Diamond Girl (19 page)

But, as in the beginning of any relationship, until you learn each other’s tastes, you make mistakes. Michael had envisioned a very particular kind of movie night date too.

It’s just his mojo was more
This is Spinal Tap
or
Harold and Kumar go to White Castle
than say,
Gentlemen Prefer Blonds
or
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
. His clothes might have given away the awesome surprise he had in store for me but they didn’t because, back then, all the Upper East Side boys were wearing standard prep by day and their sad wannabe version of gangsta grunge by night.

So his designer sags and leather coat didn’t tip me off. All I thought when I saw him was that he was even better than I had remembered from seeing him early that morning, and he smelled so good, and when he saw me he looked at me like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss me or laugh at my outfit.

He did both, and that part, the kiss in the doorway where his tongue dialed up my mouth and my nerve endings, and his long beefy body pressed against mine, made me think that we could stay in after all.

But then he said. “Jesus, you are pretty. I don’t know what you’re wearing, but no one will care since you’re so much fun to look at.”

“What do you mean,
what I’m wearing
? This is a Bot … uh … just a dress. Aren’t we going out? I mean, Gawd I don’t care, we can stay in. I don’t think I have anything to eat in the house but I can call …” 

“We are def going out and I can see it’s a dress. I just wondered if you wanted to wear that to Death You, but now I want you to wear it
and, Carey, if you have panties on, leave them at home, okay?” 

I didn’t care if Death You was going to be some nasty not-yet-hot club in the meat packing district or in Harlem, I only knew that he thought I was pretty and he wanted me to take off my panties. I rose up my skirt and showed him my Strumpet and Pink knickers, purchased just two hours earlier.

People say that British people don’t like sex but, given the lingerie they make, I can’t agree with that. Michael wouldn’t have either. He was panting a little. “Oh man, how do these ties work?” 

“Oh and I thought you were a smart boy.” 

“I am and I have good teeth too.” He had great teeth, white and sharp, so he was able to bite through the laces pretty easily. I didn’t care. If he liked them - and he did, he did - I would just order fifty more pairs.

I thought for sure we wouldn’t get outside after that, but he was on a mission, and when I realized he was dragging me toward the subway to make a connection at Grand Central, I started sulking and dragging my feet, asking where we were going.

He pulled me close to him. “We are going, my naïve Manhattan child, to the wilds of New Jersey, Bergenfield to be exact, and that is why we have to take the train. The neighborhood where the band I want to look at is playing is too shady for me to want to leave my car there. It would be stripped before we got back to it.”

I thought about that and tried to be helpful. I was only trying to show him that I could be flexible. “We could take one of my cars.”

“Baby, I’m trying to kind of blend in with the crowd there. It’s bad enough that I’m walking in with a girl that looks like you, I mean, you’re no Jersey girl, but we can’t show up in a limo, Jesus.”

“No, I didn’t mean a limo. I have cars, regular cars, two of them. They’re in the garage next to my apartment. It would be fun to take one. They’ve never been driven. I don’t know how to drive yet, so they just sit there. If one gets stolen tonight, that’s okay. I’m positive they’re insured.”

We were at the entrance to the subway when I said it, and he stopped cold and looked down at me like I was speaking Greek. “You have two cars and you don’t know how to drive? Why do you have one car, let alone two?”

“Oh well, one’s not a car, it’s like an SUV thingy, and I didn’t buy them, Gawd. Daddy got me the SUV
thing, I think it’s a Range Rover, for my birthday when I was fifteen. He thought it would be a really safe car to learn to drive in. Then this year for my birthday, he gave me the Porsche. I think he forgot about the first one and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, and I am going to learn how to drive soon. Maybe we should take the old one if it’s going to be stolen. The Porsche is so pretty and how would I explain to Daddy?”

He shook his head and guided me down towards the dirty escalator. “I don’t know. I have no idea how you’d explain it, Carey. We’ll take the subway tonight and maybe this weekend I’ll start teaching you how to drive. Not in the city, we can go out of town.” 

I wanted to hug myself with joy but I remembered Milan’s instructions. “That would be cool. We can go up to Tamerlane. There’s a lot of driveway there, hard to hit anything.”

“Is Tamerlane the little weekend place your family has?”

I looked at him curiously. He shrugged, not meeting my eyes.

“You know who my family is, Michael. Is that going to make things weird?”

He laughed. “No, I mean I could care less where you come from. I’m just into the girl and, anyway, I’m not exactly poverty-stricken and I’m going to be seriously loaded one day. That’s why we’re going to Jersey tonight. There’s a band I want to have a look at. I’m starting up my own PR firm, repping talent. Don’t worry, I’m not going to need to borrow money from my new little girlfriend.”

I didn’t answer him; I heard only the part where he used the word 'girlfriend'. I told him I thought subways rocked and they did with him, so did the train ride to Bergenfield. The whole way there I thought about all the things I could do to help him, the people I could introduce him to, all the things I could give him that he deserved to have, that I wanted to give him for picking me.

Death You was pretty bad. Actually, 'pretty bad' doesn’t really begin to describe it. It’s the kind of place where they should offer complimentary hand gel because the bathrooms are so scary. Actually it’s the kind of place they should offer complimentary hep C shots. But it did have the familiar long line out front. Of course everyone in the line looked like they could be waiting at a methadone clinic. There was even a doorman, or a kind of doorman. He had a baseball bat and a tattoo of Courtney Love that covered half his face, but the getting-waved-ahead-of-the-line part was familiar. Inside it was pitch black, thank God, because that way I didn’t have to see it. Smelling it was bad enough.

I acted like it was all good, though, because I was with Michael and I was his girlfriend, the perfect supportive girlfriend standing behind her man in his pursuit of success. The band he was there to look at, Satin Goat, was actually pretty good in a grunge kind of way, and when Michael and I were grinding against each other on the dance floor, I didn’t miss Manhattan.

I even had a beer.

I was a little worried because, since I hadn’t told him about the diabetes yet, I had shot myself up with insulin instead of wearing my pump which regulates my insulin even if I drink, but nothing went wrong that night. We weren’t mugged on the way back to the subway and I even found a grate to stand on for him on the way back to my apartment.

“Look, baby, no panties.”

He picked me up right there on the street and I wrapped my legs around his waist, and later around his neck, and it was the most perfect New York night ever.

Chapter 21

The year I turned nineteen was in a lot of ways the best year of my life. Well, I don’t want to sound all self-pitying and pathetic, even though, honestly, my present situation totally justifies sounding that way. I had two almost perfect years, actually.

Michael was the reason for them. In trying to be perfect for him, I ended up having a lot of fun. Until Michael, I didn’t really do much. I had left college, moved into my own apartment, started going out every night in Milan’s wake and spent my days sleeping, shopping and getting ready to go out again. None of it, not the apartment or the going out, had much to do with me. I was living where my mother had put me and trailing after my best friend. I guess I was a kind of tourist in my own life. Michael changed that totally.

He pointed out to me that the people I was close to had things of their own. He didn’t come right out and say 'get a life', or more specifically, 'get a job', but the inference was pretty obvious.

The whole job thing in my world is kind of a murky area. We don’t really have jobs in the traditional sense of the word. I mean, for example, I have never met anyone who has actually filled out an application and been hired to do the same thing day after day. A lot of us do work, or a kind of work, but in jobs we have created.

I mean, Daddy bought a football team, and Aunt Georgia built an orphanage and, amongst my friends, Milan became a celebrity, whatever that means, but it is still a job where you get paid and people expect you to show up. Christy wasn’t working but she was busy all day at school learning to design things she could sell later, and Michael had his P.R. company, which thanks to signing Milan, had taken off pretty quickly.

I didn’t mind the idea of having a career at
all, I just didn’t know what to do. I kind of vaguely wanted to be famous, but when I had my monthly lunch with Daddy and brought it up, he wasn’t too encouraging.

Daddy had moved out of his temporary digs at Trump Towers and into a suite at The Carlyle. He wasn’t really a Trump Towers kind of guy. I think he missed the Kelleher apartment, but since my mother was in it, he would rather be homeless, as he was, than go back there. I know he could have bought something, but we don’t really do that kind of thing very often, or at least the primary Kellehers - the Kells - don’t.

Eight Hundred Fifth Avenue was his home and he was biding his time. I didn’t know for what, back then, but I get it now. He was totally done with my mother and was never going back, but he was a looong way from moving in and setting up house with his beautiful new girlfriend, Sarah.

Sarah made Daddy as happy as men like my father ever are, which is 'somewhat'. Daddy is not some kid, and even if he were, he is too inward and buttoned up and unemotional for big romantic scenarios. Sarah was/is much younger, very pretty, well dressed and, as far as Daddy knows, exists only to please him.
As far as I know too, since she has never been anything but sweet to me. If there is another hard as nails, ambitious bitch side to her, say a side like both sides of my mother, I would have been the last person she would have revealed it to.

In return for her being his perfect mistress, Daddy had purchased an apartment at Trump for her. Trump Towers is actually a really fun place to live. It’s a lot livelier than other equally pricey square footage in Manhattan. Donald is his own co-op board, so he lets in whoever he feels like: actresses and models, sports people, mistresses. I think poor old Marla lived there when she was his mistress, as a matter of fact.

Nowadays, of course, he reigns happily from his penthouse with his new gorgeous trophy wife - a stretch model - and the son she so cleverly produced. Of course The Donald already had sons; Daddy was the son-less one.

Anyway, it’s a blast over at Trump Towers. I would have liked an apartment there but, of course, mother had picked out my apartment which was her idea of the fantasy young New York debutante apartment: old building, old doorman,
old co-op board. She never did understand that what she pretended to be, what I had been since birth, didn’t need the trappings.

Aunt Georgia lived at Trump, boy did
she ever, twenty thousand square feet, which included every necessity, like a small indoor zoo. Despite this, she was always arguing with the Donald because Aunt Georgia loved to swim and she wanted her own Olympic size pool in her apartment. The Donald argued back, reasonably enough, that if she took the elevator downstairs she could avail herself of the sixty foot pool and world class spa already in the building. New York apartments do not have indoor pools; the people on the lower floors find the idea pretty unnerving. Still, I saw Aunt Georgia’s point too. A private indoor pool is a magic thing and it was sad that she could only have them at her outlying houses in Vail and Connecticut.

Aunt Georgia had been delighted when Daddy had leased at Trump, but poor Daddy, his sister, his pretty mistress, a lobby filled with people he would never have dreamed of associating with calling out hello to him, it was invasive and he retreated to the quieter world of the Carlyle like a shocky animal.

When Aunt Georgia, who I saw at least once a week, had told me that Daddy was moving out of Trump, I called him up and begged him to buy an apartment in my building which was a very old school Kelleher kind of place.

I envisioned us being able to spend tons of time together. Excitedly I pitched the advantages to him, promising I would learn to cook and would bring him Carey-catered dinners every night. He was sweet, like always, and said that he wasn’t certain of wanting to buy right then. I got it - too much daughter. 

He did say he was delighted to hear from me, though, and asked about the apartment, and Petal, and what I was up to, and, seeing my need even if he didn’t understand it, he was the one who came up with our monthly rain-or-shine lunch dates, or, if the Lions were playing, he would take me to a game.

A couple of weeks after meeting Michael, I saw Daddy for lunch at The Brook on East 54th. Daddy loved the stuffy old ‘all is right with the world’ atmosphere at The Brook, and I had been meeting him in the dark rooms there for lunch since I was in Mary Jane’s and not Manolos’, so I loved it too. To me, it was our place.