For All the Wrong Reasons (20 page)

“Good. Bring it into my office,” he said, shortly. “And find me the files on the new line.”

He walked away from her. Outside Green Eggs, sure, she was a big shot and a princess. But in this office she was the recipient of a charity job. Michael felt his good mood evaporating already. If Diana were single, he thought, he would take her out, and crush her to him and kiss her until she was squirming and ready to beg for his phone number, and then he wouldn't give it to her. Well, maybe he'd bang her once or twice. Probably twice. But that would be it. Girls like Diana were high maintenance, and that meant trouble. He didn't need to work at a relationship, Michael thought. He worked hard enough in business hours.

And anyway, Diana was married to that prick, his boss.

He reminded himself he wasn't supposed to be thinking about Diana. He was going out with Iris.

Michael flipped on the lights and reached into his desk for his notes. They were all here, thick sheaves of them, his handwritten scrawl extending over eighteen pages of yellow foolscap. Maybe little miss rich girl out there could type them for him. It gave him something of a kick, to think of those perfect, glossy nails tapping menially on a computer with his work. Yeah. If she wanted a job, let her work for the money.

He lifted the receiver and dialed Seth, who cursed him out with a string of blue epithets that would have done credit to a particularly angry sailor.

“You need to wake up. Get your butt out here,” Michael said firmly. “I may need back-up, and besides, what if they need to talk to a creative?”

“Is that what I am? A creative?” There was a pitiful groan on the other end of the line. “It's the middle of the night, and you talk as though I were an advertising executive. I'm not a suit, Mike. You're a suit.”

“It's just one day. Get out here, you lazy bastard.” Michael cupped one hand over the receiver. Diana Foxton had glided into his office with notes and a steaming mug of coffee. His stomach growled slightly. “Put it down on the table, Diana. So what were you saying?”

Seth continued to protest. Michael didn't know why other people were just not as committed as he was. Diana was still hovering on the edge of his vision, and her waist and legs were intensely distracting. Just because she'd covered them up, didn't mean they weren't distracting.

“Get here by quarter to ten at the latest,” he said, hanging up on his partner. He eyed Diana.

“You brought my notes?”

She nodded and made a brief, clipped gesture to the folder she'd laid on his desk in front of him. The huge sparkler on her left hand caught the light as she waved it. It had probably cost more than his entire apartment. Michael bristled. “Then what are you waiting for? Don't you have work to do?”

“Oh, I have plenty of work to do.” Her cool English accent was so confident, so refined. “But I'm afraid I have to object to your language.”

Michael blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Certainly, I will excuse you. This time,” Diana said.

“I don't think I follow you,” Michael said coldly. The chick had some set of balls. Rebuking him in his own office, when he ran the damn place. Maybe she thought being Ernie's wife meant she could throw her weight around? If so, he would be happy to disillusion her. He frowned.

“I did not use any language to you.”

She stood her ground, eyeing him, he thought, like he was some drunk bum who was crashing one of her rich-chick dinners. “Not to me, no. But in front of me. You asked me to dress appropriately for the office, Mr. Cicero, and I did. But I would ask you to speak appropriately for the office in front of a lady.”

Michael colored with annoyance. “I suppose you are going to sue me for sexual harassment?” he snapped.

She gave a delicate little laugh. A million-dollar laugh. Maybe more.

“I doubt it. I—we—hardly need the money. And that's an American thing. I don't sue, I just handle it.”

Oh you do? Fighting talk, for somebody who did one day's work in her whole life, Michael thought. He inclined his head. “Very well, Diana. I stand corrected. You can go now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cicero,” Diana said quietly, and left his office, shutting the door gently behind her.

Michael slumped in his chair and drank his coffee and tried to concentrate on his notes. It was very hard. Damn that spoiled society brat. Damn her. He looked at his watch. Hurry up, Susan, he thought, I really need you here.

*   *   *

“She didn't.” Natty Zuckerman breathed.

“Oh, but she did,” Felicity half whispered, with just the right note of affection and concern in her voice. Jodie Goodfriend said nothing, but shook her perfect little blond bob.

They were seated at one of the best tables in the Four Seasons. Felicity's hawk-like gaze had already spotted Barry Diller and David Geffen, the entertainment moguls, and Cindy Crawford with Rande Gerber. The “Mrs. Zuckerman” and “Mrs. Goodfriend” had proved to be key. She could never have been seated at the last minute without them and, of course, not in a decent section like this, where ladies could see and be seen. The discreet golden rings on the fingers of the older women flashed at Felicity like laurel wreaths of victory. Mrs. Ernie Foxton might not have quite the same punching power, but it would be a close thing. Give me six months, Felicity thought, and they'll bump Cindy herself to seat me.

The waiter approached with a little more champagne. Cristal at this place cost the same as a seat on a plane to Europe—if you went coach, of course. Felicity nodded with an imperious air. Her guests were extremely socially secure, and therefore they could drink at lunch if they chose to. Anyway, wasn't champagne supposed to be virtually calorie free? All the supermodels drank it. Felicity couldn't afford business class much these days and, of course, she would never fly coach but she had splashed out for the champagne and the meal. She had known these women for years, and when she was really Mrs. Metson, they had been close. Felicity was desperate to regain her footing.

The soft music and flattering lighting, the small portions and overdressed plates, soothed Felicity's jangling nerves like nothing else. This was the life she was born for. Would Natty and Jodie support a palace coup? Gently, so gently, she tested the waters.

“I worry about Diana. She took her clothes, and I think she's actually moving out.”

“Tell me more,” Jodie murmured, pushing her curly endive lettuce around the fine china plate.

“Well. This must be in complete confidence, of course. We have Ernie to think of, too,” Felicity said, dropping her voice responsibly. “But Diana barged into the room without knocking, and it seems he was found in a …
compromising position.
”

Natty Zuckerman put one hand over her mouth and arched her elegantly plucked brows. “No! She actually forced her way in?”

“She saw everything, too,” Felicity said, affecting sorrow. “She thinks the staff heard them. Very embarrassing.”

“Very,” Natty agreed, a smidgen too enthusiastically. “It'll be all around the city by now.”

“You know how people talk,” Jodie agreed. Now she could blab to all her girlfriends and blame the maids and Diana's doorman. It was a terrific story. What a fool Diana Foxton must be. “And she was so popular, too. The
Post
write-up on her last two parties…”

“Yes. ‘The Queen of New York,'” Natty Zuckerman quoted.

Felicity fought to hide her triumphant grin. She couldn't stand these two, and they couldn't stand her, but they were all on the same team. Natasha and Jodie had been giving elegant little parties for years, but neither of them had ever captured the columns the way “Princess” Diana had. They were jealous, and she recognized at once that they shared her desire to see the English girl take a tumble.

“That's what I'm afraid of. For Diana's sake, and, of course, for dear Ernie's. I don't think I can forget that Ernie is a friend, too.”

“A good friend,” Jodie nodded.

Natasha speared a piece of her healthy steamed broccoli and looked Felicity square in the eye.

“If you want my confidential advice, my dear,” she said, “you have a definite duty to talk this all through with Ernie. We can't allow him to be so severely compromised.”

“Where will Diana be staying? Will she be going home?” Jodie Goodfriend inquired.

“I think at a hotel,” Felicity pretended not to know, “and then a short-term furnished apartment.”

“That's an excellent idea. Space to cool down. Perhaps you could go and have a private talk with Ernie,” Jodie said.

Felicity lifted her champagne flute and sipped reflectively, like the idea had never occurred to her. Natasha gave her a tiny nod. It was the green light. The wives would be on her side, not Diana's, and the English girl would get no warning of what was coming. She almost felt sorry for Diana. Her party was definitely over.

“I'll do that,” she agreed.

NINETEEN

Ernie looked around the packed room and grinned quietly to himself.

Michael Cicero had the booksellers in the palm of his hand. Each successive Green Eggs cover was greeted with warm smiles and nods of approval. They were leaning forward in their seats, like they could hear the cash registers ringing already. You could tell when a buyer was faking it; this was the real thing. That faggot, Seth Horowitz, had a good line when he talked about the creative team of illustrators. The large letters with the complicated patterns—so much crap, in Ernie's honest opinion, but he didn't care about his personal taste. The kids overruled him. Ernie hated kids anyway: they were whiny little brats without anything interesting about them. Except, of course, their ability to nag their parents for books.

The kids' book sector in America was dying fast. Who read anymore, when there was Disney and Barney? Did parents take the time to read stories to kids? No. They stuck them in front of a VCR. If Cicero's Green Eggs could breathe life into the sector, so much the better. They needed a Harry Potter.

Besides, the sellers and distributors weren't looking at Cicero. Ernie's careful PR department had done their highly paid job, and to them, Michael Cicero was just a kid himself, the “product manager” on the line. Product managers were very replaceable. To the trade, Ernie Foxton, Wall Street magician, the bottom-line king, had come up with this idea. If it flew, he'd get all the credit. If it tanked, Cicero was there to take the fall.

The presentation finally concluded with huge applause and a rush toward the sales department. Yes! Ernie's skinny fist balled under his desk as he accepted congratulations. Now that they had the hard product, the really enjoyable part of his Green Eggs takeover could begin. Ernie hadn't forgotten the way Michael Cicero had made him grovel. He'd been longing for payback. Now that his production people had seen the little wop's goods, which he'd been so secretive about in that broom cupboard on the fourth floor, they could duplicate them.

Sell or stiff, either way, Michael Cicero was
out.

Ernie glanced out of his windows at the crawling traffic on Seventh Avenue and the huge billboards of Broadway. Mira had ridden him well this morning, and Diana was out of his hair, too. Who gave a fuck about her little temper tantrum? It was
good,
he decided, that she'd caught him. That would lay it on the line for her without him having to bother. Cicero, Diana, anybody who annoyed him from now on was going to be swept out of the way. Glittering Manhattan loved him. What did anybody else matter?

He shook hands with the suits and nodded, friendly like, at Cicero as he bulldozed past him on his way downstairs. He was polite to Ernie, nothing more. Didn't Cicero know he held his future in the palm of his hand? Ernie bristled. He'd teach the cowboy some respect. He glanced across the room and saw Marcia giving him that wary look of hers. It was about time he had her replaced. Transferred, to avoid any kind of a suit. And her replacement could be a younger woman with less of an ass, a thin, hard-looking girl like Mira Chen. Not Mira, though. You had to be wary of the law over here. Besides, Ernie thought, smirking, it was about time somebody other than Mira got a crack of the whip—so to speak. There were a lot of cruel women with stilettos and a taste for thong panties and money on the island of Manhattan.

“Give me the call list, Marcia,” he said, smiling warmly at her, to let her know she wasn't being sacked.

She handed it over deferentially. “Here, sir. And there was another call for you just now. A Mrs. Felicity Metson.”

“Felicity.” Ernie smiled. “Interesting. Get her back for me, and hold my calls until I've finished talking with her.”

Gossip about Diana? Another warning? Classy tart, Felicity. Just the kind of girl he needed on his side right now.

Maybe she'd know what the hell his wife was doing with herself.

Ernie looked around his outer office. Everybody was doing their jobs, not looking him in the eye. That was fine, though. As long as he made money for this firm, they would be quiet as mice on tranquillizers.

It's good to be the king, he thought.

*   *   *

Diana was sitting at her desk, typing, when the phone rang. She'd thrown herself into this shabby little job, today. There was nothing else to do, except check on Consuela and leave messages for her girlfriends. Jodie and Natty were not at home, nor were Melissa or Robin, so she'd done the mindless work Susan Katz had given her. Diana was in a bad mood, and not even attempting to make conversation with the other bitches in the office. She got them herbal tea and coffee when they asked for it, then marched back to the file room or her desk. As she moved about the office, typing, filing, working, never wasting a second, they seemed to draw back from her, like they were scared. Diana reflected that they probably hadn't heard about her and Ernie yet. They probably thought she was cooking up some elaborate scheme to get them all laid off.