“You’re a psychopath, D.W. And people are starting to figure it out.”
“And you don’t think they haven’t figured out the same thing about you?” D.W. motions for another round of martinis. “Princess Cecelia. Maybe the most hated woman in America.”
“Hillary Clinton liked me.”
“Take a deep breath, my dear.” D.W. pats my hand. He has horrible fingers that narrow to little points. “Maybe not the most hated. I believe that at one time, people hated Hillary Clinton more than they hate you. But certainly, it must have occurred to you by now that all those horrendous photographs are not a mistake.”
I light another cigarette. “So?”
“So there’s a little game played in the offices of photo editors across the country: Let’s publish the worst possible photograph of Cecelia. I believe they have a pool going and the photographers are in on it too. The pot may be up to ten thousand dollars now.”
“Shut up. Just shut up.” I close my eyes. And then I do what I’d trained myself to do years ago, when I was a kid. I start to cry.
My life sucks.
It’s always sucked, if you want to know the truth
.
D.W. laughs harshly. “I’ve seen that act before. And you don’t deserve an ounce of sympathy. I’ve never seen anyone who’s been given so much fuck up so spectacularly. Get yourself together. Go do a line of cocaine or something.”
“I’m going home now. And I’m going to forget we ever had this conversation.”
“I wouldn’t do that, my dear,” D.W. says, gripping my hand. Ah yes. I’d forgotten how strong D.W. can be, even though he’s a faggot.
“You’re hurting me,” I say.
“That’s absolutely nothing, my dear, compared to the amount of pain I can inflict upon you and am perfectly prepared to do so.”
I sit back down. Light ANOTHER cigarette. GOD. I have to quit smoking one of these days. When I get pregnant. “What do you want, D.W.?” I ask, although I have a pretty good idea. “You know I don’t have any money.”
“Money?” D.W. sits back in his chair and starts laughing. He’s laughing so hard tears came out of the corners of his eyes.
“Don’t insult me,” he says.
“You’re like that character in All About Eve. Addison DeWitt, The Evil Queen,” I say.
“Why don’t you order something to eat?”
“I’m not hungry. You know that.”
“I’ll order something for you.”
Why is he torturing me? “I’ll throw up. I swear to God, D.W. I’ll vomit.”
“Waitress,” he says.
He moves his chair closer to the table. I move mine back. “All I want,” he says, “is to be very, very close to my very, very good friend Cecelia. Who is now about to relaunch herself as the queen of society. Backed, aided, and abetted, of course, by her very, very good friend D.W.”
I sit back in my chair. Cross my legs. Swing my foot. “I’ll do nothing of the sort,” I say, mashing my cigarette on the floor.
“Oh . . . yes . . . you . . . will,” D.W. says calmly.
“Oh . . . no . . . I . . . won’t.”
“Are you aware,” D.W. says, “that there’s a Princess Cecelia tell-all book in the works? The writer is a very, very good friend of mine, but I have to say he’s quite an excellent investigative journalist. The book would be—well, let’s just say that ‘embarrassing’ would be the least of it.”
“Are you aware,” I say, “that I have now been married for over one year, so therefore whatever you want to say about me makes absolutely no difference?”