Kimberly Stuart (14 page)

“Tell her I'll cut a check when I get back.”

Mac laughed and I felt a sharp pang of regret that I wasn't there to see his eyes light up. “When do I get to hear the illustrious Sadie Maddox and her ‘spiritually moving' voice?”

I smiled. “I'm sure we can arrange something.”

“My people should call your people?”

“For you, I'll make an exception. You can call my direct line but on one condition.”

“What's that?”

“I get to pick the song.”

“Ah,” he moaned. “I was all ready to request ‘I Like My Women a Little on the Trashy Side.'”

“That is
not
an actual song.”

As punishment for my ignorance, Mac burst into the chorus.

“I'm leaving now,” I said over his singing. “See you back in the land of corn.”

He finished a phrase with a very awkward octave jump. The man had moxie, singing like that for a person who'd recorded with EMI. “Take care, Miss Sadie. And watch yourself around those New York wolves.”

“Speaking of wolves,” I said, “thank you, Mac, for calling when you did. I had a run-in with a wolf right before you called and you have redeemed what was to be a very discouraging walk home.” I waved at Tom as I headed toward the elevator. “So thank you.”

“You are welcome,” he said, so softly I could scarcely hear him. “See you soon, girl.”

I hung up and watched the lights above the elevator float down to me.

Network

“Sadie!” Margot Sheffield air-kissed both of my cheeks. “
Mmmwah
,
mmmwah
,” she intoned with each smooch. An overabundance of Chanel assaulted my nose and I struggled with the impulse to sneeze into her blonde extensions. She pulled back and held me by the shoulders. “Wednesday night. I was
there
, you were
divine
, I
adore
you.”

“Thank you, Margot,” I said, leaning against the wall, hoping to convey with my body language an ease I didn't feel. “I'm glad you were there.”

“Would not have
missed
it,” Margot said, as if the thought was offensive to her. Margot and I had known each other for many years. She came from the oldest of old money and had been my first friend among the wealthy patrons after my debut at the Met. We moved in the same circles, knew the same people, freely name-dropped each other when the occasion rose. And yet I wouldn't have called Margot a friend, mostly because I'd seen her wax and wane in her “adoration.” During that exchange, for example, I chose not to mention her conspicuous absence at
Rigoletto
two summers before, the chamber series at First Presbyterian, and the Pops concert last Valentine's Day, not to mention a vicious rumor I'd suspected she'd started regarding my alleged bout with vocal nodes. Even with her indiscretions and flaky loyalty, Margot was not a person with whom I wanted to trifle. Besides, why dig up old bones, as it were, when she'd spent so much getting hers synthetically chiseled?

We were standing near the swanky bar at Deseo, me nursing a martini and Margot a gin and tonic, as we waited for the rest of our dinner party. Richard had asked a slew of people to meet for dinner the evening before I was to fly back to Maplewood. One last hurrah before returning to casseroles and cream of mushroom soup in its myriad incarnations.

Marcos and Isabel Ruiz came toward us, Isabel's slender and sculpted arms held open wide. She enveloped me in a hug and Marcos went straight to the bar.

“Sadie, you look beautiful,” Isabel said. She stood at just under five feet, though she did an admirable job making up at least four inches with her impressive collection of slinky heels. “I love your dress.”

“Thank you. It's perfect, isn't it?” It was true. I looked ravishing. That very morning I'd done some American Express-aided therapy in efforts to raise droopy spirits. The blues were exacerbated by rain that had pelted the city since the previous day. In a gem of a store in TriBeCa, I'd happened upon the sleek black number I wore to Deseo. Hourglass shape, tailored from bust to hem, the dress evoked an era in which women with curves were not only tolerated but sought after. The overlying fabric was a peekaboo lace through which showed a soft blonde-gold lining underneath. I felt every inch woman, from new dangly earrings to a pair of dangerously high Blahniks. Nothing in my ensemble had been purchased at a discount, per se, but I defied a woman to feel this good at fifty percent off.

“Welcome, welcome.” I heard Richard's voice before I spotted him through the gathering crowd. “Phenomenal jacket, Suzanne. Have you lost weight? Jules, great to see you.”

He reached my side and raised his eyebrows before burrowing me in a hug. “Vavoom, ex-wife,” he said into my ear. “Remind me why we got a divorce?”

I pulled away and was about to enumerate a few of my favorite reasons but a woman materialized by his side. If she hadn't been within striking distance, I would have assumed she were an airbrushed creation for magazine production only.

“Sadie,” Richard said, stopping to kiss the woman on her hand. “This is Ama. Ama, meet my oldest and dearest friend, Sadie.”

“Emphasis on oldest,” I muttered. Ama looked to be no older than twenty-three. Her skin was the color of cocoa and had clearly never known acne. A wild mane of hair began at a high and regal forehead. I was sure Margot would spend the next hours envying the child's cheekbones and jawline.

Ama took me in with mournful brown eyes. “Hello, Sadie,” she said softly in delicately accented English. “Richard speaks highly of you.” She neither smiled nor frowned, and did not betray how that observation affected her, if at all.

“Have you dated long enough to know he is a compulsive liar?” I asked, hearing the words sound more like an affront than the joke I'd intended.

“Ah, Sadie,” Richard said. Ama stood at least six inches taller than he. “Let's get to celebrating you, shall we?” He spun me around by the waist and led me to a table off the main dining area reserved for us. I looked over my shoulder and saw Ama falling into line, clomping along in that bizarre foot-in-front-of-foot amble models seemed to favor.

“Where'd you dig her up?” I hissed into Richard's ear. “She's a knockout, Richard, but aren't you dabbling in the illegal?”

Richard laughed heartily. His eyes were shining in a manner I took to reflect conquest. “This is only our third date, my dear. And I assure you she is of age.” He dropped to a stage whisper. “I checked her passport to make sure.”

We entered the small room, lit by pillar candles lined up along mahogany shelves mounted high on the walls. More candles dotted the table. Richard turned to me, voice still lowered. “Check out the Fendi ad in
Vogue
this month. The model will look familiar to you now.” He flashed me the grin of a freshman boy who'd scored a prom date with the captain of the cheerleading squad.

I took a deep breath and rolled my eyes.
How
, I wondered and not for the first time,
did I end up with my closest friend a man who had no concept of dignity?
I, the woman who still referred to a dog-eared copy of Emily Post on a semiregular basis?

“Sadie, royalty sits at the head of the table,” Richard said loudly, pointing to the far end of the linen-covered rectangle. He made his way through the guests, greeting them and bossing them around. I sat and watched the filtering and seating of my group of well-wishers until all the seats were filled but the one directly to my right. I leaned over to Richard. Ama took a dainty sip of her iced water.

“Who's missing?” I asked, nodding toward the empty chair.

“You'll see.” He did some sort of neck dance that made me cringe. Though I was not known for an awareness of the club circuit, I felt certain that Richard should avoid doing any sort of movement like his neck dance if he wanted to hold on to a woman/girl like Ama.

Our server brought out three
ceviche
platters and square plates of house-made tortilla wedges. I dipped into the
ceviche veracruz
and glanced at the people around the table. Mitch from St. Paul's waved and kissed me through the air. Stefan from Juilliard called out, “Sadie, have you been eating your fill of
ceviche
out in the country?” I laughed along with him but was struck suddenly with a longing for Jayne's pecan pie bars. They were indulgent, too sweet, and made with whole sticks of butter, everything a New York City personal trainer would exorcise. I adored them.

Halfway through my second martini, I had a moment of painful self-awareness: The people sharing dinner with me, those who were there to well-wish me as I returned to Iowa, these people were not my friends. I enjoyed them, sure. They liked me well enough. But they didn't know me. They wouldn't bring me tuna fish hot dish if I was postpartum, as friends of the Hartleys had done for weeks after the births of their children. And they certainly wouldn't go out of their way to fire up their pickup and bring me to work in the cold. I sighed, washed in a wave of loneliness.

In a good faith effort to enjoy my own party, I struck up friendly banter with Lyle, an arts writer for the
Times
whom Richard and I had known for years. Lyle had become animated in our discussion of the financial state of American opera when I glimpsed a familiar face at the end of the table. A woman in her mid-fifties, spiky salt-and-pepper hair and clunky, artsy glasses waved briskly to Richard and headed our way.

“… And that's exactly why the conservatories themselves have to be more comprehensive in their curricula,” Lyle was saying in between shoveling hunks of
ceviche
from his plate into his mouth.

“Sorry to interrupt, Lyle,” Richard said. He'd risen from the table and had an arm
near
the spiky haired woman but not
on
her. She stared at me until I felt compelled to stand as well.

“Judith, it is a pleasure to introduce to you Sadie Maddox. This is long overdue,” Richard said. His eyes were unnaturally wide. I had never seen Richard intimidated by a woman but could get very used to watching a charade like this.

“Judith Magnuson,” she said, offering a large, rough hand. I shook and smiled.

“I'm so pleased to meet you, Judith. Richard raves about you.” I sat down slowly, willing myself not to bow down, clutch her feet, and beg her to make me one filthy rich mezzo-soprano. The woman certainly had the pedigree. I dared say even Avi would have developed a nervous tic had he known of my dinnermate that evening.

Judith unraveled her napkin and tucked it around a generous midriff. She helped herself to a dollop of the appetizer. I tried not to stare at the fervor with which she went about her task. One fleck of tortilla chip flew up into her hair and trembled there as she chewed.

We sat in silence for a moment. I glanced at Richard, who'd conveniently involved himself in deep conversation with Ama. She sat with a vacant and gorgeous stare as he pontificated on the neglected beauty of the harpsichord. I'd heard that speech and hoped it had gone through an inspired revision, for Ama's sake.

“You were magnificent Thursday night.” Judith didn't look up when she spoke.

I felt my heart pick up speed. “Thank you, Judith. I didn't know you were there.”
Which was best,
I thought, as the idea of her presence made me nauseous with retroactive nerves.

“That is to say,” she continued, looking up briefly to meet my eyes, “it wasn't perfect. But perfect can be boring.”

A compliment? An insult?
How was one to respond?
I wondered as Judith squeezed lime into her water and dropped the deflated rind into the glass. She continued before I'd formed a safe modus operandi.

“Listen. Sadie.” She pushed her appetizer plate away and focused her gaze on me. “I know you're here with your friends. I don't know any of them and won't impose on your party.”

“Not at all,” I protested. “I'm so glad you're here—”

She held up her hand to silence me. “Thanks, but no thanks. I'm not hungry.”

I reined in my eyebrow from its rocket launch upward.

“I'm here to tell you I think we'd be a good team. I've been agenting for twenty-five years. I know everyone in this business and people like me.” She said these last words with all the facial and vocal enthusiasm of Ted Koppel. “If you need references, I can put you in contact with Jessye Norman, Dawn Upshaw, Jubilant Sykes. You can try Placido, but he's ridiculous about returning calls.”

I tried not to salivate onto the tablecloth. This woman was my bridge to monumental, royalty-drenched, legend-making success. I worried that my heart was making visible and distracting leaping motions through the fabric of my new dress. “What a list of clients,” I said, wondering if I should ask Judith for
her
autograph.

She nodded. “I've worked with the best and, if I may say so, I've gotten many of them the recognition they deserved. Now.” She sat back in her chair and took a deep breath. Her eyes narrowed as they studied my face. “My practice has usually been to sign with a client at the beginning of her career. You've already been around the block. How old are you?”

Was this really crucial information?
I thought. My face must have betrayed my wounded ego because Judith's expression was wry. “Believe me, if we work together, I'll end up knowing your dress size, the names of your ex-boyfriends, and the details of your monthly cycle. So 'fess up.”

“I turned forty this year.”

She nodded. “That can be an asset. Vocally you've hit your stride; personally you're not rudderless like so many of the younger ones; physically, you know by now that breasts aren't everything.”

I sat up straight, willing them to be
something
at least.

“I'm sure Richard let you in on the
Pasione
deal?”

“He did.” This was it! This was it!

“I can get you on that tour. But you'll have to dump Feldman before we talk particulars.” She passed me her card and looked me in the eye. “Sadie, I think we can make each other a lot of money. Not that I need it.” She shrugged. “But it's always nice to have more, am I right?” She smiled for the first time and revealed two rows of teeth that could have been shot in with a gun. I could recommend a great orthodontist as one way to spend some of her monetary excess.

Her chair scraped on the tile floor as she pushed back from the table. “Think about what you want to do and where you want to be a year from now. And then give me a call.” She patted Richard on the shoulder, nodded once to me, and left the room.

Richard hopped into Judith's still-warm chair and assaulted me with questions before the spiky hair was out of view. “So? What did she say? Will she take you? Are you signing before you leave?”

I shook my head slowly. “I don't think I've ever said so little in a conversation,” I said, amazed at the way in which Judith had steamrolled our exchange. If she had that kind of sway over contract negotiations and fee schedules, the woman would be unstoppable.

“I know.” Richard slumped slightly, his face taking on a look of befuddlement. “She's a
machine
.”

I burst into laughter and after a moment, Richard joined me. Ama looked on from her ethereal pedestal of model-ish thought and allowed a small smile before catching herself. Good thing, considering the risk of crow's feet only two short decades off.