Lipstick Jungle

“He takes them to the stables . . . my older daughter has a pony . . . and to the park, and usually to some other kid’s birthday party.”

“He can handle them by himself?” Selden asked.

Wendy nodded. “He’s a shitty man but a good father. Unfortunately.”

The elevator door opened and they stepped out into a large foyer with a glass wall constructed of green blocks. There was a beige Oriental carpet on the floor. “It’s nice,” Wendy said cautiously.

“You haven’t seen it yet,” he said, pushing through a door hidden in the glass that opened up into a huge, empty space. Selden’s loft was much bigger than her own—the living room and kitchen were probably 2,500 square feet—but he hadn’t lied; he wasn’t big on decorating. In the middle of the room was a long wooden table with eight chairs; along a wall of windows was a solitary couch fronted by a glass coffee table. And that was it. Wendy wasn’t sure what to say. “It’s . . .”

“Lonely, huh?” Selden said, going into the kitchen. “I keep telling myself that I’m going to get some furniture, or at least hire a decorator. But you know what it’s like. You get busy and you keep putting it off, and then before you know it, two years have passed.”

“Do you even have a bed?” Wendy asked.

“That I do have. And a large screen TV. In the bedroom. I watch all my shows in bed.”

She followed him into the kitchen, her footsteps echoing on the bare wooden floor. She could never have imagined Selden Rose—aggressive, high-powered entertainment executive—living like this. But you never did know about people, until you really knew, she supposed. It was probably quite a risk for him, allowing her to see his apartment. He must trust her enough to think that she wasn’t going to go back to Splatch-Verner and blab about his weirdly unfurnished apartment. She had a sudden image of Selden lying in bed alone, wearing a robe, a remote control in his hand, watching the dailies from his various TV shows. There was something deeply vulnerable and sad about it, she thought. But it was also something that she could understand.

“I’ve got a cold bottle of champagne,” he called out to her, opening the refrigerator door. “It’s Cristal. Victor gave it to me last year.”

“And you haven’t drunk it yet?” she asked, coming up behind him.

“I guess I was waiting for a special occasion,” he said, turning around with the bottle in his hand so that they nearly collided.

“I’m sorry,” Wendy said.

“I’m not. Wendy, I—” He didn’t finish his sentence, because he suddenly leaned down and started kissing her.

It was one of those great moments, and suddenly, they were all over each other, Selden pausing only to put down the bottle of champagne. Still kissing, they began removing their clothes, with Selden steering her through the living room onto the couch.

“My breasts,” she whispered. “My stomach. I’ve had three kids . . .”

“I don’t give a damn,” he said hotly.

They were still making love an hour later when she heard her phone ring, its jarring tinkle magnified in the empty space. “My phone . . .” she said.

“Do you have to get it?” he asked.

“I don’t know . . .”

The phone stopped ringing and a few seconds later, the message indicator buzzed.

“You’d better get it,” Selden said, rolling off her. “No point in being nervous.”

She got out of his bed, where they had eventually ended up, and walked naked to the living room, where she’d left her bag on the table. She pawed through its contents for her phone.

“Mother, where are you?” demanded Magda, in a rasping accusing whisper, that immediately caused Wendy to become terrified. “Where are you?” she asked again. “We’ve got pimples. And we’re all sick . . .”

* * *

A BEAM OF VICIOUSLY bright sunshine, streaming in through the open French windows, traveled across the bed and landed on Victory’s face, causing her to open her eyes with a start.

She sat up, and then immediately lay back down again, moaning softly. Her head felt like a cement block that had been squeezed in a vise.

Oh no. Was she still drunk?

And why were the shutters open?

Hmmmm. She must have opened them when she got back to her room last night. Now that she thought about it, she remembered being out on the balcony, looking out over the sea, the moon shining whitely on the water with small waves catching the light like sparks. But mostly she seemed to remember the following sentence: “It’s really not any better than the Hamptons, you know? But the French are so snobby about it.” Now, whom had she said that to? Not Pierre . . . Lyne Bennett, maybe? Had she seen Lyne last night? His face was coming back to her—there were other faces around it—like spotting someone in a high school yearbook photograph for the glee club. She pictured him in black tie, and looking terribly amused.