Innocent Spouse (22 page)

When I went alone, the trip was usually no more than two nights. I often spent one of those nights seeing Paolo. If it was a one-night trip, the night usually belonged to him. Everybody has a selfish pleasure and he was mine. I should have felt guilty, but I didn’t. Not in an overt way. I had no overarching designs on the man. I didn’t want him
that
way—happily ever after. I wanted him this way—here and now. I didn’t want to upset his world, nor did he. We went to cafés and held hands under the table, we flirted, we talked endlessly. I loved his voice, his accent. We called room service for midnight meals in my room. We watched television. We made out on the hotel room floor, but when it came to sex, we were well matched in our restraint. In a world where sex was everywhere, we were in no hurry. Me because I still felt married. It was too soon. Paulo because he sensed my hesitation and had his own old-school and endearing moral code. We were in the same place and we liked it. We loved playing at being in love.

Sometimes when I was in New York I didn’t see or talk to him.
Other times I felt I needed him. One of those times came after the September 8, 1997, memorial service for fashion designer Gianni Versace at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The service was moving and sad. The Temple of Dendur was adorned with astonishingly beautiful white flowers, Andrea Bocelli’s voice soared to the glass rafters, the grief on the faces of Donatella Versace and her brother Santo was palpably real. My own heartbreak overtook and surprised me like a rogue wave and, as Whitney Houston sang, I cried like everyone else. The service had become more than a tribute to a great designer, more than a collection of boldface names. It enflamed my own wounds, and my own grief poured out, even though it had been months since Howard died. My
LKL
colleague, Dean Sicoli held my hand, realizing, he told me later, that a funeral was probably not the smartest place for me to be.

I had not told Paolo I would be in town, but when the service ended and after I said good-bye to Dean, I hopped in a cab and headed downtown to his restaurant. It was closed during the between-meal break, but the front door was open. I tore through the dining room, past waiters polishing glassware, arranging silver, and freshening flowers, and charged boldly into the kitchen. Paolo’s face told me I was the last person he’d expected to see. But he smiled, stopped what he was doing, and came around the large stove area. He seemed embarrassed to be in grubby kitchen clothes rather than his starched whites, but he looked good to me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just had to see you. I thought it would be a day trip but now I have to stay for a meeting tomorrow morning. I was at Versace’s memorial service and I’m sad and I missed you.”

“I don’t know what I can do tonight. I have two big parties late.” Paolo sighed and rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin.

I leaned close, kissed him on the cheek, and placed my room key in the palm of his hand. “I know. I understand. But you know where to find me.” And then I was gone, back in a cab and headed uptown.

Late that night, in bed, I heard a rustling at my door, a faint knock. I stirred from my sleep and dashed to the door. I unhooked the chain and turned the lock as I finished pulling on the hotel’s terry cloth bathrobe over my silk night slip. I pulled the door open to see his smile. If nothing else I was seduced by his smile.

“I can’t stay long,” he said.

“Well, stay for a minute,” I said.

“A minute,” he said.

He looked irresistibly handsome. He was in his sexy professor mode in a dark suit, dark polo shirt, and wire-rimmed glasses. His hair was floppy on his head, wet at the ends, like he’d taken a shower.

“I’ll order some tea from room service,” I said.

“Chamomile, please. With lemon.” It was two in the morning. The room was dark. I found some of the small votive candles the hotel provided for emergencies and lit them.

“Really, I’m not staying,” he said. “I am so tired. I have a medical checkup first thing tomorrow, and we were so busy tonight and I just couldn’t get out of there.”

“Just sit down,” I said, getting back in bed and pulling the covers over me. Often the hotel gave me this same room. I liked it because it was on the seventh floor and had two huge windows that looked out on the city. I would sleep with them open because I liked the street sounds of Manhattan—sirens wailing up Madison, trucks grinding their gears, taxi drivers laying a heavy hand on the horn. To me they were familiar, comforting sounds, and more soothing than silence.

Room service arrived quickly. Paolo took the tray from the waiter, placed it on the desk, and poured two cups of tea. He set them on the bedside table, sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked at me.

“Come over here,” he said, patting the space beside him. He grabbed a couple of pillows and fluffed them up. “Come here and get comfortable.” I slid across the bed and curled up beside him. He handed me a cup. We sipped our tea.

“It’s nice of you to come see me,” I said, “and tuck me in.”

“How could I resist? If a beautiful woman gives you her room key you do not stand her up.”

“Oh, that’s your French half talking.”

He shrugged. “You never know. Could be my Italian, too.”

I sighed. He sighed, took my cup, and put it next to his on the bedside table. He turned back, leaned over, and kissed me. Slowly he eased the terry cloth robe off my shoulders. He kissed my neck, my shoulder, and then down my arm to my fingers. I closed my eyes and gave in to the rush. I reached for his chin and brought his face up to
mine and kissed him deeply. I moved my hands through his hair and down his back and across his chest. I kissed his face and his neck and danced my tongue in his ear, nibbling on his earlobe. We kissed again. I clutched his head to my chest, rocking him, my fingers playing in his hair.

“I want to know something, Paolo. Are you afraid of falling in love with me?”

Candles flickered in the light breeze from the window. “I think perhaps I’ve done that already,” he said, with an air of resignation in his voice.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said. “Don’t be afraid of me. I don’t want anything from you but the times we have together, times like this. They sustain me. You make me float when everything else is pulling me down. But I can’t forget that you’re married. Not ever. I just can’t. I really, really don’t want to disturb your marriage. I’ve been there. I’ve done that.” I was thinking about Howard, about how when we first met he was married, though I had believed he was in the midst of a divorce. It didn’t make any difference. An affair was one thing, but I did not want any man leaving his wife for me ever again. That road was tawdry and definitely not romantic.

Paolo leaned over and kissed my belly through the brown silk slip.

I sighed. “You like that part, don’t you?”

“I like all your parts. Even the ones I haven’t seen.” He sighed and rolled over on his back. He rested his wrist on his forehead and stared at the ceiling.

“Don’t worry about my marriage,” he said. “It just is what it is. We all make peace with certain arrangements, and I’ve made peace with my marriage. I’m not guilty, not
that
guilty.” He smiled impishly. “You shouldn’t be.”

I put my hand on his chest, and walked my fingers toward his chin. “You know, I like your parts, too. Particularly your neck right here.” I touched him just under his ear. He pulled me down and we kissed softly and slowly.

“Should we make love?” I whispered.

“Yes, we should.” But we didn’t.

The next morning I was up early for a vigorous run in Central Park. It was sunny and cool, a beautiful autumn morning in New York.
I ran around the reservoir and felt revived. I was part of the world. I was among the living. And I was relieved that the night before with Paolo we hadn’t done anything to complicate things further. It had been romantic and intense and I felt like Cinderella before the coach turned into a pumpkin. Fairy tales have their own reality. My relationship with Paolo was as real as that, and as satisfying.

As I ran, my mind was spinning. I adored Paolo. I was probably in love with him. He was like an addiction. I would arrive from Washington beaten by forces beyond my control—the government, Nathans, the show—with my self-esteem and confidence in the ditch. Then, after a dose of Paolo, I would feel good about myself again. I stood taller and welcomed the challenges ahead.

Maybe our liaisons did the same for him. I couldn’t cast spells over the government or my work, but I could make Paolo smile.

B
ACK AT THE
hotel I showered and dressed quickly. I was late for a meeting with a man from Christie’s to discuss the best time to sell the antiques that Howard had inherited and were now thankfully mine and not the government’s. It was a dreary occasion because I had thought these pieces would always be ours and would eventually pass to Spencer. Since he wasn’t a named heir to the Joynt trust, at least he’d have something from the family. That wasn’t an option anymore. We needed cash.

When I returned to the hotel room the phone was ringing. “What are you doing right now?” Paolo asked, purring into my ear.

“I just finished breakfast.”

“Don’t ask any questions. Put on some jeans and meet me in front of your hotel in fifteen minutes. Okay? Can you do that for me? Wear something warm.”

“Okay. I will do that.”

There under the awning at the hotel’s entrance was Paolo on his motorcycle, the engine idling. He wore a light sweater, leather jacket, and jeans. He held out a helmet.

“I can’t do this,” I said.

“Yes, you can. Put on the helmet. We’re going for a ride. You trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” I said. “But I’m an only parent. I can’t take chances.”

“You’re wasting time,” he said sweetly. “Get on.”

I pulled the helmet over my head and wrapped my arms tightly around his middle. Paolo gunned it and we were off—up Park Avenue, a right turn on Ninety-Sixth Street, an easy merge onto the FDR Drive. I took a deep breath and gave in to the ride.

We zoomed along the Merritt Parkway and into the beautiful New York and Connecticut countryside. I loved holding on to him for dear life. My fear was overtaken by the sheer exhilaration of freedom. Paolo was strong and confident and made all the right choices. We rode for hours through woods and by lakes, passing rock walls and open fields—and then we were back in Manhattan.

“You needed this,” Paolo said. “You needed this more than anything.”

“Yes.” We had shared many tender moments over the months, but this one truly was the best.

T
HE TWO WELL-DRESSED
men who walked in the front door of Balthazar were obviously accustomed to making the scene in New York City. I spotted them from the maître d’s post where I was standing with my friend Susan Magrino. They were the type who didn’t need reservations to get the best tables in the restaurant of the moment. In the fall of 1997, Balthazar was that restaurant. The men looked comfortable, secure, and stylish in an offhand American way. Their eyes scanned the room. When they saw Susan, their faces lit up.

“Hey, Magrino!” the bald stocky one called out.

“Susan, good to see you,” said the other. He was handsome like a matinee idol: thick, dark hair and a dark moustache. He had the quiet assurance of a good-looking man who knows he makes heads turn.

If it hadn’t been for Susan, I wouldn’t have been at Balthazar at all. To get a table there, you had to be someone or know someone. Susan qualified in both categories. She was one of New York’s most successful PR executives. Her long list of clients included many “names,” such as Martha Stewart, as well as important corporations and publications. She was smart and attractive and had a good sense of humor. Her blond hair, bright eyes, and broad, generous smile set her apart from the high-strung, edgy stereotype of the New York PR woman. She also had an unforgettable deep voice. I’d met her in 1992 when she was doing publicity for Charlie Rose and I was producing the Washington segment of his nightly PBS talk show. When it came to Charlie, Susan and I shared mutual affection and exasperation. We loved Charlie but we also knew him too well to be adoring sycophants. Now, with my job at
Larry King Live
, we talked practically every week. But on this night at Balthazar, we weren’t working; we were just friends out for dinner.

The room was large, loud, and crowded. It had high ceilings, banquettes
lining the walls, and tables packed into every square inch—the look and feel of a Parisian bistro. Even the hum of voices sounded imported. The antique lighting cast a golden glow that was reflected many times over in the huge mirrors on the walls.

I felt good. I thought I looked good, too, in a short, stretchy skirt and matching T-shirt—funky and sexy, completely unlike anything I’d worn for the past twenty years. Susan introduced me to the two new arrivals, gesturing to the affable bald fellow, saying, “Carol, this is Bobby.” Then, indicating the darkly handsome one, “And this is Keith.” If she said last names I didn’t catch them. “Carol is up here from Washington. She’s a producer for Larry King.” We shook hands.

“We’ve done business before,” Bobby said. “You’ve booked some people through me. Tell Larry I said ‘Hi.’ ” He must be Bobby Zarem, I thought, one of New York’s public relations legends.

Keith moved closer to me. “So, Larry King, eh?”

“Yeah,” I said, “Larry King.” He was beguiling, and he knew it.

“I watch that show all the time,” he said. “I love Larry.”

I laughed. “Yes, he’s very lovable.”

“Have you been there long?” he asked.

“Not long. About three years.”

“Why are you in New York? Got a hot date?”

“Well, that’s a thought”—I laughed again—“but no, no hot dates. I went to the memorial service for Gianni Versace. We want Donatella on the show.”

“Oh, you do, do you? You want Donatella Versace?” He was full of himself, mocking me, flirting. It made me blush.

Susan and Bobby stood to the side, deep in conversation.

“What’s this outfit you’ve got on?” Keith asked, moving closer.