Scrolling through the photos, I noticed she looked the same in every picture—arched neck, pouty lips, a naughty little wink—which led me to believe she must have spent hours working with a smile consultant to fashion the perfect paparazzi face. Call me crazy, but anyone I’ve ever known with a rehearsed snapshot pose has turned out to be a liar and a fornicator (Alessandro immediately comes to mind).
I googled Denis and clicked on parkavenuepeerage.com. There I read that he was forty-eight, divorced, father of a ten-year-old girl, a real estate developer—well, that part I knew. Let’s see, he had a yacht, a jet, houses in Southampton and Sun Valley, a two-floor penthouse on Fifth Avenue with a basketball court and paintings by Picasso, van Gogh, and Matisse. Well la-di-da, I thought. So he’s the ninth-richest man in America under fifty (according to Forbes). Hrrmph! What’s a billionaire his age doing squiring about a girl more than twenty years his junior? Because he could, I supposed. Still, my respect for him dropped a notch, as it always does for older gentlemen who pursue the taut flesh of youth.
Checking Denis’ rating on famestat.com, the site run by catty society blogger Chessie Knickerbocker, I saw that he was one of two real estate moguls with high ratings, the other being Donald Trump. Three hundred and eighty parties, two hundred and seven pictures. Jeez, who would want to live like that? I would! I would! my less-evolved self squealed. Google revealed that Denis was part of the King real estate dynasty that had built some of the most celebrated buildings in New York. Their family’s foundation had donated millions to the Metropolitan Museum, Lincoln Center, the New York City Opera, and Sloan-Kettering Hospital, just to name a few. No wonder Tanya was working him for a major gift.
I sighed. A woman could live happily ever after with a man like that. Any guy who would return to help the stranger his car splashed could be counted on to hold your hand when you walked down the street or your hair back when you puked. Not that I’m the kind of girl who expects some knight in a shining white Maybach to come along and sweep me off my feet. That only happens in the movies, and life isn’t like that. Although I often wish it were.
The happy ending I had hoped to have with Alessandro was dangling by a silk thread. Apparently, the neighbor who spotted him on the roof videotaped the crime-in-progress as Alessandro did the deed. He only shot the perp’s backside. Last night, the arresting cop played it and asked if the ass on top was Alessandro. I could tell by the way he…oh, never mind. What if the only reason he wanted to marry me was so I couldn’t testify against him? There was a case like that on Law & Order once.
But back to Alessandro, the philandering perv. How could I say “I do” to a guy who would cheat a month before his own wedding? Sure, I’d had my doubts about us, but that was normal. On the other hand, what if he needed me now more than ever? Was this craving to be with underage girls a sickness, a sort of pedophilic cancer? If I helped him get counseling, could we start over? That would be the right thing to do, the loving thing, the Buddhist thing. I’m not Buddhist, but I’ve read they’re a forgiving people. I like to think of myself as forgiving, at least theoretically.
I pictured myself alone with Kitty in an empty studio apartment located multiple subway stops into Queens, eating Duncan Hines chocolate frosting out of a can, maybe starting some kind of spinster blog. A wave of sadness swept over me and I started to cry, then sob, right into my computer keyboard. Tears fell down my cheeks, alien sounds spilled out of my mouth, and a torrent of snot poured from my nose.
Tanya stuck her head out. “Holly, would you cease with the boo-hooing? How do you expect me to get any work done with you carrying on like that? Take it outside. Go on. Go.” She waved her hand toward the staircase, and then retreated.
“I’m okay,” I called, wiping my nose on my sleeve. “I’ll sto-op.” Bugger! Tanya Johnson was the last person on earth I wanted to see me cry.
All things considered, my circumstances had deteriorated so quickly that this was shaping up to be the worst twenty-four hours of my life so far. I didn’t know what to be more upset about. Finding out I wouldn’t be promoted? Discovering my fiancé was a cheater? Learning he was a pedophile? Seeing my stricken face and bleeding red suit on the front page of the News and the Post? Knowing that I might have to break my engagement and undo months of wedding plans? Realizing I may soon lose my home? At least things couldn’t get worse. Of course, having thought that, I was certain it was only a matter of time before they did.
The Lady Is a Tramp
I RETIRED TO THE BATHROOM and checked the damage. Blotches of mascara framed my red and raw eyes. Lovely. Splashing my face with cold water, removing the hasty makeup job I’d attempted that morning, I looked at myself in the mirror. “Pull yourself together. You can do this.”
Grabbing the folder for What’s My Line? I hustled to Tanya’s office. Martin Goldenblatt, our doughy-skinned audiovisual guy, stood by her desk sniffing the top of his hand. The lapdog (aka Sammie) was flipping through the Post.
I mustered a thin smile. “Ready to prep for What’s My Line?” I asked Tanya.
“How are you?” Sammie said. “I read the paper. You are so brave. I can’t imagine how you got out of bed today.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “And you know what they say…”
Yes, those who can’t, work in museums,” Sammie finished.
“I
