A Kept Woman (15 page)

‘What a stunning garden. Diana really excelled herself,’ she coped as she settled opposite him.

‘Yeah, I s’pose she did. Want a juice?’

Ernie lifted the pitcher of squeezed blood oranges and made to pour them for her. He felt slightly adrift; he didn’t know quite the right thing to say, the way Di always did. This girl’s sharp spikes were in his face, though. He couldn’t concentrate. Ernie glanced admiringly at her long talons, blood-red, just like Mira Chen’s. Mmmh. Not bad.

‘Thank you. I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve come?’

‘The thought ]aad crossed my mind. Though it’s a pleasure to see you,’ Ernie added, as gallantly as he could.

‘I hope - I hope you won’t think I’m being forward if I asked you to keep what I tell you in the strictest confidence,’ Felicity purred.

Ernie perked up. Good, she was gonna spill the beans on something valuable.

‘Not in the least. I’m very discreet, and I like my friends to be, too. As far as I’m concerned this nice breakfast never happened.’

II

‘I hoped you’d see it like that,’ Felicity murmured. ‘To be honest, I didn’t know who else I should turn to. But I’m rather worried about dear Diana, and I thought you should know what people are saying.’

Ernie’s brows knitted together and he leant forward on his wrought-iron seat. ‘And what, exactly, are people saying, Felicity?’

Ernie stormed into his office, flinging his coat at a quailing Marcia.

‘What’s the schedule for today?’ he demanded.

‘You have Goldman Sachs at ten thirty, lunch with Dom Floyd from—’

‘Never mind. Just print it off and bring it in here. With

coffee. And hurry up,’ Ernie snapped.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And get me last month’s sales breakdown by region. What are you waiting for?’

Marcia sensed his mood and fled with a muttered apology. Ernie slammed his inner door and flung himself i6to his dark leather chair, spinning as it swivelled, murderously angry.

Thankfully Felicity had laad the sense actually to come to him. What would he have done if she hadn’t told him what was going on? Ernie loved gossip; but he absolutely hated gossip that was directed at him. What bloody right did Diana have to go around whining and mouthing off to a bunch of New York tarts like Jodie Goodfriend and Natasha Zuckerman? Their husbands would be laughing at him over lunch at their clubs today. Probably by now the story had gone all round New York. Ernie had no doubt at all that he’d be reading about it in the gossip columns at some stage this week. He looked out of his huge windows at the stone forest of midtown. Full of people who might be reading about him … discussing him … laughing at him.

“I2.2.

Ernie had found it hard going at first, climbing the New York ladder. His social life had been the answer: Diana and Ernie, the new golden couple in town. I’m a good husband, Ernie thought. She spends for England and I never say a word but the first little problem, and she’s washing our dirty laundry in some downtown caf4, making me look ridiculous.

He could just see the headlines. ‘“Princess” Diana in Marriage Mess!’ His lovely faqade shattered for no reason. It wasn’t like Diana actually enjoyed sex, or that he’d showed her up in public - he’d never taken Mira to any of their habitual restaurants, or squired the bitch to some public function. If Diana felt she’d had a problem, she could have come to him, couldn’t she? But noooooo, Ernie though, t, angrily, to himself. Not to me, to some clique of witches which is as good as taking out a frontpage ad in’the New York Times.

He swivelled round on his ergonomic chair and.sipped his flagrant coffee, served up by Marcia in a Limoges cup. It did nothing to soothe him. What were riches and power if you looked ridiculous?

In five minutes of brooding, Ernie had convinced himself that he was the victim. He was the one who had been played falsely. That silly little cow. Diana was a fucking embarrassment.

He pulled a report on distribution out of his desk drawer and went through it with a yellow magic marker, slashing whole sections and finding extra places where they could lay off workers and boost profits. How this frigging company had survived so long without going under was a mystery to him. It carried so much fat, and for what? For a so-called gilt-edged reputation? The only things he wanted round him gilt-edged were his stocks, Ernie mused. Anyway. Back to the current problem, one more damn thing he had to worry about. He had a PR department here that took care of press problems for “

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him, and it was highly paid and effective. Diana was his at-home PR department, except that she’d now be getting him exactly the kind of attention he spent a fortune’ avoiding.

Why couldn’t she be more understanding? That was the question. Ernie brooded angrily. Marcia came back in with the sales report and he snatched it from her without a word. Who was Diana kidding, exactly? There had been an unspoken agreement between them from day one as to what this marriage was going to be. It wasn’t that many girls who were kept in the lap of luxury without ever having to lift a finger, was it? Sex with Diana had been OK at first, but it was boring as hell now. She wasn’t a fit match for him.

I work hard to keep that little cow in the style of a fucking movie star, Ernie thought. Least I should be entitled to is a little fun. All on the down note, no scandal, nothing.

He thought of Felicity. She was a good mate, that girl. Felt he should be warned, but didn’t say a word against Diana. She’d made lots of jokes, like she didn’t believe the story Diana dreamed up, but if it was true, who really cared? What had she said? ‘A wife does one job, a mistress another. That may seem very European to you, I suppose—’ and laughed. Ernie wasn’t sure exactly where the Yanks got the idea that in Europe every married man had a mistress and it was socially acceptable - from what he could tell it was exactly the opposite - it was the New York way of doing things. But he liked Felicity’s joke, and he agreed with her. Got her head screwed on, that broad. Who was she married to? Couldn’t recall. Come to think of it, he didn’t recall a wedding ring either. He’d have to look her up. Marcia kept a Rolodex out there with a few choice facts about everybody he knew. That way, if Joe Bloggs called, he could ask about baby Janie Bloggs or his recent fly-fishing vacation in Canada and

give a good impression of somebody who actually gave a fuck.

He thought he might give Felicity a little Rolex. Just ‘a thank you. At least he had a chance of containing the damage now. Yesterday night he’d felt bad when Diana asked him about it. Now, wounded, angry, victimised, Ernie burned with indignation. He’d have to have a little heart to heart with her and lay down the law.

‘Marcia,’ he said, pressing his buzzer to the outer office, ‘get me Mira Chert on the phone. See if you can fit in a PR meeting with her about five p.m.’

‘Yes, Mr Foxton,’ Marcia said, carefully neutral. Ernie breathed out. It was the best he’d felt all day. And anyway, if Diana didn’t like it, it was his way or the highway.

Diana stumbled as she pushed open the door that divided her tiny cubicle from Susan Katz’s small, neat office. Oh bugger, bugger! There went another strap. That was a five-hundred-dollar pair of shoes ruined, just ruined! She looked down at the nail of her right forefinger and saw that it was damaged. Chipped! What was the point of finding the best manicurist in town and waiting for weeks on an appointment and then walking around with a chipped nail? She felt like crying. Her mascara had smudged so badly from her perspiration she’d had to wipe it off, her ankles were swollen from all this ridiculous running around, and she was up and down fetching everybody’s coffee like some sixteen-year-old waitress.

The phone on her desk trilled annoyingly.

‘Just a minute,’ Diana called out towards Susan Katz, who had just buzzed her - again. She snatched up the phone. ‘Green Eggs, Mr Cicero’s office.’

Damn. It was so humiliating, having to say that. Michael Cicero acted like he was Julius Caesar. Of

course assistants did do that but not her, not Diana Foxton. Being a working woman was more work than she was used to.

‘Diana! Darling, it’s me, Claire.’

Diana bit her plump lip as a new blush rocked over her. Oh, man. Claire at least ran her little design business. Now she would know just how lowly a position Diana had taken.

‘How are you? I heard you got a new job.’

‘If you can call it that.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Claire chuckled warmly, in a way that reminded Diana of Milla. ‘Practically everybody starts out as a secretary. It can lead on to great things, you know. And the top assistants make a lot of money. Josh would be lost without his.’

‘Well, it’s only temporary.’ Just until Ernie starts to miss me. ‘I was getting a bit bored,’ Diana lied furiously.

‘Good for you. I knew you had too many brains to be out there as a professional shopper, like those wretched Miller-girls.’

Diana’s fist clenched. She had done just fine as a ‘professional shopper’.

‘That’s so sweet of you, Claire, but I’ve got to dash. My boss is buzzing me.’

‘Take care. And congratulations,’ Claire said warmly. Diana hung up and hurried into Susan’s room.

‘You buzzed me, Susan?’ Diana asked, annoyed. She was in the middle of filing endless vacation rosters. Susan had buzzed her five minutes ago, too. What could be so important?

‘Yes,’ Susan said, coolly, and with evident enjoyment. Bitch. Bitch! Diana thought, but not out loud, as that loathsome Michael had told her Susan Katz was her immediate boss. More like Catty than Katz. Susan Catty. Kit-Catty, Diana thought. ‘I wanted another herbal tea when you’re ready.’

I’m just doing this filing, right now. Why don’t you get your own tea?’ Diana snapped.

‘Do you have a problem you’d like to discuss with Mr

Cicero?’ Susan asked sweetly.

‘No. That’s fine.’

‘Whenever you’re ready then. That’ll be all,’ Susan said, waving her away dismissively.

Diana glanced at her watch. Could it really only be z p.m.? Was it worth it? There had to be some better way to get Ernie’s attention.

‘

Susan watched Diana go and scowled at her departing back. Unbelievable. She had worked for Michael day in, day out, before they got these flash new offices and the sales reps and the commissioning editors, and she had been indispensable. She’d done more than filing and typing: she’d organised his entire life. She’d dressed so carefully, too, and never once protested at the long hours and the total lack of flirtation from him, the handsome bastard. And now this.

Who the hell was Diana Foxton that she should just swan in here? Who ever heard of a twenty-nineyear-old Girl Friday? Susan hated her already. That marvellously sdnsual shirtdress with the lining - pure silk, of course beautifully belted, a sort of Forces look, like a feisty World War Two heroine. Did anybody have the right to be so lovely?

Susan didn’t kid herself about Diana’s beauty. She knew exactly the kind of girl Diana was - not model perfect, because despite the evident amounts of hard cash that had gone into making her skin, teeth and hair as shiny as a prize racehorse’s, she would never fit the rail thin Gwyneth Paltrow ideal of boyish beauty. But the old-fashioned kind of man, the type, in fact, that despite her boyfriend Susan was becoming more and more afraid she really liked - that kind of man would be attracted to Diana like a nail to a magnet.

As a woman considering a rival, Susan watched Diana move down the corridor, stumbling on her silly heels, and

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assessed her. Great ass. Susan went jogging in the Park for hours and lifted weights with her heels and she would never get a high, tight rounded butt like that. Did Diafia have to walk with that wiggle? At least that was probably the heels. And her cheeks and lips! Susan wore neutral make-up, too, but she never managed to make it look like Diana’s, like there was just a whisper of colour on her cheeks, like her skin was just naturally, softly glowing…

I’d have assumed Michael was fucking her, Susan thought angrily, except that he doesn’t screw around in the office, and that now there’s that Iris chick - oh yeah, and Lady Diana here is married to the big boss of Blakely’s.

Of course,, that had to be it. It wasn’t that Diana was Michael’s latest toy, it was that her husband had given them all this extra cash and clout. Michael was doing some kind of favour for Ernie Foxton.

Susan resented Iris - but there were obvious reasons for that. She didn’t really know why she loathed this stuck-up little madam so much. At least Diana no longer looked quite as polished, quite as perfect, as she had prior to all the filing Susan had her do. She lifted the neatly printed-off dress code that Diana had written up, pointing out her own violations. Flat shoes. Minimal make-up for female employees. NO jewellery other than a watch, signet and marital rings, plus any religious items. Skirt length was to be on or below the knee. Judging from that shirtdress, Mrs Foxton was a fashion plate. There was no question but that she’d quit. Flat shoes? Fat chance.

Susan worked hard and shared an apartment with four other girls, and Diana was doing this job solely to pose and—

The buzzer on her desk sounded.

‘Susan, could you bring me in the bookseller reports, please?’

I29

‘Coming, Mr Cicero,’ she said, her spirits rising.

Diana sat in the file room and brushed angry tears off the end of her nose. No way was she going to let the vile Susan see her like this. Or any of the other people in the office. Jake Harold was the new commissioning editor, and there was Rachel Lilly, the distribution chief,-and Felix Custer in business affairs, and Michael. Diana cordially detested all of them; barking orders at her, telling her to do this and do that, no matter what else she was trying to finish. Rachel, Felix and Jake all had assistants and all the assistants were absolutely hateful too. Well. Diana dabbed the end of her sleeve to her eyes and put down her load of filing. Filing was really beastly, nasty stuff; but it would have to wait, because Suan Katz wanted her herbal tea.