I encouraged him to take the job. Show biz. How difficult could it be? Hubert had already had a spate of jobs in banking, all of which, strangely, had turned out to be disasters. He had no head for numbers; in fact, he left generous tips because he couldn’t calculate 20 percent. I ignored this back then.

But now I suddenly realize: My husband is charming, convivial, and beautifully mannered. But also kind of . . . dumb.

They’re USING him for his connections.

I light a cigarette in disgust, and as I do, the door to the green room opens (that damn Constance probably locked me in), and Hubert comes in with Dianna Moon, who for some strange reason rushes over to me and throws her arms around me like a two-year-old, nearly knocking the cigarette out of my hand.

“I’ve always wanted to meet you,” she gushes. Then she stands back and says, “You are as pretty

as everyone says.” She takes my hand and says, “I hope we can be really good friends.”

I want to hate her but I can’t, at least not right then.

“Constance told me you were here,” Hubert says lamely. “And Dianna said she wanted to meet you.”

“I was hoping you might be able to have lunch,” I say. Wondering, Is it me or is his Dianna comment subtly hostile?

“Let’s all have lunch together. At one of those Ladies Who Lunch places,” Dianna says. “I’m feeling very, very ladyish today.”

“Can’t,” Hubert says casually. “Bob and I have a standing invitation for lunch every Wednesday.”

“Oh really,” I say.

“Of course, there’s no way you would have known that,” Hubert says.“If you’d called before you came. . . .”

“Oh, who’s this damn Bob person? Blow him off,” Dianna says. “Tell him you’re having lunch with me. I’m sure Bob will understand.”

“He’ll understand, but he’s the head of The Network,” Hubert says.

“But don’t you want to have lunch with your wife?” Dianna asks, in what seems to be genuine confusion. “She’s so pretty. . . .”

“We hardly ever see each other,” I say in a completely neutral tone, pulling on my gloves.

“Norman and I used to spend every minute together,” Dianna says. “Every minute. We couldn’t get enough of each other. We were obsessed. We’d spend days and days together in bed. . . .” She screws her face up. “I miss him. I miss him so much. No one really understands.” And then she begins to cry.

Hubert and I look at each other in alarm. Hubert does nothing. I cough politely into my glove.

“He was the greatest love of my life. My only love. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to date anyone, even,” she says, although it’s a well-known fact that she is at the moment not only dating someone (the head of a movie studio) but, according to Star magazine, living with him (or at least leaving all her stuff at his house), but it’s clear the tears are just part of her little performance, because she suddenly grabs my hand again and says, “Well, at least you’ll have lunch with me. I just can’t be alone right now.”

Hubert looks relieved. “Why don’t you go to Cipriani’s? The Network will pick up the tab, of course,” he says, adding, “Cecelia, just be sure to bring me the receipt, okay?”

And I just stare at him in horror, not believing that he is saddling me with this woman and treating me like some kind of . . . EMPLOYEE, for God’s sake.

“I’ll have Constance make the arrangements,” he says. And just at that moment, Constance walks into the room and appears to “immediately sum up the situation.”

“I’ll call Giuseppe,” she says, nodding at Hubert. “I’ll tell them to be expecting you. That way you won’t have to wait.”

“I never have to wait. Anywhere,” I say to Constance, not believing her insubordination. I look at Hubert for confirmation, or at least some kind of support, but all he can do is smile uncomfortably.

“Well. Good-bye then,” I say coldly.

“I’ll see you later. At home,” he says, like I’m annoying him or something.

“Right. I’ll make that phone call,” Constance says, looking at Hubert but not actually going anywhere. “Slater was a real comedian today, wasn’t he?” she says, like she and Hubert are the only ones in the room. “It’s all because of that damn Monique. That’s what you get for dating a child. Except now it’s our problem.” And then she actually touches Hubert’s arm. Specifically, his bicep.

I was right. He is having an affair with Constance.

“Who was that fucking bitch?” Dianna demands as she falls into the limo. “Christ. If I were you I would have smacked her. Listen, honey, rule number one: Never let any other bitch mess with your man. Because, guaranteed, that bitch is after your man. If you knew how many women I had to beat up, I mean, literally beat the FUCK off Norman, you wouldn’t believe it.”

Tags: Candace Bushnell Fiction
Source: readsnovelonline.net