Stuart Woods - Dirt

Her first act on arriving in New York had been to find a lawyer and legally change her name to Amanda Delano, which name her cooperating high school teacher had already placed in her school records and scholarship application. Amanda had a much nicer ring than Ida Louise, and thereafter she had not disabused her college friends from thinking that she was one of the mill-owning Atlanta Delanos.

At Barnard, Amanda had remained celibate for a year while pouring her sexual frustration into her studies and the school newspaper, for which she wrote a column on campus social life. When she could no longer tolerate a life without sex, she began to seek out older, often married men – assistant professors, usually, who demanded no full-time relationship and who could recommend her for the best classes and teachers. After graduation from Barnard she got a job on the old Journal-American and, very soon afterward, began an affair with a forty-year-old assistant managing editor, one Robert Dart, who she knew was headed for a top job at the paper. Within a year he had promoted her twice, given her her own column, and divorced his wife of fifteen years to marry Amanda.

The marriage was hell for both of them, but it had ended well for Amanda when Bob Dart had dropped dead on a squash court and left her his name, a cooperative apartment in a good neighborhood, and two hundred thousand dollars in life insurance. She had hardly been set for life, but now she had a career, a certain respect as the widow of a well-known journalist, and, above all, the column. When the Journal-American had folded, Dick Hickock’s predecessor had recruited her and syndicated the column. Amanda Delano Dart had made herself powerful.

Amanda pulled on a pair of stockings and secured them to her garter belt. Her legs were too long for most pantyhose, and she felt somehow more alluring in a garter belt anyway. She slipped silk panties over the stockings and stepped into a short, low-cut black dress from her favorite, Chanel, that showed off both her good legs and her firm breasts. She needed no bra, and with the twitch of a shoulder she could give a properly attentive man a glimpse of nipple. A pair of black alligator Ferragamos and a modest diamond necklace and earrings completed her outfit.

She walked into the living room and gave it a quick once-over. She had long since trained her housekeeper, Bela, to perfection, but knowing that Amanda noticed kept her that way. She strolled into the dining room and checked the place settings, then toured the kitchen to see how the caterers were coming along. The television was on in the kitchen, and she was stopped in her tracks by the lead story on Gossip Tonight, which followed the evening news. An “anchorman” was saying:

“Word is out around New York and L.A. that two of gossip’s leading figures have figured unflatteringly in a newsletter-by-fax called DIRT, which has been going out to a list of movers and shakers over the past week. The lady was allegedly caught in a most compromising position in a New York hotel, and the gentleman, who has taken part in a number of public outings of gay men and women, was said to have been photographed during a sex act with a pizza deliveryman. Can libel suits be far behind? It will be interesting to see.”

Amanda kept moving, but her heart was pounding. She glanced at her Cartier watch. Stone Barrington was due for an early drink in fifteen minutes.

Stone was knotting his tie when Gossip Tonight followed the news and Amanda’s indiscretion was mentioned. Not by name, though, thank God. That would have certainly played hell with Amanda’s dinner party. He didn’t know who all her guests would be, but chances were at least some of them would have seen DIRT.

He slipped into his jacket and surveyed himself in the mirror. Dark, chalk-striped suit by Ralph Lauren, black baby calf shoes from E. Vogel, an old family shoemaker in Chinatown, a cream-colored silk shirt from Turnbull & Asser in London, and a reasonably sober necktie and pocket square from the same people. His cufflinks were old gold, his wristwatch a Cartier Tank. Perfect East Side dinner party garb, he thought. He gave his hair a final brush, tucked his gold reading glasses into his jacket’s breast pocket, and let himself out of the house, whistling down a passing cab. That loud whistle, learned in boyhood, had served him well in New York City.

Amanda heard the elevator chime as it stopped in her foyer. She smoothed down her dress and banished nervousness. She was ready for her first guest.

Amanda opened the door, and Stone was very taken with what he saw. Before him was just about the most perfectly turned out woman he had ever seen.

“Stone, darling, come in,” Amanda said, offering him a cheek to peck. She turned and led him into the living room, a vision of chintz and good pictures.

“What a beautiful room,” Stone said, knowing he was saying the right thing.

“Thank you, kind sir.”

“And an even more beautiful hostess.”

“For that, you get a real kiss,” she said. Amanda took his face in his hands and planted upon his lips a soft kiss, with only a hint of tongue. Her carefully blotted lipstick remained unsmeared. “And now a drink,” she said.

“Bourbon on the rocks, please?”

“Jack Daniel’s? Wild Turkey? Old Crow?”

“Wild Turkey, please.”

“A man after my own heart,” she said. “You must have southern blood.”

“No, just southern tastes in some things.”

“As a Georgian, I thank you,” she said, deftly pouring two drinks at a butler’s tray across the room. “I’m so glad you didn’t wear an overcoat. Gloria is busy in the kitchen, and I hate dealing with coats.”

“I wear coats only when I am likely to be cold,” he said, lifting his drink.

“New friends,” Amanda said, raising her glass.

“I’ll drink to that.”

They did.

Amanda took his hand and led him to a soft sofa. “I hope you have nothing to report,” she said.

“Nothing yet.”

“Good; I’m in no mood to talk business. That is a very handsome suit; who made it?”

“A Mr. Lauren runs them up for me.”

“Can’t go wrong there, can you?”

“Nope. Who’s coming to dinner, besides me?”

“Bill and Susan Eggers, whom you know, of course.”

“Bill since law school; Susan only from a few law firm parties.”

“Dick and Glynnis Hickock.”

“He owns your paper?”

“Right, and don’t kowtow to him, whatever you do, or he’ll consider you his inferior forever.”

“I’ll try not to be impressed. Anyone else?”

“Vance Calder and some girl or other.”

“Now I’m impressed.”

“Be sure and let him know it, or he’ll be hurt.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had dinner with a real live movie star.”

“Superstar, darling; if you forget, he’ll remind you.”

“And his girl?”

“One never knows with Vance. She might be a princess or a whore – more likely both.” She sipped her drink. “I’ve not asked you, Stone; is there a woman in your life?”

“There was until yesterday.”

Amanda smiled. “How convenient. I hope you’re not too crushed.”

“I’m managing.”

“Something I should mention before the others arrive: don’t be the last to leave, all right?”

“Whatever you say.”

“It’s not that I wouldn’t want you to stay, it’s just that I don’t want to start any rumors.”

“As you wish.”

“As a reward for giving up a late evening with me, how would you like to drive out to the country tomorrow?”

“Sounds lovely.”

“It will be. The autumn leaves are at their peak, and the weather forecast for tomorrow is perfection.”