Lipstick Jungle

“I just wanted to say that I know who you are and I love your movies,” he gushed. “And congratulations on your nominations . . .”

“Thank you,” she said, mustering what felt like her last ounce of civility. She held open the door.

“Bye now,” the young man said.

“Bye-bye.” She let the door close behind him with a bang. Why did this always happen in life? When everything was falling apart in your personal life, suddenly your career was going great guns.

She shook her head, overcome with a wave of sadness that felt like a big, empty, smoky breath of air. She tore open the small envelope and read the card inside. “Dearest Wendy,” it said. “You are a star. I couldn’t have done it without you and love you madly. XXOO Jenny.”

Well, at least someone appreciated her, she thought. She tore the card up into pieces and watched as they fluttered into the wastepaper basket.

Then she went back into the bedroom and sat cross-legged on the bed, pulling up the white duvet comforter around her. She could feel the veins—or were they arteries?—pulsing on either side of her temples, like there was a percussion band in her head. She stared blankly at the far wall. This couldn’t really be happening. It couldn’t actually be real. It was impossible. Things like this didn’t happen, but people did say that when it came to divorce, people did crazy things.

Like locking your spouse out of the apartment and stealing the kids.

Now surely that was illegal.

She would call the police in Palm Beach and have Shane arrested for kidnapping.

She dialed Shane’s number. “What?” he said.

“I’m surprised you’re even answering your phone.”

“I’m not going to, in a minute.”

She almost broke down then, almost begged him to take her back, to give her a second chance. Just before she lost her nerve, however, she blurted out, “I’m going to have you arrested.”

“Oh Wendy. You’re crazy,” he said, as if she were the pitiful one.

“I am. I’m calling the police right now,” she said warningly.

“Go ahead. And are you going to have my parents arrested too?”

“That’s right. All of you Healys are going to jail

.” In the silence that followed, Wendy had an image of Shane and his parents, who were seventy years old and beginning to shrink, standing in a jail cell together. Shane’s mother would have an Hermès scarf wrapped around her neck, and his father would probably be in a Ralph Lauren navy blue blazer with gold buttons. They would be scared to death, just like she was.

“Oh, and Shane?” she said. “I hate you. I just want you to know that.”

“That’s nice, Wendy. Keep it up. It’ll make this whole process easier for me. Go ahead, have us arrested. I’m sure a judge will consider that sensible behavior.” He hung up. She threw her phone across the room, where it hit the wall with a loud crack. Now she’d probably broken her phone. She got out of bed to retrieve it and the document fell out of the pocket of her robe. She picked it up, the words jumping out at her like fingers poking into her eyes. “State of New York.” “Matrimonial Division.” “Abandonment.” “Hereby summoned to appear in court on April 14.”

Court? No, no, no, she thought, shaking her head. She was not going to any court at any time. Ever. She’d never even gotten a parking ticket, for Christ’s sake. She was a good girl. She was a good person, and good people did not go to court.

She was the president of Parador Pictures, and the president of Parador Pictures did not go to court either.

She picked up her cell phone. The case was cracked, but it still seemed to be working. Okay, she thought, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to have Shane arrested. It would end up in the newspapers and it was still possible that this incident might blow over. But there was nothing to stop her from going down to Palm Beach and getting the kids herself. And if Shane still tried to keep her out of the house, she would bring the children to the Mercer Hotel. They could live here, with her, until she got Shane out of her life. The Mercer was a full-service hotel—they had dog walkers and, she believed, nannies. And if they didn’t, they would certainly get her one.

She dialed another number. “Hello, Josh,” she said, trying to make her voice sound as normal as possible.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Josh said.

What the hell was he talking about?

“Oscar nominations?” he asked. “I guess that’s why you’re calling me so early on a Sunday morning.”

“Oh, yes. We got six. And I want to thank you, Josh. You’ve been a big help.” And yadda, yadda, yadda, said a voice in her head.

“I try,” Josh said, with dramatic overstatement.