Lipstick Jungle

She snuck a look at her watch again, her heart pounding either from the cold or from excitement. Did she dare? If she did, no one would know. She would say she was going to her office, and then she really would go. This wasn’t suspicious at all. She often worked on weekends. And Wendy had just gone off for an impromptu meeting with a screenwriter and Victory said she was going to her studio to draw.

If she was going to do it, she’d better do it quickly.

She got into a taxi, quickly swiveling her head around to see if anyone was watching. But now she was being paranoid. There was nothing suspicious about getting into a taxi by yourself. There were always a couple of paparazzi in front of Da Silvano these days, and they had snapped off a couple of shots when she and Victory had come out. But they were ignoring her now, perched like crows on a bench in front of the restaurant.

“Columbus Circle,” she said to the driver. If Kirby was home, she could always amend her route.

She took her cell phone out of her bag and looked at it. Maybe she’d better not call him at all. She was getting bolder and bolder, breaking promises to herself at every given opportunity. After that first incident, she told herself she’d never do it again. But after two days, she had called him and gone to his house and had sex with him again. Twice in one afternoon! The second sex act was the closer. If they’d done it only once, she might have been able to escape and never go back. But that second time, her body must have been so starved for good sex that she’d come even harder—harder than she’d ever remembered. And after that, no matter how hard she tried to control herself, her body seemed to have a will of its own. It kept finding ways to go back to Kirby for more.

The whole time Victory was talking about Lyne at lunch, all she could think about was going into the bathroom and calling Kirby. The only thing that prevented her was the idea that Kirby probably wasn’t home. He was a gorgeous young man and it was a Sunday afternoon. He was probably out with friends, whoever his friends were, and maybe even with a girlfriend. Kirby swore he didn’t have one and wasn’t interested, but she didn’t necessarily believe him. It didn’t make sense. “Hey, I’m not a cheater, you know. I only like to do one woman at a time,” he insisted.

That made her wince a little, the fact that he thought of her merely as someone he was “doing.” It was so crude.

But sexy.

She held her breath and dialed his number.

He picked up after three rings. She could tell by the background noise that he wasn’t at home. Her spirits drooped. “Hey,” he said, slightly surprised. “Hey. It’s Sunday.”

“I know,” she said. “I have a little break and I thought maybe we could get together. But it sounds like you’re busy . . .”

“I’m not,” he said quickly. “I mean I am. I’m at brunch . . .”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, trying to hide her disappointment. “We’ll get together next week.”

“Hold on,” he said, lowering his voice. There was the sound of laughter and the clink of silverware, and then silence. “Are you there?” Kirby asked.

“Hello?” she said.

“I’m in the bathroom. Where are you?”

“I’m on my way uptown.”

“Cool,” he said. Now what did that mean, she wondered in frustration. Were they getting together or not? Kirby was always so vague, as if he’d never grasped the idea that language could be used to convey specifics. “Can you get together?” she pressed. “Or not?”

“Yeah. Sure. Why not?” Kirby said. “I mean, not right this second. I’m just waiting for my eggs Benedict to come.”

She was tempted to point out to him that an hour with her should have been more important than his eggs, but she didn’t. “So what should we do?” she asked.

“Why don’t you meet me here, and then I can eat my eggs and we’ll go to my place.”

She pictured herself sitting in a diner, watching Kirby eat his eggs while his friends stared at her, wondering what the hell she was doing there and what Kirby was doing with a woman nearly old enough to be his mother. “Kirby, you know I can’t do that,” she said, sounding, even to herself, slightly desperate. She wondered how young people ever managed to arrange anything.

“Hold on. Lemme think,” Kirby said. There were a few seconds of silence. “I got it,” he finally said. “Meet me outside the restaurant. Call me just before you get here. I’ll probably have finished my eggs by then. We can walk over to my apartment . . .”

It was a risky plan, but having envisioned herself having sex with him all afternoon, she couldn’t give it up. She didn’t know anyone who lived in Kirby’s neighborhood anyway . . . it would probably be fine. “Okay,” she said cautiously. “But Kirby, when I call you, come right out.”

“Hello? I’m not stupid,” Kirby whispered seductively.

She hung up and sat back on the seat, her heart pounding at the thought of seeing him. Now that she knew she was going to see him, she was relieved and nervous at the same time. What if someone saw them walking down the sidewalk together? What if someone saw her going into his building . . . with him?

He was eating eggs, she thought. Eggs Benedict on a Sunday afternoon at brunch. There was something so touchingly mundane about it. It was so hearteningly simple. Kirby was a guy; guys ate eggs on the weekend. Unlike men like Seymour. Seymour acted like eggs were poison. She didn’t think he’d deliberately eaten an egg for over seven years.

* * *

THE TAXI TURNED THE corner onto Second Avenue. She was only two blocks from Kirby’s building. Maybe she should go into his lobby and wait. But that would be more inexplicable than standing on the street.

Nico paid the driver and got out. This would be the last time, she vowed.