Lipstick Jungle

She smiled, letting out a long breath. She had finally managed to silence him.

He still didn’t manage to speak for the next several minutes, while they put on their coats and went down the stairs. When they stepped outside, he said gruffly, “You didn’t need to do that, you know.”

“I don’t need to do anything,” she said. “I do what I want.”

“I was going to invite you back for a nightcap,” he said, “but I suppose this means you have other plans.”

God, he was such a baby! she thought. “I don’t have other plans,” she said, annoyed at his inference. “But I do have to go. Good night, Lyne,” she said, holding out her hand. “It was nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you too,” Lyne grumbled, as he walked off to his car. Bumpy stood holding the door open, looking at her curiously.

She raised her hand and hailed a cab. Well, she had found out everything she needed to know about him, she thought, sliding onto the seat. She’d had some fun moments with him, but he wasn’t a gentleman at all. He hadn’t waited for her to get a cab, and he hadn’t even said thank you for dinner. Maybe

he’d been too emasculated to walk her to a cab, but even so, a real man would never forget his manners. Was his ego really that fragile? It didn’t make sense. In earlier years, Lyne Bennett had bought companies and ruthlessly chopped them up. Probably out of spite, she now realized. And a little voice in her head said, you’re playing with fire.

But she suddenly recalled the expression on his face when he’d said he was thinking of inviting her back to his house. For a moment, he’d looked defeated, as if he’d once again realized how pointless dating was in New York and how useless it was to try. And for a moment she felt sad.

She didn’t give it a lot more thought, however, thinking that this would be the end of it, and he would never call again anyway.

“But of course he was going to call again,” Nico interjected. “He’d have to.”

Well, he did call, Victory continued, leaning over the table to make sure she wasn’t being overhead. At seven-thirty Saturday morning. By then, she had almost completely forgotten about him. Everyone in New York had weird dates, and she knew that when she ran into him, they would both act like nothing had ever happened. But Lyne wasn’t ready to give up. “Hello?” she’d said sleepily into the receiver, thinking at that early hour it might be Wendy calling.

“I want you to know that I’m potentially losing twenty thousand dollars here by calling you myself,” Lyne’s voice came over the line.

She laughed in spite of herself, surprised to find that she was actually pleased to hear from him. “Is that so?” she asked. “So you still make five thousand dollars a minute, even on weekends. What are you, the phone company?”

“They wish. I’m richer than the phone company,” he cooed.

“In case I forgot . . .”

“In any case, I got a good rate. Even if you reject me,” he said. “That hideous sculpture you made me buy? Just wanted you to know that you were right. I sold it to that Chicago museum for forty thou. So I figured you’ve got twenty thousand dollars’ worth of my time to turn me down. Which leaves you”—he paused—“with exactly ninety-two seconds . . .”

“What did you have in mind?” she asked.

“Yankees-Red Sox game. Last one in the American League series. Tonight, seven p.m.”

“You’re on,” she said.

She figured he couldn’t be that awful if he was not only willing to take her on again, but was actually willing to change his behavior.

Of course, Lyne Bennett was always going to be an asshole, but that evening, going to the baseball game, he was kind of a sweet asshole. He was already in the car when Bumpy arrived, which meant he had been willing to ride all the way downtown to pick her up. And then they’d driven back up to the helicopter pad on the East River.

“I know you’re rich,” Victory had said, as they walked to the silver chopper balanced on pontoons. “But don’t you think it’s a little excessive to take a helicopter to the Bronx?”

“Yeah, I do,” he said, helping her up. “But the game is in Boston.”

“Oh,” Victory said. And for the usual reasons that are as old as the sexes, the evening progressed beautifully from there.

* * *

WELL, NICO THOUGHT, PULLING on her gloves. What should she do now?

A cold breeze that was as sharp as a knife whipped down Sixth Avenue in front of the restaurant. Catching her breath, she checked her watch, noting that it was only two-thirty. Her daughter, Katrina, would be at the stables until at least four, practicing for a horse show, the arrangements of which were organized by Seymour. In fact, Seymour was probably at the stables right now, along with the other parents who were watching their children ride. This mysterious love of horses was something Seymour and Katrina shared, in which Nico had long ago conceded that she had no interest. Even as a child, she had never understood those horsey girls who came to school with dirty hair, reeking of manure. Of course, Katrina, who rode five days a week at the stables in Chelsea Piers (to the tune of $250 an hour) didn’t smell—she took a shower every morning, and even had her hair and nails done at the salon in Bergdorf Goodman’s once a month. But when Katrina and Seymour started talking horses, she couldn’t help it; her eyes glazed over.

The point was, for the next hour and a half at least, neither Seymour nor Katrina would be wondering where she was.

Or what she was doing.