“It’s always the little things, isn’t it?” Victory said. She looked around her tiny house. It should have felt blissfully peaceful, now that order was restored, but instead it seemed sparse and depressing. “Oh Wendy, I’m a shit,” she said. “I acted like a total asshole. I don’t know what came over me. I freaked out. I just couldn’t stand seeing him in my space . . .”
“So why don’t you call him?”
“I don’t think I should. It’s too late now, I’m sure he hates me. Or thinks I’m insane. Which I gave him pretty good reason to believe.”
Still, she had thought that Lyne would eventually call her. He always had in the past. But this time, he didn’t. Two days went by, then four. And by then, she had made up her mind to forget about him. It didn’t matter.
But still, it scared her—this frightening ability to immediately disassociate from a man and her feelings for him. Out of sight, out of mind. It was really that easy.
Did other women feel this way? Wendy didn’t, and neither did Nico. Even if Nico was having an affair, she was still “in love” with Seymour. But something happened to you when you’d had lots of relationships, meaning lots of breakups as well. At first, it hurt terribly, and you thought you’d never be able to get over it. But then you learned to be circumspect. You were only hurt because the guy had taken away your dream of the relationship. You understood that hurt feelings were really only about ego, about the self-absorbed idea that every man you were with should love you, that the universe owed you that. But love was not an inalienable human right, and some women probably went their whole lives without ever having had any man who really loved them. Some men too! And she was probably one of those people. It was a truth she ought to accept, she thought fiercely, no matter how much it hurt. No one ever said life was going to be easy. She could take it; she would soldier on. And besides, she had her career.
She looked out of the window of the Mercedes again. The car seemed to have advanced another block, and at last, Mr. Hulot was putting on his blinker to turn left into the driveway of the harbor. This was it, she thought. The party was an acknowledgment of her and her talents, of everything she’d worked so hard to achieve.
The car drove slowly down a narrow cement lane, finally stopping at the end in front of a shiny white yacht from which sparkled small white lights. Two burly men wearing nautical attire and holding clipboards stood stationed at the end of the gangplank. To the side lurked a cluster of security men with walkie-talkies, and in the front was a pack of paparazzi, held back with an orange police barricade. The flashbulbs were nearly blinding, and through the white light Victory recognized a famous pair of movie stars who were holding hands and waving professionally.
Victory slid out of the car, reaching down to pick up the hem of her dress. Suddenly, the attention of the paparazzi turned on her, and she smiled, stopping to pose for the photographers, some of whom she knew from New York.
“Hey Victory,” one of them shouted. “Where’s Lyne?”
She shrugged.
“I hear he’s in Cannes . . .” another one called out.
“His yacht is here . . .” said another.
Lyne, here? In Cannes? Her heart gave a thumping lurch. No, she thought, it couldn’t be. And even if he was, he was probably with someone else . . . and it didn’t matter anyway. If only she could become just a little bit more successful, she thought, as she walked up the gangplank and stopped again to pose for the paparazzi, who kept begging her to turn around. Maybe if she worked harder and made more money and her company became even bigger, she thought . . . Maybe then a man would finally come along who really loved her.
* * *
“WENDY?” SELDEN ROSE EXCLAIMED. “Wendy, is that you?”
Who else did he think it was? Wendy thought, with some annoyance. She’d spotted Selden out of the corner of her eye when she’d come downstairs to talk to the manager about getting another room added on for Gwyneth. She’d been hoping to avoid him, but he had suddenly looked up from his newspaper and his face had opened up with pleasurable surprise. Well, there was no getting past him now. She was going to have to say hello. If she didn’t, he would probably tell people she had dissed him.
“Hello, Selden,” she said, approaching the table. What the hell was he doing in the bar-lobby of the Mercer Hotel at nine a.m. on a Sunday, and drinking, she thought, taking in the glass in front of him, what appeared to be a Bloody Mary? And one with a celery stick, a lemon slice, three olives, and a straw sticking out the top?
Selden Rose drank Bloody Marys from a straw? Wendy thought meanly. What was he, twelve?
He stood up. Despite the straw, Selden himself was looking alarmingly sexy, with his longish brown hair and reading glasses. Tortoiseshell. Adorable, really. “Would you like a drink? Or maybe a latte,” he asked. “You look like you could use one.”
She immediately got her back up. “Do I look that bad?” she demanded.
“No, Wendy, not at all . . .”
“Let me explain something, Selden,” she said warningly. “If you want to know one thing about women, and women like me especially, it’s that you should never tell us that we look like we need a drink, a boob job, or a goddamned latte.”
“Gosh, Wendy,” he said, surprised at this attack. “I didn’t mean . . . You look great, as always . . .”
“Great?” she asked, slightly outraged.
“And you definitely don’t need a breast job. I mean . . .” he said, faltering under her withering gaze. “I only said you needed a coffee, hoping that you’d sit down and have one with me.”
And he pulled over a chair.
Wendy regarded the chair suspiciously. Oh, what the hell, she thought, tossing her hair over her shoulder. It wasn’t like she had anything else to do. She sat down. “So? How are you, Selden?”
“I’m doing great . . .”
“Everyone in New York and Los Angeles, and especially in our business, is always doing great. Have you noticed that?”