The First Wives Club (32 page)

“It’s me,” he said when she answered.

“Oh, Bill,” she said anxiously, “where are you? When will you get here?”

“I’m calling from a car phone, honey. I should be there in about twenty minutes. What’s the matter?”

“Bill”—she began to cry—“it’s my uncle Wade and the others. They want me to see a psychiatrist.” Her voice became smaller at these last words, and she continued to sob.

“Psychiatrist? What for?” he asked, trying not to show he was upset.

“They’re saying I have a drug problem. Can you believe that? For Christ’s sake. Just because I do a little cocaine socially, those tight asses think I’m a fucking junkie. Jesus, Uncle Wade thinks two glasses of sherry before dinner makes you an alcoholic. Anyway, they say I either have to see a psychiatrist or they will put me in a detoxification place.”

Bill began to calm down. He knew how to control the situation. “Is that all?

Don’t worry about a thing. I’ve got just the psychiatrist for you. ” “But I don’t want to see a psychiatrist. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m the first artist in the family, and they just don’t understand the artistic temperament.”

”Slow down, honey,” he said soothingly. ‘Why antagonize the family if you don’t have to? You’ll go see Dr. Leslie Rosen, Aaron Paradise’s fiancee, she’ll tell your uncle Wade that all you need is a few sessions with her, and then it will all blow over. Don’t panic. I’ll call her first thing tomorrow.

Just relax, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll relax. Just hurry and get here. I need you.”

Bill hung up the phone. He congratulated himself. He had handled the situation just right. Now he was going to have a good time, just as he’d planned.

The irony of the moment caused Bill to smile to himself. While at the offices of Elise’s attorneys, signing the divorce settlement not fifteen minutes ago, he knew he appeared to the distinguished partners as somber, grave, in the face of what, for most, would have been a sad time. And, since he was coming away from the marriage with nothing, in accordance with the prenuptial agreement he had signed, he also appeared to be taking it all like a gentleman.

But with Phoebe on his mind, he could afford to be gracious. There was no real loss here, he assured himself. For him, it was all gain.

Money, beauty, youth.

Phoebe, young Phoebe, was so like Elise in the early years of their marriage.

He had loved the unconventional bohemian life Elise had exposed him to in Europe. They had been the only married couple in that circle in those days, and they had played at being poor to fit in. Long after she quit the film business, she was welcomed by prominent intellectuals and film greats all over the world. He had been proud to be seen with her as she escorted him through the demimonde. It gave him the feeling of being on the cutting edge. If it were possible for a rich man to be avant-garde, then he had been, or at least felt as if he had been. And now he was again. It felt right, it was where he belonged. He shrugged out of the suit jacket he had been wearing and put on the baby-skin soft black leather blazer that he loved. Slick, hip, but tastefully so. Just like Phoebe.

Phoebe had seemed so beautiful and unreachable when he first met her.

Like Elise, Phoebe came from an obscenely wealthy family who provided for her while she developed her art. He had recognized her talents, all of them, and she had exposed him to the greats and soonto-be-greats of the very fashionable downtown art scene.

It was so exciting. Phoebe gave him back his youth, reminding him of the happy times with Elise. It’s like a second chance, he thought.

Again, he had a young, rich, creative woman who wanted him. And I want her, he thought. The art crowd, the openings, the gossip. And the constant round of parties and events. The similarities of today’s downtown scene and the film world of Europe in the sixties excited him.

Of course, living with the rich has its own set of problems, he reflected as his car inched along Park Avenue South. Even though he didn’t have a monthly mortgage or rent to pay as other men did, a certain standard had to be maintained when married to a wealthy woman.

And $250,000 a year from Cromwell Reed wouldn’t quite do it.

When his car stopped for a red light, he noticed the clusters of business executives making their way home to Long Island and New Jersey. What do those guys make, $50,000 a year tops? he thought.

They go out once a month, it costs. maybe a hundred bucks for the night, dinner and a movie with friends.

What a life.

If I hadn’t figured out how to lay off some of my expenses to the firm, I could never have afforded to escort Elise around. As the car gathered speed after the light changed, he thought about the article in the New York Post his secretary had shown him, “$15,000 for a right out for Ivana and Donald.” He remembered how the secretary had laughed derisively at the amount. Bill knew it was true, he could even count it up. Ten units for a dress she could only wear once. (He had trained himself to think of $1,000 as a “unit.” It was less nerve-racking than thinking in thousands.) Hairdresser, manicurist, masseuse, makeup artist, jewels, car, ball or theater tickets, dinner out for ten. “See what I mean?” he had told his secretary. “It all adds up. Fifteen units easy.”

His secretary had nodded in stunned silence. “It’s difficult to live with the rich,” he had added.

And he meant it. I never took a dime from Elise, he thought. I never wanted to give up the control, be dependent. It’s not good for a man, he thought.

Of course, he had had to develop his little system of creative billing of some of his expenses to both his clients and his firm, but didn’t he bring in Elise’s business? And now that he’d lost that, look what Gil Griffin was earning the partnership. Ibrought in Gil Griffin. No matter that the firm would be losing all Elise’s financial management, estate planning, and legal counsel, now that they were divorced. Gil’s business will give me back more muscle. My own muscle. He smiled.

You win some, you lose some.

Client billing had covered the cost of nights at the Waldorf with girlfriends.

As well as his new two-unit tuxedos bespoke by Savile Row’s best. And the bespoke shoes! Oh, yes, he acknowledged confidently. I’m covered and won’t have to change my lifestyle one bit. Goodbye Elise.

As the car pulled up at Phoebe’s studio on Spring Street, Bill jumped out and hurried up the steps to the entrance. Phoebe responded to the buzz in her tiny, almost childlike voice. “I’m on my way,” he yelled into the speaker, and pushed his way through the now-unlocked door.

As he waited for the lumbering freight elevator to respond, he felt the excitement of being close to Phoebe. So young, so sexy. So young.

In a moment of truth, he would have to admit that he felt a certain sexual excitement when he looked at the young. The younger the better.

As he got older, his women seemed to get younger. It had troubled him for a while, but Phoebe had been the one who had recognized the unseemly side to his sexuality, and by articulating his fantasy for him, she had removed most of the guilt he felt after fantasizing about adolescents. He had never discussed it—this need—with anyone. Not until Phoebe.

Walking onto the elevator, he felt his erection strain against the fly of his trousers. He wanted to touch himself badly, but held off the moment of contact, only increasing his excitement.

Without being told, Phoebe had known each part of his very private fantasies, and slowly, over time, with gentle and tender understanding, she was helping him express his need, experience it, and find release in it. “Because it is good,” she had said. So long as they acted it out together.

And so they had. They had come to call these sexual encounters their own “performance art.” Bill had little use for actual performance art, but to Phoebe and her sophisticated circle, it was de rigueur, even oldfashioned.

They accepted it. They accepted him.

He got off the elevator and walked down the hall to her studio door.

He rang impatiently and heard her bustling activity on the other side.

A moment more, and he rang the doorbell again, longer. The door finally flew open, and Phoebe jumped excitedly into his arms, slightly out of breath.

“Baby, what took you so long?” he said into her soft neck.

She pushed into his nuzzling and said, “I just wanted to make sure all my work is covered. You mustn’t see it yet. Not till it’s perfect.”

She pulled back and tugged him into the massive work space. He looked around at the sheet-covered work that took up much of the vast floor space.

“What’s all this? What are you working on?” he asked with feigned interest as he walked to the messy table that held both sculpting tools and vodka and tequila bottles.

“My best wrk so far, Bill. At least I think so.” She hesitated. “Fix me a drink, too.”

He quickly complied, handing her an iced vodka as he fell onto the king-size futon on the raised platform in one corner of the loft.

“Come here,” he said, reaching for her and pulling her down to him.

“Whose girl are you?” he asked from deep in his throat.

But Phoebe jumped up and said, “Wait, not yet. First, take your drink and come with me.”

And the ritual began. The long, slow, hot shower together, more chilled vodka, some lines of snow that amplified the excitement, and then, the tableau.

They had acted this out many times after Phoebe uncovered his particular need, always embellishing it slightly, and always ending in the same way.

At last he had her, trapped in the corner the way he liked it, the way she liked it. He asked her again, “Whose little girl are you?”

And she answered as she always did, answered as she did now, straddling him like a little girl on her daddy’s lap. She alone controlled him.

She rode him slowly, her flat chest glistening with sweat, her almost hairless body swallowing his organ deep, deep within her. “I’m Daddy’s little girl. Daddy, Daddy.” This simple phrase had become the key to their perfectly timed release. She had him and he knew it.

Crying All the Way to the Bank.

The day after Halloween when Brenda received the first milliondollar check from Morty, she felt as if she had won the lottery. And there was another one yet to come! She could hardly believe it. She remembered the “Millionaire” series on television when she was a kid and wished she had a John Beresford Tipton she could kiss.

She kissed the check instead, then held it over her head as she danced around the room—until she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the sofa.

She came to a stop, the image of herself as one of the dancing hippos in Fantasia too vivid to ignore. Still, the exercise classes with Bernie and his twin were having some impact. Maybe now she looked more like the little elephant that danced around the Delacorte clock at the zoo. Even her weight couldn’t dampen her spirits for more than a moment today.

She imagined a week in the Hotel Sacher in Vienna surrounded by mounds of spicy, warm potato salad and veal cutlets, Sacher torte and apple strudel with fresh whipped cream. She hugged herself at the imagined tastes and smells.

“Fuck it, make that two weeks.”

Oh, but her weight. Sobering for a moment, she thought, maybe one week Sacher, one week fat farm. No, that didn’t sound like fun. She sat down glumly. But why be glum? Money and time were unlimited. “Okay, two weeks Sacher, one week fat farm. And that’s my final offer,” she said out loud.

Then she went to the phone and called Annie, knowing how happy Annie would be for her. She had become very fond of Annie. They had always been friendly, but lately it seemed warmer, deeper, like having a best friend.

Annie answered on the second ring, ‘Kiddo, I’m rich,” Brenda announced.

“Guess what the postman did, and don’t get dirty.-‘ She laughed. “I got Morty’s check. With all those zeros. Now I know what they mean by round numbers.”

Annie listened as Brenda continued to crow. “I don’t know about you, kid, but the only other time I’ve seen that number written out was in Trump’s first book.”

She paused for a response, got none, and went on, not skipping a beat.

“You know the nicest part? It’s thinking of the pain it must have caused Morty to write the check. I woulda loved to have seen that bastid’s face when he signed it.” The image of Morty chomping mercilessly on a cigar, his face burning red, eyes bulging in rage, popped into her mind. She patted her hairdo in satisfaction. “Whattya think, Annie? Help me spend it?”

Annie’s voice sounded strained in spite of the obvious effort she made to pick up Brenda’s enthusiasm. “Congratulations, Brenda. What wonderful news.”

“Is there something wrong, Annie? Did I call at a bad time?” Brenda asked, beginning to feel her enthusiasm wane. “Here I’ve been running off at the mouth and haven’t asked you how you are.”

“No, no, Brenda. I’m fine. I just have something on my mind. But what great news, Brenda. You did it. You won.”

“Yeah, I guess I did.” Brenda was amazed.

“Now what are you going to do with all that money?”

“Feed the hungry,” Brenda said, and burst out laughing.

Then Annie laughed, too, in spite of herself. “Oh, Brenda, I shouldn’t encourage your eating problem, but you always can make me laugh.” She paused.

“It’s just that I’ve had some really bad financial news.”’ “I knew it, I knew something was wrong. Here I was thinking you were envious or something. Hey, don’t do that to me. I’m half-Catholic, too, you know. I’ll imagine the worst. What’s up?”

Then Annie told her the whole story about Aaron’s stock deal, about Sylvie’s trust fund, and about how it was mostly gone now. Brenda could hardly believe it.

“Wait. So he finally got in touch with you and says it was a miscalCulation? A mistake’? He’s a piece of shit, Annie. A piece of shit!” “No. He says he’ll pay it all back. By the end of the month.

He promised.”

“Yeah, he also promised till death do him part, but he parted. He’s a piece of shit, Annie.”

“He’s only a piece of shit if he doesn’t make up the money,” Annie said.

“Anyway, I’ll deal with it. In the meanwhile, you must celebrate.