Birthday Girls (15 page)

She owed
Kris big-time. She’d give anything to find a willing father for Kris’s baby, or, at the very least, an able doctor who could make it happen for her friend.

Abigail stood on the terrace outside her private office at Hardy Enterprises on the twenty-eighth floor overlooking Wail Street. At first, Edmund had thought she was insane to insist that the envy of every hostess should be ensconced on Wall Street; he’d even tried to convince her to renovate a wing at Windsor-on-Hudson. But she’d learned from Grandfather and his father before him that image was everything on the road to success, and that this was after all a business.

She had been right. The corporation, now worth over 200 million dollars, was taken far more seriously perched, as it was, in the nest of world economy.

Gazing across the concrete-and-steel landscape, she buttoned her coat against the chilling breeze and realized if only she’d listened to Edmund, it would be easier to get out.

She took a last look past the buildings, beyond to the river, then retreated from the terrace to the warmth of her office.

At the black-lacquered, gold-etched Japanese sideboard, she poured her fifth cup of black coffee this morning, lit a cigarette, and tried to revel in the thought that next year at this time, thanks to Kris, she would be … different.
Twenty thousand dollars, a mere pittance, would assure her of that. She blew out a stream of smoke and wondered what her name would be, what she’d be doing, and where she would go.

The one long, two short raps on her door told Abigail that Larry was there. She stubbed out her cigarette and waved the smoke away. Since an AIDS scare last spring, Larry had become obsessed with his health.

“Come in, Larry.”

Looking more frazzled than usual, Larry stomped into the office and dropped onto the sofa. She wondered if his eager young lover was taking as much from his hide as he was from his wallet.

“Rupert’s is hinting at five million,” Larry said. “I think we should push for ten.”

The largest remaining chain of independent department stores wanted to develop an “Abigail” line: dishes, cookware, serving pieces, linens, even coordinating fabrics and wallpaper—all custom-designed for her “look” of elegance, all instrumental in her empire’s ongoing takeover of the culinary modern world. She supposed it wouldn’t matter if she agreed to the contract; it would be null and void if Abigail Hardy had vanished—if she were missing-and-presumed dead. But signing it would be one more thread that would need untangling, one more problem for Larry, who already would have more than his share. Maybe she could put Rupert’s off.

Crossing the room, she sat in the white Queen Anne chair behind her desk. “No commitments until I see prototypes,” she said.

Larry sighed. “If you can get them up to ten, I say commit now and worry about the designs later.”

She knew he was thinking about the money. Loyal though he was, Larry was human. And humans had an instinct for greed, especially when there was a money-hungry
lover to impress, a good-looking,
young
, money-hungry lover to try and keep. The sooner the Rupert’s contracts were signed, sealed, and delivered, the sooner Larry received his chunk—15 percent, the amount of stock he held in her private corporation. Greedy or not, Larry deserved more compensation for all his hard work. Abigail mused that she really must think of a way to funnel some additional funds toward him after her demise. A way that was easier than committing to Rupert’s.

“Prototypes first,” she said. “Deals later.”

He said nothing, his eyes riveted on the golden statue—the Emmy—that stood on her desk, a symbol of her TV show’s success. Then he crossed his legs and rubbed his foot. “Whatever you say.” Shifting his gaze, he focused on the laces of his sneakers. “Something else has come up, Abigail.”

Guilt flashed. Her face flushed. Was it possible he had learned of her plan?

“I had a call from Sondra. Your stepdaughter.”

The pink eased from her cheeks. Of course he hadn’t learned anything. No one but Maddie and Kris knew. Maddie and Kris and that man, Mo Gilbert. She twisted the locket around her wrist. “I forgot to tell you. Find her a job, okay?”

“She has no experience.”

“I don’t care if she sweeps up after the food stylist. Just find something, and keep her out of my way.”

“How much money?”

Abigail shrugged. She could not, after all, tell him it didn’t matter; that in a short time there would be no TV show, no job for Sondra or, even worse, for Larry. “Pay her enough to keep her from bothering me. Not enough to set her up on Park Avenue.”

“She’s pregnant.”

“Yes, Larry. I know.” Abigail hated it when Larry tried
to “mother” her. No matter how much she trusted him with her business, she no longer wanted him privy to every aspect of her life. There had been a few times—once in particular—when she’d confided in Larry, an act she’d quickly come to regret. Gay men, she’d learned, were simply too emotional, no matter how well they meant. Suddenly she had an idea. “Larry, what’s the worst part about being a homosexual?”

He laughed a stiff laugh. “Probably being asked questions like that.”

“Sorry,” she said, leaning forward, “but this is important. What is it? Is it not having a family?”

“I have Grady.”

Cute though Grady was, he did not look old enough to be able to have an erection, let alone be anyone’s father. “But you have no children.”

He doodled petals of daisies on his yellow notepad. “Well Jesus, Abigail, neither do you.”

“Touché. But doesn’t it bother you, Larry? That you and Grady …”

“Does it bother you? That you don’t?”

“It’s my choice. You don’t have a choice.”

“Grady and I could adopt. The rules are changing.”

“It doesn’t seem as if it would be the same, though. Not like fathering your own.”

“We’ve talked about getting a surrogate. About having both our sperm implanted. It could even be twins. One for each of us.”

Abigail couldn’t, didn’t want to, imagine what it was like to be gay. A gay man in—no matter what anyone claimed—a very un-gay world. “I don’t think that’s the way it happens.”

“I know, but it’s fun to dream. So what’s with you? Don’t tell me
you
want to have a baby.”

Abigail shook her head. “I have a friend who does. She’s looking for someone to get her pregnant.”

“You mean, as in the old-fashioned way? I didn’t think anyone did that anymore.”

“Some do, or so I’m told. I think she’d be willing to pay you a considerable amount of money.” Money, she did not add, that could supplement him when she disappeared and he was unemployed.

Larry shook his head. “If I’m going to father some kid, I’ll be a real father, not just a sperm carrier. Now, can we go over the script for this week’s show? I’ve got a million things to take care of.”

Abigail leaned back in her chair and nodded, deciding she might as well continue as though nothing were going to change. After all, for now she was stuck here, in the tower of Wall Street. She folded her hands and decided she must think of another route for Kris.

When their
meeting was over, Larry left Abigail’s office and crossed the hall into his own. He ran his fingers through his prematurely thinning hair and wondered what Abigail would do if she knew how much he hated his job, how much he detested her, and how every time he looked at that god-awful Emmy that sat on her desk—
mocking him
—he fought off the urge to vomit.

True, it had been a few years since
Entertaining with Abigail
had won the award. But he’d never forgiven her—how the hell could he?—for not putting his name on the entry. His name, Larry Kaminski, the one who produced her damn show, the one who did all the fucking work.

His mother had been so excited.

“All my friends will be here to watch the show,” she’d said from the small shingled bungalow in Brooklyn Heights where Larry had been raised. “Gladys is bringing a potato salad, and Fern’s making that green bean casserole thing. I’m baking a ham and we’re having our very own Emmy
party. Imagine! My son, winning an Emmy! Oh, Lawrence, I’m so proud of you.”

His mother had always been proud of him, had always said it didn’t matter that his father left them when he was only five, because they had each other and what more did they need. When he won his first swim meet in the fourth grade, she’d hung a huge banner in their front window for the neighbors to see; when he played clarinet in the junior high school band, she had him give “special performances” in their postage stamp-size backyard for her friends. And when he was fifteen and told her he thought he was gay, she said she’d always known he was more sensitive than other boys, and that he would probably become a fashion designer. Or a decorator. Or one of those hairdressers who worked on Fifth Avenue.

She had never not believed in him.

“I’m going to dedicate my Emmy to you, Mom,” Larry said.

“Oh, Larry, you’re such a wonderful son,” she replied, with tears in her voice. “I just know you’ll win.”

Of course, he had not won. Well, in reality, he had; but Abigail had stolen the glory and only thanked her nameless assistant along with about a hundred other people as she grinned on the television screen in his mother’s living room.

For Larry, the anger had never subsided. It had grown even deeper when his mother died and along with her went his chance to prove she’d been right to be proud.

Yet he’d kept working for Abigail, kept letting her use him, hoping someday she’d be sorry, hoping someday she’d get what was coming to her. Besides, the money was good—too good to pass up—for a skinny kid from the Heights.

But now, for chrissakes, she wanted his
sperm
.

Not in your life
, he muttered.

On trembling legs he walked to his desk and picked
up the silver-framed photo of Grady taken last month on Fire Island. He knew his problems would be over if he didn’t have such rich tastes in boys, and in boys who tasted so rich.

For now, he had to continue to play Abigail’s game.

Setting down the picture, he sat in his chair and tried to decide what kind of menial task he could find for the spoiled, pregnant stepdaughter. Not that it mattered, he reminded himself. Because Larry Kaminski had plans.
Big
plans. Starting when the Rupert’s deal was signed.

Suddenly an idea flashed into his mind, so suddenly he almost didn’t believe it.

Sondra. The pregnant stepdaughter. She could be his high-priced ticket out.

It was so brilliant, his pulse began to race. Sweat sprung from his temples.

Why not?
he thought.
Why the fuck not?

His 15 percent of the Rupert’s ten million would only be the beginning. He’d buy the villa in Spain that Grady was so hot to have. That would still leave him enough to break out. To start over. With Abigail’s stepdaughter in his bulging back pocket.

Then Larry Kaminski really would be someone. Somehow his mother would know. She would be proud.

And then Abigail Hardy could shove that golden Emmy statue directly up her self-important pink ass.

The next
two weeks dragged for Kris. Devon was pushing her to complete the synopsis for her next book; she kept putting him off. She had no idea what it would be about. Once you’ve tackled the Matterhorn, what could be more thrilling?

Certainly something more exotic than lying in the stirrup position at a fertility clinic, as she was doing right
now. She wasn’t sure which was worse: being in this humiliating position, or knowing that Abigail and Maddie waited in the anteroom.

She’d begged them not to come. She hated having anyone “hover”; she was simply too accustomed to doing everything alone.

But Abigail took the entire day off and insisted they spend it together: first at the sperm bank, then at Vincenté’s on Fifth Avenue where Maddie would receive a decent haircut and color, then off to the Red Door for a makeup consult; but not until this ordeal was over, not until Kris had an answer.

“You can sit up,” the doctor (who looked more like a college preppie) said now. “Get dressed. Meet me in my office and we’ll talk.”

“I hope
this works,” Maddie said, flipping with disinterest through a six-month-old magazine.

“Me too,” Abigail answered. “The sooner Kris is pregnant …”

“Oh,” Maddie said. “I didn’t mean Kris. Well, of course I meant Kris. But I meant me, too. My haircut.”

“Vincenté is the best. I trust him implicitly. Even Kris uses him.”

Maddie shrieked. “I don’t want to look … butch.”

“You won’t. Does Kris?”

“No. But she has something I don’t. She has a
face
. Besides, I’m leaving for L.A. tomorrow so I’d better look good.”

“Another photo shoot?”

Maddie hesitated. “A scouting expedition.”

“I thought you hated L.A.”

“I do. But a girl’s got to eat.” She did not mention that her trip had nothing to do with
Savior
; she did not mention that her son Bobby had said that Parker was taking a ten-thirty flight to L.A. for a big meeting, or that she had
booked a reservation on the same plane. In the last two weeks she’d dropped eight pounds. With the hairstyle she was about to get and the silk pants outfit Abigail had ordered her to buy, she’d decided it might be a good chance to give her ex-husband a sneak peek at the new her.

She knew it was sick—that forty-nine was far too old to be so obsessive. But Maddie couldn’t help herself. Parker was her nicotine, her heroin, her addiction. It wasn’t as though she were hurting anyone. Maybe she’d get another good picture or two—in the airport, on the plane. Maybe this time she wouldn’t relegate them to the file drawer; maybe she’d crawl into bed with them at night, run her finger over his face, remember his touch, and fantasize that it was his warmth, not her pillow, tucked against her side.

No, she thought, picking up another magazine and flipping pages again. It wasn’t as though she were hurting anyone.

Kris did
as she was told. When she walked into the doctor’s office, he motioned for her to sit down.