bad things about Janey, Patty felt guilty, and the guilty part of her found itself agreeing to meet Janey at one o’clock. And now, hungry and slightly annoyed, Patty looked around and thought about getting an ice cream cone.
But then she realized she couldn’t do that either, because if Janey walked up and saw Patty eating an ice cream cone, she would give her “the look.” And on that particular day, with all the other stuff she was coping with, Patty didn’t need to be made aware of her shortcomings. Far better to go hungry than to be reminded—by Janey—of the fact that she probably
did
need to lose five or ten pounds.
Of course, Digger wouldn’t agree. Staring up the street toward the movie theater (
Bag o’ Bones,
one of Comstock’s films, was playing), she thought about how Digger was always telling her to stand up to her sister. But she wasn’t particularly thrilled with Digger at the moment, and besides, Digger didn’t know Janey as well as she did. Digger was the only person she’d ever met who seemed to be mysteriously immune to Janey’s charms—and while she had to admit that if that weren’t one of the reasons she had married him, it was certainly one of the things that had made her like him, it also meant that Digger could never understand the way she really felt about Janey. The truth was that while she was sometimes afraid
of
Janey, she was also equally afraid
for
her.
There was something very seductive about her, but it was a dangerous sort of seduction, because inevitably Janey had a way of damaging anyone who became involved with her. It was a fact of which Janey appeared to be blissfully unaware, and there were times when Patty couldn’t help wishing that something bad would happen to Janey and she would learn her lesson, although she wasn’t exactly sure what that lesson should be. And then she would feel guilty, because Janey was her sister, and you shouldn’t feel that way about a sibling.
But even as a child, Janey hadn’t been what was considered normal, Patty thought, standing up and peering down the street in vain. There had always been a supreme indifference about Janey: Every summer at the country club, while the other kids were swimming and playing tennis, Janey, who was fat and not athletic and didn’t like being seen in a bathing suit (now
that
was ironic), would sit at a picnic table in the woods, playing cards. Other kids tried to be friends with her, but Janey would dismiss them with a cutting remark.
And so it wasn’t really surprising that the whole family had been relieved when Janey had been accepted into the Ford modeling agency at sixteen. That first summer, Janey had been gone for three months, and Patty remembered it as the best summer of her life—she’d won the twelve-and-under state championship in swimming—and for once, no one in their family was fighting. And then the following summer, Janey had supposedly gone away for good. But eventually that seemed to 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:22 PM Page 35
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go all wrong as well, although nobody in the family ever talked about it or said why, including Janey. All Patty knew was that she would never forget the end of that second summer, when Janey was eighteen and had come back from the South of France as different as if she’d gone to another planet and returned an alien. She had Louis Vuitton suitcases and designer clothes from France and Italy, she had handbags from Chanel and shoes from Manolo Blahnik, and in the afternoons, she would show Patty her things and tell her how much they had cost. Patty remembered that one handbag alone had cost $2,000, and when she looked scared, Janey had told her—in that new voice she’d developed with the fake European accent—
that life wasn’t worth living if you couldn’t have the best it had to offer.
Patty returned to the bench with a sigh. Being a Monday afternoon in June, the main street in East Hampton wasn’t particularly crowded, but Patty was beginning to feel uncomfortable. A Mercedes passed, and then a Range Rover and a Lexus; it seemed that nobody in the Hamptons had a car that cost less than $100,000. She reminded herself that her own Mercedes was equally expensive, but that did little to prevent her from feeling like an interloper who, try as she might, never really felt like she belonged in this scene. It was just like the Mercedes, which Digger had paid for, and therefore wasn’t really hers.