The Secret Keeping (38 page)

“She has no idea.”

“The only reason I ask is that she was essentially silent on that part of the claim. But then at that time she was the only one who knew who Jane Doe really was.”

“Silence isn’t lying. Is it?”

He wrinkled up his brow. “It doesn’t affect the truth either way.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Infidelity is not germane in a pecuniary claim against a former lover for economic damages, since it is firmly held that a meritorious suit for support arises exclusively from prima facie proofs of prior financial dependency and subsequent abandonment thereof, irrespective of the actual cause of the partners’

separation. In short, it will have no bearing on the plaintiff’s award, if any, that she has allegedly suffered the humiliation of sexual and/or emotional betrayal, which is, from what I am able to glean, the gravamen of Sharon Chambers’ case against Dr. Kristenson. That part, together with her frivolous complaint against you, will undoubtedly be stricken by order of the court directing the plaintiff to amend her pleading and, possibly, requiring her to serve it again, which she very likely will not do. Understand?”

Lydia rose from her chair and packed up her briefcase. “I think so. Thank you for your time today. I’ll see you Friday.”

“Same time. Same place. You’ve got a driver now?”

“Courtesy Soloman-Schmitt.”

“Got to do what you got to do, right?”

He walked her to the door. “If you change your mind, let us know.”

“What’s the worse that can happen if I don’t? That the press follows me around, my name’s in all the papers, I can’t go home or to work, I can’t be with my lover?”

_____

Flying colors. VP Treadwell had made it through her grand jury testimony without losing a single drop of blood and the preliminary inquiries by the SEC were going smoothly as well. No new revelations to shake the markets. Unfortunately she was required to name her chief investigator, Lydia Beaumont, and to expound somewhat on Lydia’s prior relationship with the now banned and indicted former executive, Joseph Rios.

When the press learned of that exciting new twist they pounced on Treadwell’s protégé again, this time bandying the facts about with salacious front page offerings like HAVE WHISTLE WILL BLOW and the old reliable standby KISS AND TELL that the readership never tires of.

Frankly, the reporters resented Lydia’s aversion to public appearances and they were completely dissatisfied with slick Paula Treadwell’s cut-and-dried responses, those deliberately bland unquotables she resorted to using when fielding their questions on the matter. “There is no connection whatsoever,” was what she frequently said. Also, “It doesn’t concern me. I don’t know anything about it. It’s not relevant, the end.”

So they did what they deemed necessary to force the elusive Lydia Beaumont out into the open. There were a lot of resources available to them for this purpose now that she was no longer Jane Doe to them. She had become, instead, a lot of intriguing and diverse things, including, as they finally discovered, the daughter of Edward Beaumont himself, whose own romantic escapades had already been used to entertain the minions. It was worth another mention, they concluded, and his dirty laundry was once again hung outdoors for another airing. In the meantime, they drummed their fingers restlessly on their desktops and cast their bets on defendant Beaumont’s official response to Sharon Chambers’ allegations, which was due any day now.

_____

“Queenie?”

“Daddy, hi.”

“You know, if you were in Paris right now they’d make a darling of you.”

“I’m not, I’ve got a job to do. Are you telling me to leave the country? I feel I just got here.”

“Oh, you’ve arrived all right. This is bigger than anything I’ve gone through.”

“I’m not comparing notes with you, Daddy. I think I know why you’re calling and I just have three words to say about it–attorney client privilege.”

“Stan and I go way back and we talk on a regular basis. He knows how worried I am about your future. Your kitten’s steering you wrong on this, Lydia. She’ll leave you hanging, trust me.”

“Daddy…please.”

“Does she know how hard you’ve worked for your money? She’s dragging you through the mud and you’re wallowing in it.”

“Thank you, Daddy, I love you, too. Ms. Chambers isn’t getting my money.”

“I’m ordering you to change your pleading. Think of your old man and do it for him, please.”

“I can’t.”

“Nonsense. There are other beautiful people in the world you can take up with, especially now that you’re a celeb. Think of that, Queenie. It’s only sex and, despite popular mythology, Dr. Kristenson did not invent it.”

“I’m not changing my answer, Daddy. I simply can’t.”

“For godsakes, why not?”

“Because it’s not just sex, I’m also in love with the woman.”

“And so is Sharon Chambers. What about her?”

“Sharon Chambers?”

“Yes, Sharon Chambers!”

“Her I hate.”

_____

“She what?”

“Admits most of it.”

Sharon stared stonily into the mirror. “That they’re lovers?”

“Yes.”

“Just a moment, please.” She pulled up a chair. “What does she actually deny, Mr. Hathaway?”

“Well…she denies sufficient knowledge as to those allegations stating that you and Dr. Kristenson are or were lovers. She denies sufficient knowledge of your quote-unquote alleged mental condition. She denies suf–”

“Fine. I get it.”

“Twenty-five percent is not a bad offer, Ms. Chambers. I urge you again to take it.”

She had wanted no less than half gross and was shocked to learn that Helaine was a spendthrift, wasting nearly forty percent off the top on her social concerns, on donor contributions to non-governmental organizations with their bleeding heart domestic programs, on cleaning up minefields in Sudan, on supporting democracy in Burma, ending child slavery in the Ivory Coast, housing battered women and homeless vets. Crap! It was endless.

Even Hathaway had been amazed by the disclosures. “We don’t want to look bad here,” he had cautioned her in private.

She had hoped to choke the doctor financially so she’d have to agree to reconciliation, but Helaine had rejected that alternative flat out.

She was worth a pretty penny before taxes, before her stupid charitable contributions. The counteroffer, the price of freedom–half her gross current worth. She’d get more if she had to go to trial, Sharon warned Helaine. That didn’t seem to scare her any.

“I’m considering all my options, Mr. Hathaway. I’ll get back to you.”

_____

“Them’s fighting words, Helaine,” Robert announced. “Starting to sound like a catfight.”

Helaine grinned. “Meow.”

_____

The air tingled and zinged with winter closing in fast.

YES MEANS YES blared one steamy headline with a glamour shot of the woman who dared to say it.

They had started to doubt it. At last they knew. Yes. Absolutely yes she was. All that was missing was a recent snapshot of the illicit lovers together. The reporters crowded every known address to get one, but Dr.

Kristenson’s lover was nowhere to be seen.

So then their eyes were on Sharon Chambers again. Pale Sharon Chambers, clad these days in a tasteful floor length mink, under which she was fitted in shades of gray, dressed very much as if in mourning. Sharon Chambers, eyes glowing with rage, under control so far, to her lawyers’ relief and amazement. But it couldn’t last and everyone knew it. She had gone in over her head. Now she was certain to lose it.

There were lots of opportunities emerging, like long lost ships on the horizon. Talk shows galore, gossip mags, publishers hawking tell-all book deals, tell all quickies with their fill-in-the-blank format. Bread and butter stuff that appealed to Sharon these days when money was tight, when she was finding herself financially strapped, reluctant to settle and having second thoughts as to whether she may have bit off more than she could chew in chasing down that paper tiger, Lydia Beaumont. It could kill two birds with one stone, she surmised. Bring her in some bread and turn the heat up at the same time. Heat. That wasn’t a bad strategy. Paper burns.

_____

“Lana?”

"Darling…?”

“Have dinner with me.”

“I’d love to. Where?”

“I’ll send a car for you.”

“No, let’s go out.”

Lydia scowled. “C’mon.”

“Come on.”

“Helaine…please.”

“For someone who doesn’t like to hide, you do it very well. You can’t do it forever, Lydia. I won’t let you.”

“Are you alone?”

“What do the papers say these days? Am I?”

(Ugh.) “What do I hear? You sound like you’re at the ocean.”

“I’m in the tub, darling. Room for one more.”

“Oh, come on, Helaine. I’ll send a car for you.”

“Lydia Beaumont…NO.” (click)

_____

“Del, come in!”

“Here’s your rags, Liddy. I feel like a paper-boy these days. Or a censor.”

“Don’t censor. Drinks at the bar. Help yourself.”

“Top of the bestseller list again. Your blond.”

“Windfall. Good for her. She’ll need it, I think.”

“Still boycotting Soloman-Schmitt?”

“Objects to their corporate sponsorship, she says.”

“Does VP-CFO Paula Treadwell know that?”

“It’s my dirty little secret. How many reporters at the penthouse?”

“Scads.”

“That many, huh?”

“I hate to say that the normalcy you’re expecting will return to your life is gone, but…”

“But the normalcy I’m expecting will return to my life is gone?”

“AWOL, Liddy. Like your stubborn blond.”

_____

“Helaine?”

“Lydia Beaumont! How nice of you to call.”

“I miss you.”

“Prove it.”

“Dinner?”

“Love to. My place or yours?”

Lydia could hear her own breath on the line.

“My place or yours, darling?”

“I’m gathering that you don’t consider this suite my place. Right?”

“That’s right. Come here. We’ll eat nude.”

“Shit, Helaine. Us and the entire press corps?”

“You’re being despicable.”

“Despicable. You’re right. And I’m sick of eating and sleeping alone.”

“I’ll bet. Then grow up and get over here.”

“Helaine…this is getting frustrating, if you know what I mean. Do you?”

“Indeed, I do. Get over here.”

Lydia was silent, taking her time considering it. Her stomach growled. She was thirsty. “I think you’re trying to set up obstacles here.”

“Then good night, darling. Sleep well.” (click)

_____

“She’s turned it down, Helaine. Much to the chagrin of her lawyers.”

She had expected that. “Now what, Robert?”

_____

The moon was a big bright ball in the sky, punctuating the night, promising to illuminate anything you might have done or dreamt of doing under the influence of darkness.

She had read too many papers. She should have stuck to her financials. The newspapers. They shed no more light than a full moon did, and just like it they made as much trouble, casting long dark shadows in the path so that no matter how familiar the landscape was to you, you’d still feel lost, still stumble over something. Moonlight excursions. You might recognize your way, even make it to your destination, but not without some bruises. Lydia Beaumont was the black-and-blue victim of the falsehood of a brilliant moon pretending to illuminate. All those dark shadows. And the miserable papers.

Of this woman Lydia was reading about lately, this Helaine Kristenson that Sharon described in such intimate details, Lydia had known nothing. Of the woman she knew by the same name, Helaine Kristenson, she had known only good things. The stark contrast between the two, between her Helaine and Sharon’s Helaine, had shocked Lydia, not to mention the idea that an editor would have considered the model’s scathing kiss-and-tell even printable.

“CHUMP” the Herald had shouted yesterday over a somewhat dopey head shot of Lydia Beaumont.

Chump, Sharon had asserted in this most recent interview, portraying Helaine’s interest in Lydia as nothing more than “hosting amateur night,” allegedly one of the blond’s favorite recreations.

And so followed an itemized list of bedroom secrets that would have made the Marquis de Sade blush. A bit of bares-all hype for Ms. Chambers’ forthcoming book. Little wonder Delilah had refused to bring the tabloids to her this week. Lydia had been forced to call down for them and was thankful, when she got through with the stack, that the deliverer had had the courtesy to simply leave them in a pile outside her door without knocking. After that, Lydia had taken the phone off the hook and left it like that. She stood this evening in the dark of the quiet suite by a picture window.

A chump? The woman she had contemplated in the mirror didn’t exactly look like one, but perhaps that wasn’t the best way to judge.

Paris. That might not be such a bad idea, after all. Being the darling of fifty million Frenchmen was surely more appealing than being someone’s plaything, someone you were in love with. Paris, yes, or she could go through the fan mail piling up back at her office and select a name from the piles of love letters and flowers sent weekly by the not-so-secret admirers that had converted the place overnight into an indoor garden. If it is as Del says, only chemical, then why not start conducting interviews right away? Perhaps in ten years, twenty, even a hundred, she could find a suitable replacement for Helaine Kristenson.

Lydia drifted above herself tonight, past the plate glass window. It seemed to her that she was floating over the rooftops, a ghost wandering over the city in search of something. Cherchez la femme. For the woman she thought she had known, in all the places she had found her, trying to know her again.

She might be dreaming, sleepwalking, because, except for the tightness in her chest, the dry mouth, she could feel absolutely nothing. Looking down from above it all, the city seemed to have gone silent on her.

The buildings looked ominous, the traffic moved like a funeral procession, the neon lights blinked on and off as if a battery was dying.