The Real Liddy James (13 page)

“I'll be there at five past three, and I'm yours for strictly ten minutes,” she said. She hung up, texted Vince to stand by, and ran back to the party to find Lucia. Lucia was simultaneously following the bobbing pith helmets and conducting an animated conversation with her only daughter, twenty-five-year-old Rosita, who had just arrived. The torrent of excitable Spanish made Liddy smile, but as she approached them they both fell silent.

“I'm glad you came, Rosita,” said Liddy, kissing the young woman on both cheeks as Lucia walked on.

Rosita said nothing. She was the image of a young Lucia, only wearing more expensive clothing, her face set determinedly to nonexpression. Liddy continued.

“I heard about your new job in the bank. Congratulations. Lucia is so proud.”

Liddy noticed that Rosita's eyes, always ringed blue-gray, were particularly baggy and strained today.
She works
too hard
, Liddy thought, but said nothing, as she knew from experience that Rosita bristled whenever she tried to be nice to her. Rosita was too young and too driven to tell the difference between a concerned tone and a patronizing one and Liddy understood. At twenty-five, Liddy had been exactly the same.

“What color is the polar bear's skin?” asked Dwayne of the children, desperately trying to avoid eye contact with Cal.

“Black!” Cal shouted anyway, and Liddy was delighted that she had rejected Dwayne's suggestion that a prize be awarded for
the child who got the most answers right. Louisa Tilney, whose daughter was now licking the information board, disliked her enough already.

“Your mom seems a bit tired, Rosita,” she said.

“Of course she is,” snapped Rosita. “She was up late doing the party bags.”

She walked off before Liddy could reply, which was good because Liddy didn't know what to say. At that moment, an enormous polar bear, a magnificent adult male, swam downward, paddled, and then stopped in front of them, hanging spread-eagled, suspended like a puppet, staring out with his beady black eyes and resting his black-skinned paw on the glass. The party gasped, transfixed, and Liddy was transfixed too, mesmerized by this awesome moment of confrontation.

Matty appeared and pushed her onward, saying, “Strange things are afoot at the Circle-K!” (a private joke from the one time they had watched
Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure
together), but then Peter saw Liddy's face, sent Matty on ahead, and asked, “What's going on?”

“I'm worried about Lucia. She's not herself today.”

“Maybe she's sick?” he said.

Liddy turned to him, her mouth agape with revelation.
Of course
, Lucia was
sick
, that must be it.

“I hope it's not serious,” he continued.

“God, yes,” said Liddy, and she followed him into the darkness of the Polar Seabirds Exhibit, only to be greeted by the astonishing sight of Rosita shouting, “You have to tell her, Mama!”
as Lucia ran away from her, both figures silhouetted against a diorama of the Antarctic landscape.

Peter and Liddy looked at each other in dismay.

“Can you get everyone to the cinema?” she pleaded. She looked at her watch: 2:50.
SHIT!

And to her amazement he did, grabbing a pith helmet and ramming it on top of his head, announcing that he would give the child that got outside first a can of cola.

Meanwhile, Liddy ran out into the sunlight and there, blinking, she found Lucia sitting mournfully on a bench in front of the sea lions.

Liddy approached tentatively. She sat down beside her and reached over and took Lucia's hand. “Lucia, what is it?”

Lucia turned to look at her, her eyes watery and an expression on her face so anguished that a sob rose in Liddy's throat. Liddy swallowed it back down.

“Are you ill?”

Lucia shook her head. “No. But my papa is,” she said slowly. “I have to go back to Colombia.”

Rosita came out and sat down on Lucia's other side. She put an arm around her mother, and Lucia leaned against her.

“We've been arguing,” said Rosita. “Mama thinks you won't cope without her. She says you are late most nights and your phone is always ringing. She is sad to leave you on your own.”

“Oh, Lucia,” said Liddy. “We'll be fine. Of course you must go. When are you leaving? How long will you be?”

“She's flying out next Friday.” Rosita paused and glanced at
Lucia, who squished her lips together in an urgent attempt not to cry again. “And she won't be coming back. I've bought her a house near my granddaddy's. All our family live there. I have twenty-three cousins.”

Liddy looked at Rosita, who folded her arms and leaned back onto the bench. She considered asking Rosita to leave for a few minutes so she and Lucia could talk together. Lucia, however, fearing Liddy's renowned powers of persuasion and problem solving, obviously did not want that.

“I came to America for Rosita. She has been a good girl. She has everything. And now I am done and my papa needs me, Miss Liddy. You have been so kind and generous to me always. But I have to go home.”

Liddy knew the conversation was over. Only six months ago she had finally made Lucia promise to call her “Liddy” and, most of the time, Lucia had complied. Liddy's right foot started to tap uncontrollably. This would take more than an hour with the life coach to sort out. Lucia had patrolled the hospital corridors as Liddy gave birth to Cal. She had barred the door to Curtis Oates during Liddy's two-week maternity leave. Liddy had assumed she would be accompanying her to Cal's high school graduation.
How could she replace the irreplaceable?

“Why didn't you say anything?” she said.

“I didn't want to spoil my little Cal's beautiful party,” Lucia said finally.

Liddy stood up and the two women embraced. Then Lucia took Liddy's face in her two hands and kissed her forehead.

“I would like to tell him myself tonight so he understands.
Okay? Can I bring him home with me after the cake for a sleepover?”

Liddy nodded slowly, and Lucia turned to leave. Then she stopped.

“Give that dirty dog away, Mama,” she said.

She returned to the party. Liddy turned to Rosita.

“I'll pay for your mother's flight.”

“No, no, you don't need to. I got it.”

“You're a very good daughter.”

“My mama did everything for me,” Rosita replied.

“Yes.”

Behind them, the sea lions barked in what now seemed to Liddy like a mournful ululation.

“Oh, Rosita, we'll miss her not being around. Poor Cal.”

The Delacorte clock chimed three.

“He'll get used to it,” said Rosita, and she stared right into Liddy's eyes. “I did
.”

Hurrying into the lobby of the St. Regis, she located Curtis immediately by his low, sulphurous cackle. But as she ran over to the fireplace, she realized he was talking on his phone, the chair opposite him empty. When he saw her he hung up with an excited flourish.

“Where's the mystery client?” asked Liddy.

“In the powder room. I told her I'd fill you in.”

“What've we got?”

“Three years married, they lived in the husband's apartment on the Upper East Side, some stocks, shares, all his, and a summer place they bought after the wedding.”

“Does she work?” asked Liddy. “I mean, outside the home?” she added quickly.

“Fashion PR. But she gave it up when they married to start a family.”

“Did they?”

“No. No kids.”

“Curtis, this is a straight down the line no-fault. There's nothing in this for us, unless the husband's a miserly multimillionaire with a lot of hidden assets. Is he?”

“No. He's like you and me. Look, she wants you.”

Irritation rose within Liddy.

“I'm off,” she said scratchily. “You can explain what I was doing here tomorrow. Give her the number of that woman on Riverside Drive who does mediation. It'll be done in a few days—”

“You don't understand, Liddy. Her great-aunt is Lisbeth Dawe Bartlett.”

Liddy sat down in the empty chair. Lisbeth Dawe Bartlett, a billionaire nonagenarian heiress who refused to die, was Curtis's most valued client (he often said that his relationship with her was the longest and happiest of his entire life). Providing a legal service for any member of her family, however distant, was compulsory.

“Then she's loaded. What about her assets? Did you do the prenup?”

“Let's just say she's benefited from the estate-planning services of Oates and Associates. Of course Lisbeth won't let her starve, but the real cash goes to her kids—when she has them.”

He looked around and lowered his voice.

“She's a bit . . .
bitter . . .
to be honest. She wants the apartment, a chunk of the shares . . . as much as we can get her, basically. I need you to run it all up the flagpole and see what flies. And by the way, Lisbeth has a particular interest in her so I promised you would be available—don't tell her she should get a therapist, whatever you do. If she wants to talk to you about
anything
, you listen. It's on Lisbeth's clock.”

“Who's the husband's attorney?”

“Sebastian Stackallan.”

Liddy burst out laughing.

“You're dreaming, Curtis. We don't have a hope.”

But Curtis grinned maniacally.

“Oh, yes, we do,” he said, standing up to greet the returning client. “This is the fun bit!”

Liddy turned.

A slender woman in a cream trench coat, a perfect sheet of blond hair over her shoulders, approached them daintily on her four-inch heels. She was holding a small leather purse in her hands and Liddy's attention was drawn to her tiny wrists, where the white skin stretched translucent, revealing the patterning of blue veins beneath like the branches of a fragile tree.

Liddy stared at her. She was sure she recognized her from somewhere.

“Hi, Liddy,” said the woman. “I'm Chloe Stackallan.”

Chloe Stackallan in the flesh was proof of the failure of mechanical reproduction to reflect the aura of a work of art. The photograph Sydney had shown Liddy of Chloe as the perfect bride had still utterly failed to convey the reality of Chloe's extraordinary beauty. Liddy was momentarily transfixed by her patrician perfection. Then she pulled herself together.

“Hi, Chloe,” said Liddy. “It's good to meet you, although I'm sorry for the circumstances.”

“Thank you, Liddy.”

It took only a graceful wave of Chloe's manicured hand for two liveried doormen to appear with a chaise longue onto which she reclined. Liddy wondered what it must be like to have that as a superpower.

“Tell me why you want to end your marriage,” said Liddy.

Chloe bristled. She considered such straight talking a little vulgar.

“We've been arguing for months and I can't go on anymore,” she said.

She waved her hand again. This time a waiter arrived with jasmine tea.

“Sebastian blames me, you see. But it's not like you can get pregnant to order, is it? I mean, God knows I want a baby. I've been a vegetarian since I was thirteen years old and yet I've had to eat mackerel every week for two years to improve my fertility.”

Curtis was not sure what expression to adopt here so he went for “avuncular sympathy.”

“He's like that English king who kept chopping off his wives' heads because they didn't produce an heir.”

“Henry the Eighth?” suggested Liddy.

“
Exactly.
He's not the person I thought he was. I should never have married him. He doesn't value me like he should.”

She paused and lifted the cup to her lips, the slight tremor in her fingers betraying her outrage, and in that moment Liddy understood the story of their marriage. Chloe was a woman reared to be a holy grail of womankind, a reward for a handsome, wealthy bachelor who had spent years playing the field in search of it. The idea that a man might hand back such a prize was incomprehensible to her.

“Okay,” said Liddy. “Any drugs, alcohol, cruel or inhumane treatment?”

“Apart from the mackerel eating . . .” said Curtis to lighten the tone, but Chloe's lips pursed so tightly they almost disappeared.

“Abandonment? Imprisonment?”

Chloe shook her head.

“Infidelity?”

Chloe looked surreptitiously side to side.

“Only once,” she said, “but I promise he'll never find out.” She looked at Curtis. “I was
desperate
,” she said. Curtis looked back and tried to convey the unspoken message that in similar circumstances she could always give him a call.

“So,” she continued. “What can you get for me? Ballpark, of course.”

Liddy glanced at Curtis, who nodded at her to speak. He and Liddy were a practiced double act. They knew the steps to this dance of expectation management.