Lipstick Jungle

“Do you really want a bigger house?” she asked.

“Yes, I do,” Seymour said, circling something in one of the brochures. “Real estate in Manhattan is the best investment right now. If we buy a five-million-dollar town house and renovate, it will probably be worth fifteen million in ten years.” He looked up. “Have you eaten your breakfast yet?”

“Yes.”

“Liar,” he said.

“I had my egg,” she said. “I promise you. If you don’t believe me, go check the dishes in the dishwasher.”

“That won’t do any good,” he said, sitting back in his chair and regarding her affectionately. “Even if you have eaten, you won’t have left one speck of egg on the plate.”

“I have eaten, my darling. I promise you.” She leaned over his shoulder. “Anything good?” she asked, glancing down at the brochures.

“There’s a forty-foot-wide town house on West Eleventh Street that’s in bad shape. A musician owns it—he used to be the lead guitarist in a heavy metal band. It’s five floors and over eight thousand square feet.”

“Do we need that much space?” she asked.

“I think we should buy another house someplace too,” he said. “Maybe in Aspen.”

All this house buying, Nico thought, sitting down. Was he bored?

“You haven’t eaten your breakfast, have you?” he said knowingly.

She shook her head.

He stood up. “I’ll make you an egg, then,” he said. She touched his arm. “Not a soft-boiled egg,” she whispered. “I’m sick of them.”

“Is that why you haven’t been eating breakfast for the past few days?” he asked. “You couldn’t think of what else you wanted to eat?”

“Yes,” she said. Now she was lying.

“Scrambled then. And toast,” Seymour said. “Or are you sick of toast as well?”

“A little,” she admitted. “It’s just that,” she said, with sudden passion, “our lives are so regimented . . .”

“Are they?” he asked. “I don’t think they are at all. New things are always happening to us. You have your new job, and soon we’ll have a new town house. We’ll throw bigger parties. I wouldn’t be surprised if the president came someday. We can certainly get the past one.”

He began to walk to the kitchen and stopped. “You should have told me if you wanted the ex-president here. I can get him in a heartbeat.”

She ought to care, she knew. The ex-president at one of their parties. It wasn’t such a far-fetched idea. The rumor would spread all over New York and through Splatch-Verner: Nico O’Neilly had the ex-president to her house for a dinner. But it suddenly felt unimportant. How could she tell him that she didn’t care one way or the other? She couldn’t. “Seymour,” she said, “you’re wonderful.”

“That’s what some people say,” he nodded. “How about a muffin instead of toast? The cook brought some little blueberry ones. Katrina likes them . . .”

She glanced idly at the brochures. “That would be nice,” she murmured. But she wasn’t really hungry. She was strangely nervous these days. It was the pressure of the new job. Some days she woke up full of great ideas, and other days she woke up with an angry buzz in her head as if her brain were attached to electric wires. She hadn’t been eating her breakfast lately, and apparently, Seymour had discovered this. In a few minutes, he returned with a scrambled egg and a small muffin and half a pat of butter and a teaspoon of jam on a china plate. She smiled up at him, thinking, “Oh, Seymour, I’ve done you wrong. Do you care? You’ve noticed everything else, but not that,” for she was still having that affair with Kirby, although it had decreased in intensity and frequency. But if she gave it up, she thought, she’d practically have no sex at all.

Seymour stared at her. “You look nice,” he said, after a pause.

“It’s Victory’s. Wendy’s premiere is tonight, remember?” she asked. “Do you and Katrina want to meet me at the office or the theater?”

“The theater, I think,” he said.

“Will you wear a suit?” she asked.

“Do I have to?”

“You should. It’s a big deal tonight. It’s a special occasion for Wendy. She’s been working on this movie for ten years.” She paused to place a forkful of egg in her mouth, concentrating on chewing and swallowing. “If Ragged Pilgrims is nominated for Best Picture and it wins, Wendy won’t have to worry for a couple of years.”

“What about Selden Rose?” Seymour asked, studying his brochures again.