Lipstick Jungle

Nico smiled. “You won’t have to, Vic. You’re a genius.”

“Oh Nic . . .”

“I mean it,” Nico said, unfolding her napkin with a snap. She turned to the waiter who was hovering next to her, waiting for the right moment to hand her the menu. “Water. Sparkling. Please,” she said.

Victory looked at her friend with affection. Her relationships with her girlfriends were invaluable, because it was only with women that you could really be vulnerable—you could ask for a pat on the back, without worrying about being seen as hopelessly insecure. But her friendship with Nico went deeper. Years ago, when she’d had a bad year and hadn’t had enough money left over to manufacture her next collection, Nico had loaned her forty thousand dollars. Victory hadn’t asked, and wouldn’t have ever considered it. But one evening, Nico had appeared at her studio like a fairy godmother. “I have the money and you need it,” she said, writing out a check. “And don’t worry about not being able to pay me back. I know you will.”

The interesting thing about people, Victory thought, was that you never knew what hidden depths they held, especially people like Nico O’Neilly. When she first met Nico, she never imagined that Nico would end up teaching her about friendship, that behind her aloof exterior was a fiercely loyal person. If only the waiter knew what a stunning human being Nico really was, Victory thought, glancing in amusement at the waiter’s face as he tentatively extended the menu. Nico waved it away. “It’s okay. I already know what I want.” Her comment was innocuous enough, but the waiter looked as if he’d just been bitten. Like most men who are faced with a woman who refuses to engage in the regular social niceties, the waiter probably thought Nico was a bitch.

Nico was blissfully immune to most people’s opinions of her, however, and she leaned across the table eagerly. She was unusually keyed up. The meeting with Huckabees had gone exceptionally well, especially as Peter Borsch had mostly ignored Mike Harness—and then, riding high on her triumph, she had done something she never thought she’d do and had called Kirby Atwood, secretly arranging to meet him after lunch. “I’ve just done the most terrible thing,” she said proudly, as if she didn’t think it was terrible at all. “I was so mad at Mike Harness this morning . . .”

“I’m sure he deserved it . . .”

“Well, actually, it doesn’t have anything to do with work.” Nico sat back, and looked down, rearranging the napkin on her lap. “I realized, I’ve shut myself up in a tower. I’m untouchable, and so I did something awful . . .”

Victory laughed. “Sweetie, you never do anything awful. Especially not socially. You’re always perfect.”

“But I’m not. Or at least, I don’t always want to be. And so I—” she broke off, looking around the restaurant to make sure they weren’t being overheard.

At that moment, Susan Arrow spotted them and leaned over the side of her table.

“Hello, girls,” she cawed like an old crow.

Nico suddenly became the professional again. “Darling, can we talk about your client, Tanner Cole?” she asked. Tanner Cole, the movie star, was Bonfire’s November cover boy, and had insisted on photo approval. Pleasing him had required three photo shoots, and then he had apparently frightened one of the assistants by suggesting that she’d like to give him a blow job in the bathroom.

“Sweetheart, the man grew up in a barn. Literally. He has no manners,” Susan said.

“Who?” Carla Andrews demanded suspiciously, putting her hand up to her ear. Carla was sitting on the other side of the table, and hated to be left out of anything—one of the reasons why, many suspected, she’d been able to hold on to her job for so long while younger women had already been put out to pasture.

“Tanner Cole. A movie star,” Muffie Williams said dismissively. Despite the fashion industry’s love affair with Hollywood, Muffie stubbornly insisted on taking an old-fashioned view of actors, which was that they were overpaid, pampered children and should be regarded as such.

“I know he’s a movie star,” Carla said, giving Muffie a disdainful look. “I’ve only interviewed him nine times. I interviewed him when he was practically a baby.”

“Are you sure you want to share that information?” Muffie asked, touching her lips with her napkin.

“I don’t care who knows what. I’m not afraid of anything,” Carla retorted.

“Victory,” Susan asked, ignoring Carla and Muffie, “did Lyne Bennett manage to get ahold of you?”

So that was how he got my number, Victory thought. She nodded. “He called me this morning.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Susan said. “I never give anyone’s number out, but Lyne has been bothering me about it for the last three weeks. Ever since he went to your show. I kept telling him I had to ask you first, but Lyne is like that—he gets obsessive. He called me five times, insisting he had to meet you . . .”

Jesus, Victory thought—now all of Michael’s restaurant was going to know that Lyne Bennett wanted to go out with her on a date. But it didn’t really matter—the minute she was seen in public with him, everyone would know anyway. “But I already have met him,” Victory said, mystified by Lyne’s behavior. “At least ten times.”

“You’ve probably met him a hundred times,” Susan snorted. “But Lyne doesn’t remember anything. He has a brain like a sieve. He saw his first business partner at a function a couple of years ago, and he didn’t recognize him.”

“He’s not that stupid. He’s a billionaire, you know,” Carla injected.

“Anyway, he’s harmless,” Susan said.

“He’s a pussycat,” Carla added. “Women are always using him. Especially smart women.”

“He’s a man. He has absolutely no idea what he wants,” Muffie whispered.

“He happens to be a very good friend of mine,” Susan said primly. “He may not be perfect, but who is? I always remind myself that no matter how much my husband, Walter, drives me crazy, I’m probably worse . . .”

“Here’s Wendy,” Nico said, looking up.