“Yeah. Seymour,” he said, as if it pained him to even say the name.
He was jealous! she thought. Jealous of Seymour. If he only knew . . .
“No, I didn’t,” she said.
“Because of me?” he asked.
“Yes, darling. Because of you,” she said.
It wasn’t because of him, but he didn’t need to know that. It was ironic, Nico thought wryly, that her conjugal relations with Seymour constituted a bigger and more shameful secret than her illicit affair with Kirby.
She and Seymour hadn’t had decent sex for at least three years.
They’d often go for months without having sex at all, and when they did, it was obvious to both of them that they were doing it out of obligation as opposed to desire. But actually having sex was the least of it. They barely even touched, save for the occasional tight pecks they gave each other, or when their bare feet happened to touch in bed. Seymour always squeezed his toes against hers for a second, and then pulled away. She knew they were supposed to talk about it, but there was something about Seymour’s manner that didn’t invite those kinds of intimate, couple discussions. She could guess what he would say anyway: “I’m not that interested in sex. It doesn’t have anything to do with you, but I’m not going to do something I don’t feel.” She suspected that unraveling the mysteries and motivations behind his attitude about sex (and sex with her) would be painful and damaging to their marriage, so she just let it be. She was confused and hurt at first, but eventually the months slipped by, and she’d found that she didn’t miss it so much. She told herself that she could live without good sex, especially when there were so many other things to do that were more important. And then Kirby had come along . . .
It was about ten-thirty at night, and she was sitting in the back of a Splatch-Verner Town Car, going home. It was a damp, cold evening—there had been rain earlier, and the temperature had now fallen below freezing, leaving the streets glistening under the white glow of the streetlights and shop windows. She rearranged her long dark sheath, pulling her full-length mink coat more tightly around her. She’d been at a black-tie gala to raise money for education, and Kirby had been there. Not at her table, of course—that would have been far too risky. But Susan Arrow, the P.R. doyenne, had been more than thrilled to seat Kirby at her table—gorgeous young men being in short supply at these events. In December, Nico had arranged for Kirby to meet Susan, the idea being that she might be able to help him with his acting career. Susan and Kirby had developed a casual friendship, and from there, it was natural for Kirby to suggest to Susan that if she ever needed an escort, he was available. And so there sat Kirby at the next table, with no one the wiser that Nico was quietly responsible for engineering his presence.
Nico let her head fall back against the seat. She had only managed to talk to Kirby twice during the evening, and only for a few seconds. But that wasn’t the point. She wanted her lover to see her in all her splendor—with her hair piled on top of her head, and with the diamond-and-ruby necklace she had bought for herself three years ago, when she’d earned a half-million-dollar bonus, clasped around her neck.
“You look beautiful,” Kirby had whispered, as she’d leaned over him to say hello.
“Thank you,” she’d whispered back, touching him briefly on the shoulder.
But it wasn’t just her external appearance that she wanted him to acknowledge. She wanted Kirby to understand who she was in the world and how high she had risen. She wanted him to see her there, in context, seated at the head table, next to Victor Matrick. And later, up in front of the podium, receiving an award for her efforts to raise money for computers in classrooms . . .
She wasn’t ashamed of wanting to impress her lover, especially since she couldn’t impress her husband, at least not that way. Seymour refused to attend these events with her, saying he didn’t want to be seen as Mr. Nico O’Neilly. That had hurt once as well, but she had gotten over it. There was no point in dwelling on things that, when closely examined, were not much more than a case of a slightly bruised ego.
She shifted in her seat, finally allowing the full importance of the evening to settle over her. Seymour hadn’t been there, but it didn’t matter. He would still be pleased with her, especially when she told him what had gone on at the table with Victor Matrick and Mike Harness.
Her eyes narrowed gleefully as she stared out of the tinted window at the towering shops that lined Fifth Avenue like glowing yellow icebergs. Should she call Seymour and tell him the good news about what Victor had said to her? No. The driver might overhear, and he might gossip to other drivers. You couldn’t trust anyone, she thought. She’d seen careers ruined over indiscreet boasting. It would be far better to tell Seymour in person. He might have a fire going, and then she could take off her shoes and they could discuss what had happened.
She allowed herself the tiniest smile, recalling the moment at the gala dinner when Victor Matrick had turned to her and said quietly, “I’d like you and Seymour to come to St. Barts for the weekend.” She immediately understood that this was not a social invitation but a secret strategy meeting, which needed be conducted out of sight of prying eyes, and for a second, time stood still. She glanced over at Mike Harness. Mike was pushing a large piece of bread into his mouth (the food at these dinners was always inedible), and looking annoyed with the fact that he’d been seated next to Selden Rose’s date—an attractive young woman in her early thirties whom Mike no doubt considered of no importance whatsoever.
And Nico thought, “Mike, baby, you’re about to get fucked over.”
And she was going to be the one to do it.
The thought was both sickening and deeply satisfying at the same time. Mike had gone to Victor about the Huckabees meeting after all, she thought, and, as she suspected, Victor had been repelled by his obvious treachery. She touched her napkin to her lips and nodded. “Of course, Victor,” she murmured quietly. “We’d love to be there.”
The car turned onto Sullivan Street, and without waiting for the driver to open the door, Nico got out. A trim man dressed in a ski parka and fuzzy après ski boots was coming down the steep steps of the brownstone, his concentration focused on three small dachshunds attached to retractable leashes. Ever since Seymour had begun breeding dachshunds three years ago (he was hoping to win at least Best in Breed at the Westminster Dog Show this year), he had taken on the pretension of living in the city as if he were some kind of country squire, hence the boots.
“Seymour,” Nico said eagerly.
Seymour looked up, and after a moment’s hesitation, came over. “How was the dinner?” he asked.
Nico reached down to the dogs, who were pawing gleefully at the hem of her dress. Their little claws were as delicate and clutching as spiders’ feet, and she bent down, picking one up and cuddling it in her arms. “Hello, Spidey,” she said, kissing the dog on top of its head. She looked up at Seymour, taking a moment to allow him to prepare for her good news. “Mike’s out, I think.”
“Nice.” Seymour’s eyes widened as he nodded approvingly.
“And . . . Victor’s invited us to his house in St. Barts for the weekend,” she added triumphantly. She gathered her coat around her and went up the stairs.
The town house was five stories high with an elevator and garden in the back. They’d bought it four years ago as a wreck, for $2.5 million, had put $750,000 in renovations into it, and it was now worth over $5 million. Nevertheless, the $1.5 million mortgage, which came out to about $15,000 a month, sometimes weighed heavily on her, especially as Seymour didn’t contribute to the monthly payments. She didn’t resent him for it—Seymour had put in his half of the down payment and renovation expenses, and did more than his share of the work, but when she all
owed herself to think about it, the idea of owing that much money, month after month, was terrifying. What if she got fired? Or got cancer? At the end of the day, careers were moments in time. You had ten, maybe fifteen great years and then time moved on and the world moved on, leaving you behind. Look at Mike, she thought.
But this evening, turning the handle of the door to her own house, she was convinced that everything was going to be fine. Mike might be over, but she wasn’t. You had to strike while you were still hot. And if she got Mike’s position (and she would), she wouldn’t have to worry about mortgages and money for at least several years.
She entered the foyer and felt that sickening sense of triumph again.