Trading Up (23 page)

The phone began ringing, but she ignored it. She needed help from a man as rich and powerful as Comstock, if not more so; Selden was now out of the question, and Harold Vane had loaned her too much money in the past (which she still, technically, “owed” him as well) to be willing to help her out again. It would have to be some man who didn’t know about her past troubles, who would believe she was being taken advantage of. But that shouldn’t be difficult, because she was being taken advantage of!

The problem was that, generally, men did these kinds of favors in exchange for sex, or the promise of sex. But she couldn’t offer that now, now that she was married.

She closed her eyes and raised her fists to her forehead . . . her hands were tied, and what difference would it make anyway; if Selden found out, even just about the money, he’d be sure to ask questions, and then he would find out that she and Comstock had had an affair—for a whole summer! She should have told Selden the truth about Comstock when she’d had the chance, but he’d made it so difficult, and now, it was too late. If only she could find someone who hated Comstock as much as she did . . . and lowering her fists, she looked around the room for inspiration.

Her eyes alighted on a row of invitations placed on the mantelpiece, and in a fury, she stood up. She couldn’t go back to her old life: going to party after party in the hope of meeting “someone,” sucking up to people she could barely stand, giving blow jobs to men who would pretend they didn’t know her when they saw her next; 18947_ch01.qxd 5/1/03 12:12 PM Page 125

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and underneath it all, the constant worry about money, and the niggling fear about what would happen to her in the future—what would happen when her beauty diminished and she had nothing to offer . . .

With a cry of despair, she swept the invitations off the mantelpiece. A heavy white folded card with raised lettering landed at her feet: It was the invitation to the Winter Gala for the New York City Ballet. Mimi was the head of the committee and she’d already asked Janey to sit with her and George . . .

George!
she thought. And looking at the invitations littered over the carpet, she immediately felt ashamed, like a small child who has ruined her favorite toy in a fit of temper.

Picking up the invitations one by one, she carefully replaced them on the mantelpiece. And then, when everything was back in place, she picked up the phone and called George.

Half an hour later, a black Mercedes SUV pulled up in front of a discreet entrance to a building on Park Avenue and Sixty-ninth Street. The SUV had tinted, bulletproof windows, a television, and an Internet connection; in the past year the SUV

had replaced the limousine as the vehicle of choice for high-profile moguls. Its major selling point was that in an emergency, it could be used as a mobile office, allowing the mogul to do business while being spirited away from the angry masses who were clamoring for food because the scanners at the supermarkets had become disabled—

which was one of the many popular Y2K predictions about what would happen when the clock struck 12:01 on January 1, 2000. But like most apocalyptic prophe-cies, Y2K had come and gone without a peep, with no interruption to the flow of goods and services. But the super-luxury SUV continued to be all the rage.

This particular car was owned by George Paxton; the driver, Mr. Pike, was a Sikh who wore a turban. Like George’s other driver, Muhammad, Mr. Pike was trained in the martial arts, but George liked to joke with people that Mr. Pike kept a sword stashed in his head wrap, a physical impossibility, which most people nevertheless believed. Dressed in the traditional Indian garb of an embroidered silk tunic, cummerbund, and matching trousers, Mr. Pike got out of the car and held open the back door. The only problem with the SUV was that it was impossible to enter or exit gracefully, and so, after a moment of awkwardly shuffling his feet in order to determine which leg should emerge first, George Paxton hopped out of the vehicle.

Wearing a perfectly tailored suit, he was as glossy as a black beetle. As he was expecting, Janey Wilcox was waiting by the entrance, clutching her bag to her chest with the secretive, fearful attitude of a person hiding plutonium; when she saw him, she immediately swung her arm down and tossed her hair over her shoulder in an attempt to look casual.

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She was so beautiful, George thought.

Extending a beetlelike arm, at the end of which was fastened a large, eighteen-karat-gold Bulgari watch, he said, “Welcome. Come in. Let me show you around the place.”

He pushed a small, gold buzzer located next to a heavy wooden door that appeared to have no handle; in a moment the door was opened by a tall, cadaverous man dressed in a gray morning suit with tails. “Good evening, Mr. Paxton,” the man said, bowing his head.

“Good evening, Buswell,” George chirped. “Mr. Buswell, this is Janey Wilcox, a friend of my wife’s. I’m showing her the apartment on the sly, so keep it under your hat.”

“Very good, Mr. Paxton.”

She followed him willingly through the tiny lobby, painted sky blue with white, scalloped moldings, but balked slightly at the elevator. “George, I . . . ,” she began.

He held up one hand, sliding the brass gate open with the other. “Plenty of time for that later,” he said, motioning for her to get in. The elevator was no larger than four feet square, and squeezing themselves into the corners, George said, “The only problem with these places are the elevators. They built them back when elevators were a brand-new invention, and no one quite trusted them—an elevator used to be considered a luxury rather than a necessity.” The elevator slowly squeaked upward, and she smiled at him, but he caught a flicker of panic in her eyes. She probably thought he was going to demand sex from her, but he guessed that by the time their encounter was over, the reverse would be true. “George, where
are
you taking me?” she asked, with enough humor in her voice to prevent the question from sounding offensive. And softening his eyes in order to indicate that she had nothing to fear from him (which she didn’t, at that point), he leaned toward her and said, “It’s a surprise. I know you like beautiful things, and I thought you might enjoy seeing this.”

“But what is it?” she cried, as the elevator stopped and the door opened. George stepped out into an inlaid marble foyer with shining walnut walls; the antique wood being so expensive it was almost never used as paneling. “It’s an apartment,” he said.

“An apartment?” she asked, looking around with a mixture of awe and annoyance. The apartment was completely empty, the former occupants having moved out the year before, but even bereft of furniture, it was impressive. The rotunda ceiling was twelve feet high, painted with clouds and cherubs and edged in gilt; as Janey tilted her head back, George noted the youthful smoothness of her neck, and the beautiful flow of her breastbone into her chest.

“Ah, but it’s not just
any
apartment,” he said, leading her into the largest of the three front parlors. “It’s the biggest, grandest apartment in New York City, and the 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 127

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most expensive. Twenty thousand square feet, thirty rooms, twelve bedrooms—all for the asking price of thirty million dollars.”

“George!” she said, astounded.

He looked at her appraisingly; in the face of such riches, she seemed to have temporarily forgotten about the mysterious trouble that had driven her to call him and beg to see him immediately. “But you already
have
an apartment,” she said accusingly, as if no one should be allowed more than one.

“That I do,” he nodded. “But you’re lucky if an apartment like this comes on the market and you happen to have the money to buy it. I do. You know who used to live here?”

“No,” Janey said, shaking her head.

“Maury Finchberg. Remember him? In the mid-eighties, he was the richest man in New York City.”

“Everyone said he was awful!” Janey exclaimed.

“He did look a bit like a tortoise,” George said, taking a seat on one of the radiators. He was enjoying himself immensely, loving her amazement as she slowly turned around on the floor in front of him, but then, when you were enormously rich, as he was, you almost always had a good time.

“What are you going to do with it?” she asked.

“I’m going to give it to Mimi as a surprise Christmas present.” He sat back, taking in her look of shock—and, as he suspected he would see, jealousy—but what woman wouldn’t be jealous? “Janey,” he said, folding an ankle over his knee, “have you ever wondered why a man becomes rich?”

“That’s easy,” she said, with the scoffing manner of a child who thinks she’s been asked a dumb question. “For sex.”

“Yes, that’s what all women think,” George said, smiling. “But you’re not giving us rich men enough credit. The truth is, some of us actually do it to do good.”

“Oh, George,” she said, spinning on him with playful aggression. “What good have you ever done?”

“Aha!” he said. “Like most people, you disdain the rich man. Even though you happen to be married to one.”

“Selden isn’t nearly as rich as you are,” she said.

“But don’t you think that, after a certain point, it doesn’t matter?” he asked.

“But it does, obviously,” she said. “Selden couldn’t afford an apartment like this.”

“I was thinking about donating it to the city to be a school,” he said. “But sadly enough, those kinds of huge, charitable donations have a way of backfiring on you—the public doesn’t get the satisfaction of thinking you’re evil because you’re rich—and your business associates think you’re soft in the head. Just before he lost 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 128

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his money, Maury Finchberg donated huge chunks of it to revamp the subway system . . . the next thing he knew, the IRS was on top of him and his company was dismantled in a hostile takeover.”

“I see,” Janey said thoughtfully. Frowning slightly, she turned and walked slowly to the window, giving him the benefit of viewing her profile and figure to its best advantage. At the window, she turned, and her eyes sparkled at him flirtatiously.

“You’re not anything like the way I thought you were, George,” she said softly.

He wasn’t surprised; he was not, he knew, good at parties or in large public gatherings, being a man who revealed his private self only to those who were closest to him. But her comment showed him that, despite herself, she was falling under his spell—in any minute she might start coming on to him.

She was, he thought, too fine a specimen to turn down for sex, and he had already decided that if the opportunity presented itself, he would go for it—

although out of respect for Selden, he would never make the first move. The reality was that he would probably never have to: He hadn’t become a billionaire several times over without some knowledge of human nature, and he was all too familiar with the behavior of women suddenly confronted with a man who has a great deal of money; at times he even believed their reactions were biological. The only women who could resist a man with money were young and idealistic, who had no idea of the struggles ahead of them; or the truly talented, creative types, who possessed something bigger than money; or the occasional rich woman, who had no need for it. But the most desperate were the so-called career women—they were either playing at working until they found a rich man, or they were really working, in which case they understood the drawbacks of hard labor and were tired and wanted a break. In either case, both types were the most sexually rapacious—by the end of the first date they were usually offering at least a blow job, out of the mistaken belief that this would somehow prove to him that they liked him for
him,
and weren’t playing games by holding back on sex. And that, he thought, rubbing his face as he gazed at Janey, was exactly what he’d appreciated about Mimi—she’d never pretended that she actually liked
him
. From the beginning, she’d explained that she found him a complete boor and would tolerate him only as long as he remained rich.

But Janey Wilcox was, he thought, another type. Where Selden Rose saw an innocent, he perceived an operator. He didn’t blame Selden for marrying her—Selden was still clambering up the woodpile, trying to get ahead, and like most clever men he understood the value of having the right wife—he only hoped that Janey would cause him no pain, as Selden had had plenty of that from his first wife. And so, smiling warmly in response to her comment, he said, “You’re not like what I imagined either.” He leaned back against the window, enjoying the sight of her obvious pleasure, and thinking that he was only partially lying. The fact was, she was exactly what he 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 129

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thought she would be, the exception being that underneath her cold and slightly studied sophisticated exterior, she had a childish side. That side, he suspected, could be either warm and loving, or cruel and demanding, depending on its level of comfort; if pushed, he guessed that her id would seek satisfaction no matter what the cost, even if it meant her own self-destruction.

Holding out his hand, he said, “Let me see this letter that’s got you all riled up.” A ripple of some emotion—anger? frustration?—crossed her face, and reaching into her bag, she removed the letter and handed it to him with disgust. “It’s all so embarrassing,” she said, but he held up his hand to silence her, and as she hovered over him, began silently reading. “Dear Ms. Wilcox,” the letter began.

As of June 15, 2000, we have been attempting to speak with you regarding
the matter of the untitled screenplay for Parador Pictures. This is now our
fourth attempt to contact you.

It has come to our attention that you have a verbal agreement with Comstock Dibble for the delivery of an original, untitled screenplay. In consideration
of said screenplay (hereby known as “Untitled Screenplay”), our records indicate
that you received a check for $30,000 on May 23, 1999. According to the by-laws of the Writers Guild of America, a verbal agreement coupled with an
exchange of payment shall be considered equal to, but not in excess of, and governed by, the standard Writers Guild union agreements for an Untitled Screenplay, in consideration of which the Writers Guild standards for delivery of
Untitled Screenplay and payments shall apply.