Trump Tower (57 page)

“Is there a couch or a chair?”

“Yeah, sure . . . there's a couch and a couple of chairs . . .”

“Where's the couch?”

“In my living room.”

“Where in the living room?”

“Under the window.”

“Are all the lights on or off?”

“They're . . . one of them is on,” she lied, again.

“Turn them all on.”

“What?”

“Turn on all the lights. Every one of them. Go on.”

She asked, “Why?”

“Do it.”

She hesitated, then said, “Okay,” and turned on all the lights.

“Now . . . stand up on the couch, facing the window.”

“What?”

“Stand up on the couch facing the window. And open the blinds all the way.”

“What for?”

“Do as I tell you. Stand on the couch and open the blinds.”

She didn't move. “Why?”

“Go on.”

Slowly, she did what he told her to do.

“Are you standing up on the couch?”

“Yes.”

“Facing the window?”

Her mouth was getting very dry. “Why?”

“Are the blinds open?”

“Yes.”

“Now put your phone on speaker, put it down on the window ledge and face the window.”

“Why?”

“Do as I tell you.”

She fumbled with the phone, found the speaker button, and put it on the ledge. “Can you see out the window?”

“Yes.”

“Can people out there see you?”

Her breathing was getting heavier because she realized what was going to happen. “Yes.”

“Now take off your sweatshirt.”

She didn't budge.

“Take off your sweatshirt,” he said again.

Her hands were trembling. “No.”

“Yes,” he said. “Take off your sweatshirt.”

She reached for the bottom of her sweatshirt, but all she could do was hold onto it. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I can't.”

“Yes you can. Do as I tell you. Take off your sweatshirt.”

She tried to swallow, but her mouth was totally dry. “I can't . . .”

“Do it. Take off your sweatshirt. Do as I tell you.”

She closed her eyes, hesitated, then pulled off her sweatshirt.

“Did you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Now . . . take off your jeans . . .”

“No . . .”

“Yes. Take off your jeans. Go on.”

Almost in a trance, she unbuttoned her jeans, opened them, and let them fall to her ankles.

“What are you wearing now?” he asked.

She kept her eyes shut tight and whispered, “My bra and panties.”

“Now take off your bra.”

Her hands were shaking as she reached behind her and did what he wanted her to do.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said and let her bra fall to the couch.

“Now take off your panties.”

She didn't budge.

“Go on,” he said. “Roll your panties down slowly . . . very very slowly . . . roll them down.”

With her eyes still shut, she put her hands on the sides of her panties and then, slowly, rolled them down her hips.

“Pull them all the way down.”

She did.

“Are you naked?”

She was barely able to say, “Yes.”

“Can people across the street see you in the window?”

Again, she only barely managed to say, “Yes.”

“Now,” he said, “put your hands there . . .”

She couldn't move.

“Go on . . . put your hands there . . .”

In a whisper she said, “Where?”

“You know where . . . go on . . .”

She moved her hands and touched herself and now her knees were so weak that she couldn't stand up anymore, and she fell onto the couch, still touching herself.

He kept whispering to her, and she couldn't stop.

“Tommy . . .” she groaned. “Tommy . . . Antonia wants Tommy . . .”

“Antonia is going to have Tommy,” he said. “Tonight. Tommy is coming to Antonia's apartment and Tommy will ring the bell, and Antonia is going to open the door for Tommy, completely naked . . .”

“Yes,” she groaned.

“Yes, Antonia?”

“Yes . . . yes . . . completely naked.”

“And do whatever Tommy wants.”

“Yes.” She couldn't stop. “Whatever Tommy wants.”

“Whatever Tommy wants.”

“Yes . . . yes,” she said it very loudly. “Whatever Tommy wants. Antonia wants. Whatever Tommy wants. Antonia wants. Yes.”

She waited for him like for the rest of the night, and finally fell asleep around three.

He showed up at five.

FRIDAY

W
hen she saw Arthur's caller ID come up on her phone, Cyndi grabbed it and asked, “How's my favorite agent?”

He asked, “And how's my favorite client?”

“That's what you say to all the girls.”

“No, I don't. I say to all the girls, how's my second-favorite client? And they say, is Cyndi still your favorite? And I say, she will always be my favorite.”

“But will you still love me when I'm old and wrinkly?”

“You? Old? I promise, at a hundred and ten, you will still be the most beautiful girl on the catwalks and the most wonderful woman in the world.”

“Can we be a hundred and ten together? I'd like that.”

“If that's what you want, but you've got a lot of catching up to do. I'll be a hundred and nine next August.”

“Are there catwalk shows for Zimmer frame designers?”

He laughed, then said, carefully, “And speaking of catwalks . . . we've had a very cool offer.”

“If it's Fashion Week in New York, my answer is the same. No.”

“Don't say that until you hear what's on the table.”

“I don't want to work in New York, ever again.”

“I know. But we're talking unheard-of money. One show, six changes. You open with an evening gown. You close with the bridal gown. No prêt. All one-offs. No bikinis, no underwear. Big opening. Big finish.” He paused, then reminded her, “Cyndi . . . we're talking one million dollars.”

She didn't hesitate. “Arthur . . . not New York.”

“Next spring. Last show of the week. Major designer. Major finale. Everybody who is anybody. And, of course, there's the closing party. I think we can probably work a tie-in with your perfume. You will light up the entire city.”

“Been there, done that, hated it. I'm never going through again what I went through three years ago. Whatever happened to Rome? You said Giancarlo asked for me. Rome is fun. I'll go to Rome anytime.”

“Giancarlo thought you'd work cheap because you love him. We said no.”

“I do love him. And I'd be happy to work for him anytime. I also love his mother. She cooks linguini primavera for me. Remember that shoot in Sardinia when I caught the flu? She came down from Rome, all by herself, and sat
in the villa with me for a week, holding my hand and cooking. She also taught me how to play
Machiavelli
. It's an Italian card game. I have no one to play cards with in New York, so tell Giancarlo yes.”

“No.”

“Arthur, it's not the money.”

“Cyndi, it's always got to be the money. Food or no food,
Machiavelli
or pinochle. You'll kill your brand by underpricing it. That's what you pay me to protect. You can't work for Giancarlo for no money. But this offer is real money. A million bucks. No one else can get even close to what he's willing to pay you. Every girl in New York, London, Paris, Rome, anywhere . . . Moscow, Tokyo, name it . . . they'd kill for this. One day. You open. Six changes. You close. And the party . . .”

“I hate those parties.”

“All right. You won't have to go. We'll stipulate that in the contract. Listen to me, nothing could be easier . . .”

Now she asked, suspiciously, “Who is it?”

“Morning walkthrough,” he went on. “Afternoon dress, makeup, hair . . . curtain at eight, biggest show of the week, home by nine thirty with a million bucks.”

She asked again, “Arthur . . . who?”

He hesitated. “Loic.”

Closing her eyes—no one had mentioned that name in a very long time—she said quietly, “Never.”

“Cyndi . . .”

“No. Not New York. And never, ever, him.”

Arthur was silent for a long time. “I guess deep down I knew you wouldn't. I probably shouldn't have asked.”

Suddenly, she blurted out, “The fucking bastard hasn't shown a stitch of design in nine years, and now one day, just like that, out of the blue, he decides to come back into the business? So his fucking whore wife must have finally dumped him. So Monsieur de la Grange decides to make his comeback in New York . . . not in Paris or London . . . but in New York. And Monsieur de la Grange thinks that a million bucks is going to buy my ass back. Well, Monsieur de la Grange can fuck himself. I spent enough time doing it for him. He can take his million bucks and . . .” she stopped.

Her eyes got very red.

There was another long silence before Arthur said, “Please forgive me. I'm sorry. I should have known better.”

“Oh . . . Arthur . . . dear sweet Arthur . . . I've already given enough blood. Never again. Not him. Not in this life. Not even in the next life.”

“Cyndi . . . if I was thirty-five years younger and could stay awake past nine o'clock, I would whisk you away in my pumpkin coach.”

She smiled. “And if I didn't love your wife so much, and she hadn't told me how you snore . . .”

“She said that?”

“Thank you, Arthur. I love you.”

She hung up and closed her eyes again.

She didn't want to remember Loic. She didn't want him anywhere near her life. She'd spent so many years learning how to forget him and everything about him, and everything about them.

Except one thing.

That was all she allowed herself. A single charm on her bracelet of memories from a very long time ago.

Only one thing.

Their first kiss.

Barefoot on the beach at Cannes on a chilly September night. There was still traffic roaring up and down the
Croisette
, and lights were on in the rooms and suites of the Majestic and the Carlton and the Martinez. Water lapped quietly on the shore and a full moon hung over the sea, casting a beam of light along the sea that came right to them.

He took the sweater that was wrapped around his neck and put it over her, and held his arm around her.

Then, very slowly, he turned her face toward his and put his lips barely against hers. They stayed like that, staring into each other's eyes, until she finally took his face in her hands and closed her eyes and she kissed him.

And now, for one brief instant, other kisses and other beaches began to fill her head. Rio and Tahiti. Cap d'Antibes and Maui. Costa Rica and St. Martin.

“Stop it,” she said out loud, fighting with herself not to cry. “Stop.” She stood up and took several deep breaths. “I am not going to do this to myself. Stop.”

Grabbing her phone, she called Alicia's cell. “Where are you?”

“At work.”

“Oh . . .” She wanted Alicia to be home. “Sorry . . . never mind.”