For All the Wrong Reasons (28 page)

She glanced at her nails regretfully and wondered if she'd ever get a decent manicure again. “I'm in,” she said.

*   *   *

He wasn't kidding. Diana started setting her alarm for six
A.M.
, and coming home at eight, not that she missed the extra time in her cramped box of an apartment. She started taking a flood of calls, typing up proposals and brochures, registering the new company, dealing with everything from lawyers to labels. Michael had no time to help her with anything. Getting the first slice of funding was like climbing the Eiger without oxygen—dizzyingly difficult. Diana went to so many loan officers that one bank blurred into another. She laid out sample graphics and bound up Michael's papers. She got blisters and learned how to walk on them anyway. At night she came home too exhausted for anything more than a pot of pasta, a shower and the sleep of the dead.

On weekends she cleaned to placate Rita, shopped for food and went over draft pitch letters with a highlighter.

Once or twice Diana even called her lawyer for another helping of bad news; Ernie had everything tied up with pretrial motions. It might take months to get money out of him.

When Michael finally came home with the funding, they had all but given up. Citibank was prepared to take the risk. The business plan paid off, and they had twenty thousand dollars for staff and one project.

Cicero found their first code-writer. His name was Opie Z., and he was eighteen years old, scruffy and brilliant. He was a tip-off from Seth Horowitz, miserable in a gilded cage over at Blakely's.

He sat in the offices with the brand-new portable air conditioner and studied his shoes.

“Dude. I ain't much for nine to five. And I got a record. Couldn't do that Microsoft thing.” Ruminatively, he spat chewing gum into a wastebasket in the corner. “Nor the slick Willy Silicone Valley shit, neither. ‘The Imagine Arts family.'” He made a face. “I don't got a family, and if I did, they wouldn't ask for my résumé and shit.”

“Right,” Michael said. The boy was smart; his defiant street gear and low-slung swagger couldn't hide that for a second. What the fuck. “If you come and work here it's basic wages. You get to write your own stuff. When I get more money, you get more money.”

Opie thought about it. “But I ain't about nine to five, either.”

“Sure you are,” Cicero said instantly. “You turn up at five past nine, just keep walking right past the door, because you won't be wanted. This is for real.”

How can he be cool like that? Diana wondered, hovering in the background with iced water for their guest. We need this guy so badly it's not even funny. Without him, this thing is dead in the water. Opie was scowling at him, daring him to back down, but he was calmly crossing his arms and leaning back, like the little punk had nothing that could scare him.

The kid dropped his eyes first. “OK. You better not mess with my code, dude,” he said.

“Dude,” Cicero replied, “I have no intention of doing that.”

He extended one massive paw and took the boy's hand in his own.

“Welcome to Imperial,” he said.

*   *   *

The first attempt at a game was a mess. Clumsy, slow-moving and crawling with enough bugs for a Hollywood horror movie. Diana struggled along on slave wages until Opie got it right.

But when he did, it was glorious.

Michael burst into the office.

“What is it?” Diana sprang to her feet, almost alarmed at the look on his face. He ran over to her and lifted her up in a bear hug, making her gasp and squeal with shock. Michael never behaved like that. He was the biggest tight-ass on the planet.

“It's this. This.” He high-fived the bewildered Opie. “We got a development check from Nexus Games. They loved the ReadWrite code. They want to press ahead. Take a look at this.”

“Wow.” Opie peered at the check. “I ain't seen that many zeros outside of a Backstreet Boys gig.” He chuckled at his own joke.

Michael glanced over at Diana. “You get a pay raise, too,” he said. “Call a temp service. Get some extra help. We're in business.”

The funny thing was, she thought a month later, that it was almost enjoyable. There were six people now in the cramped offices, working on the first complete game. She had a secretary of her own, Mona. Mona was a hefty girl and very smart. She didn't bother flirting with Michael. Somehow, this endeared her completely to Diana. It was just annoying to have to deal with all the stupid female hormones.

Her new job was overseeing graphics. She worked under Michael, finding packaging ideas, rewriting the language of the game, trying to make it understandable for children. He sent her out of the office looking for illustrators.

“What will they know about computers?” she asked, perplexed.

He gave her another of his are-you-stupid looks.

“Nothing. We can just scan the work.”

She felt foolish, and it made her snappy. “Fine. I'll come up with something.”

He was a bastard, a slave driver, and he expected Diana to figure everything out for herself. When she wanted a bag, she went to Hermes. Where did you go to shop for cheap talent? Eventually, after her leads went nowhere, Diana moved to the source. In the blistering heat of the August sun, anyone rich fled the city. The only people left were poor and hungry. When she turned up at Forbidden Planet, St Mark's Comics, and the other underground comic-book stores, they were happy to give her some names. She met five or six artists, picked two, and brought them back to her boss.

“I can't believe you found these guys,” Michael said.

“I know you couldn't believe it,” Diana retorted. “But I did.”

TWENTY-SIX

The first game was a bust.

The second, a minor hit. Enough for a bank loan.

By the time summer eased into fall, Cicero had moved offices. He set up on West Fourth Street, in an elegant brownstone. Five programmers and six illustrators, all scouted by Diana, worked twelve-hour days, but nobody minded. Michael cut them in on royalties and bonuses, and his success was their success.

Diana found she was working too hard to enjoy her newfound status. She wasn't rich, and she wasn't back where she wanted to be, but at least she was kissing the bounds of respectable again. And in September, Herb Brillstein called.

“He has a proposition for you,” Herb said.

Diana clutched the phone in her bedroom in Rita's tiny place and prayed silently. It was neat, but too cramped to take any longer. She wondered if her roommate was listening in to this call on her extension. The little bit of money she made with Imperial was enough to afford decent clothes, food and health insurance, but that didn't leave much over for rent. Oh, to be rich again. Her ex-husband had millions. What had Herb managed to pull out of the fire for her?

“He doesn't want to go to trial. Plus he's thinking about getting married again.”

Felicity. Diana's hand curled into a tight ball of anger. I was such a moron to trust her, she thought. And I'm going to get my revenge.

“He understands that you can contest the divorce in the UK, and though you weakened your case when you moved out, he wants done with it. But they're pretty hard over in the UK. His lawyers said they would be prepared to wait us out, as you were married less than a year, you took employment and when you moved out you didn't contact your husband—”

“Yes. I know what I did, Mr. Brillstein,” Diana said impatiently. “What's the offer?”

“Seven hundred and fifty.”

She ran the numbers in her head. Seven fifty. With the lawyers' fees … That was three seventy-five. Barely enough to buy a one-bedroom flat somewhere decent, and it wouldn't cover the maintenance charges. Ernie was worth about ten million, she thought. If she refused this settlement, though, she'd be stuck here.

Diana glanced out of her window at the pigeons flapping around the white plastic hanger her panties were drying on. Her dry cleaning had overflowed out of her tiny closet and was hanging on the back of the door, off the end of the shelves, over the back of her chair. She wanted to get out so much it hurt.

“Go back to him and tell him one million. Tell him if he refuses we will put an injunction on all the property we aquired together. I might not have got the apartment in our joint names, but I designed that place.” She took a deep breath. “The table, the chairs, the antique sofas, the portraits, the carpets … I signed for it all. Visa will have a record of that. Tell him that unless he wants to take his mistress home to an empty apartment, he can give me the money. And if he refuses, file for the injunction today.”

There was a pause at the end of the line.

“If I may say so, Mrs. Foxton, you should have been a lawyer.”

She smiled to herself. “In life you have to be tough. Ernie always knew that. And now I'm learning.”

She had to wait a day to discover that she had gotten the cash. Half a million for Brillstein and his fancy offices, and half a million for her. She signed the papers in the office, and her marriage was over.

Diana pulled the two rings off the third finger of her left hand and FedExed them to Ernie at Blakely's. As the metal and diamonds slipped from her flesh, she suddenly felt as though a chain had been unlocked.

She was on her own again, and it felt good.

*   *   *

To Rita's anger, she moved out.

“Do yourself a favor,
amiga,
” Diana said, thrusting the cleaning brushes back into Rita's hands. “Learn how to make a bed.”

*   *   *

“What's my job?” she asked Michael one Saturday night, eating Chinese food out of a carton as she laid out plates for the box artwork.

He looked over briefly, his face lit by the glowing numerals on his computer terminal.

“Whatever you make it,” he said.

Typical Michael.
He had given her raises and bonuses and professional praise, but nothing more.

Diana shrugged. So Michael didn't like her. The feeling was definitely mutual. As long as she got hers, what the hell did she care?

Besides, she had a friend now. Claire Bryant had cheered her up every step of the way, and had even come apartment hunting with her. Diana was careful not to talk about Michael too much. It was a dead giveaway, and why let Claire know he registered with her so much?

She found a new place on Hudson, a smart enough one-bedroom with the luxury of a tiny den that she turned into an office. She decorated the place on a budget, which was a new experience, having no cash and no time. Classic modernism: bare wood floors stained a dark brown, a sleek cream rug, an antique bust and a campaign daybed. Her only other furniture was a low-slung sofa, a TV and a writing desk. It made the place look less tiny. You might even be able to swing two cats in it.

She invited Michael to her housewarming, but he turned her down.

“I can't make it. Got the new launch in a month. Need to review the distribution contracts,” he said.

“Sure.” Diana ran a hand through her glossy blond hair. It was infuriating, the way he just brushed her off. Not that she cared about his opinion. But the rest of the office would be there. It was like he was snubbing her, and who was Michael Cicero to snub her?

“But there's something I wanted to say about your home.”

She turned to him, hopefully.

“You can get a tax break for the home office, if you declare it.”

“Thanks,” Diana said, pointedly turning her back.

She started shopping again. She had survived on the clothes she had managed to sneak out of the penthouse, parcelling out her make-up and perfume, dressing simply. She'd been reduced to quietly selling off half her wardrobe in one of the discreet secondhand designer clothes stores that proliferated in the East Village. Now, at last, she could afford to visit Bloomingdale's again.

Diana bought a pink silk Miu Miu shirtdress and wore it to the office with a pair of sassy lavender leather sling-backs.

Michael didn't so much as notice her.

She flung herself into her work, annoyed.

*   *   *

“Come and check this out,” Opie said, beckoning Michael with one bony finger.

Cicero sighed, but got up to see what he wanted. Opie was forever mouthing off about the tight code he'd just busted, or the smooth-jag of his graphic lines. Michael didn't understand it; he left tech stuff to his band of geeks. The point was to encourage the troops. He thought Opie and Jenny Faroe were his two best producers as far as games code went. Part of the success of Imperial Games was the enthusiasm and passion of its staff. Michael insisted everyone show up on time, but that was as far as his discipline went.

His creative staff wore shorts and T-shirts with everything from Metallica to wrestling heroes emblazoned over them, while the business-side guys wore suits—mostly. He'd thought about banning the girls from wearing skirts above the knee, but this wasn't publishing. It was an office full of kids, and they didn't thrive when they were being stifled.

Diana Foxton had taken her job as office manager pretty seriously, he had to admit. She'd hit on exactly the right atmosphere for them. They worked out of half a townhouse, and Diana kept it stocked so it felt like a home. She'd found the best hi-tech equipment at prices he found hard to believe, but more vitally, she made sure that each day there were fresh flowers, takeout teas and coffees, baskets of fruit, Coke and cookies for the junk-food programmers. She put hairspray, perfume and cologne in the bathrooms, and had takeout and beer delivered when the boys were working late.

Michael's staff reported to him that they actually enjoyed coming to work.

He enjoyed it, too. It was a dream in the making. With each little success he felt the blood in his veins pump faster, demanding more, yesterday! He stayed in his tiny walkup simply because he had no time to move. Michael's only luxury was two or three more suits, which he needed, because he was taking so many meetings.