Кэндес Бушнелл: Four Blondes

"I loved him.”

“Did not. You're only upset because he was going to take you to Bouley for dinner and you wanted the fois gras.”

A cab stopped in front of Harold's building and a lanky blond girl got out. She was clutching a cheap leather bag. "My replacement," Janey thought. The cab's yellow light came on. Janey stuck out her hand and hailed it.

Two weeks later, Harold messengered an envelope to her apartment. Inside was a note that read, "If you ever need anything, please call," attached to a five-thousand-dollar gift certificate from Gucci.

The next summer, when Janey was with Peter, she ran into Harold at a big party in East Hampton, thrown on a beachfront estate. The summer was only half over, but she'd developed an unusual and alarming hatred for Peter. At the beach, he either talked on his cell phone to clients or criticized other women's bodies. His pet peeve was women over forty who'd had kids. "Look at her," he'd scream. "Look at that belly. Useless. Why doesn't she get off the beach?”

"Oh Peter," she'd say.

"Oh Peter what? If s in a man's nature to be attracted to beautiful young girls. If s instinctual. A man wants to sleep with as many beautiful young girls as possible. If s all about reproduction." Driving on the back roads in his Porsche, he'd say, "I'm a little crazy, Janey," like he was proud of it. "Do you think I should go to a shrink?”

"I think it would be totally useless," Janey would say, and he'd laugh, taking it as a compliment, so by the time they arrived at the party, he'd have his hand on her leg. Then they'd walk, arms around each other, up somebody's lawn or gravel pathway, laughing, smiling over their shoulders at the other guests.

All the PR people knew them, so they didn't even have to give their names at parties, and photographers took their picture. The summer was green and warm, and for those moments, anyway, it felt perfect. The Monday after Janey and Peter ran into Harold, Harold called.

"I'm worried about you, Janey," he said. "You're a nice girl. You shouldn't be with a guy like Peter.”

“Why not?" she said.

"He's a creep.”

"Oh Harold. You think every other guy is a creep.”

"I'm serious, Janey," Harold said. "I want to give you some advice. Maybe if s not my place, but I'm going to give it to you anyway. Stop this running around and get married. You're not the kind of girl who's going to do something with her life, so marry a man you love and have his children.”

"But I will do something, Harold.”

“What?”

"I don't know.”

"Take my advice, Janey. You're young now, and you're beautiful. This is the time to find a real guy.”

“Who?" Janey asked.

"A nice young guy. A good-looking guy. I don't know. I'll fix you up with my architect. He's thirty three and wants to get married.”

"No thanks," Janey said, and laughed softly.

The relationship with Peter went from bad to worse. It was partly the sex. Peter didn't want to be touched, and could barely bring himself to touch her. They had sex once every three weeks. "Do you think maybe you're gay?" Janey asked. She'd developed a habit of baiting him. "I'm going to find some hot young guy to have sex with. Men over forty really can't perform, you know." Then they'd get into a screaming argument in his house. One morning, Janey burned some toast, and he stormed into the kitchen and fished the burnt toast out of the garbage, scraped it off, and tried to make her eat it. She fed it to Gumdrop instead, who promptly threw up. Janey had fantasies of killing Peter, and wondered if she accidentally threw his cell-phone recharger into the pool, he'd be electrocuted.

They'd make up because they always had parties to go to, and eventually, the summer passed.

Moomba again. Janey sat by herself, sipping a martini at the bar. The bartender was young. He said, "I remember you in that movie. I'm embarrassed about this, but I used to masturbate to your picture.”

“Good," Janey said. "Then I guess I don't need to give you a tip.”

"This is on me," he said, nodding at the martini. He leaned over the bar. "What are you doing now?”

“Waiting for a friend," she said, and turned away.

She was willing Zack Manners to show up. She'd found she had this uncanny knack: If she willed something hard enough, it would happen. Instead, Redmon Richardly, the novelist, came in. He nodded at her, then walked all around the club to see who else was there. Then he came over.

"Where's Zack?" she asked. "How the hell should I know.”

“I'm hoping he'll show up.”

"Forget about Zack," Redmon said. "I'm the best you're going to do tonight.”

"I want Zack.”

"Zack is a weirdo," Redmon said. He ordered a scotch.

"So are you.”

"No, really a weirdo," Redmon said. "I've spent a lot of time with him in London. I know girls who have slept with him. You don't want to get involved in that shit. If s that weird Euro sex shit. If s gross. If s not American.”

Then, sure enough, Zack did turn up. "Zack!" Redmon said. "We were just talking about you.”

Zack was with some other people. "Come to the table," he mouthed.

After Zack's group was seated, Janey went over and wedged a chair in next to Zack. "You again,” he said. "You look like one of those girls who's everywhere. Are you a socialite?”

Janey just smiled and sipped her drink. She knew she didn't have to say anything. Eventually her looks would begin to affect him. She turned to the man on her other side. He was a little English fellow, eager to talk.

"Are you going to the Hamptons too, this summer?" she asked.

"No, but I'm fascinated by it. We don't have anything like it in England. It sounds marvelous. All those movie stars fighting the traffic.”

"I go every summer," Janey said. "If s wonderful.”

“Will you be there this summer?”

"Oh yes. I'm looking forward to having a really good summer this year.”

Zack leaned over. "What is it with you and this 'good summer' business?" he asked. "Are you mentally impaired in some way that I should know about?”

"Probably," Janey said. She put down her drink. "I have to go," she said. "Call me.”

"I don't call girls. I get in touch," said Zack. "Then I'll look forward to your 'getting in touch,' " Janey said.

Two days letter, Zack messengered an envelope to her apartment. Written on an engraved card was this brief missive: Janey, would you like to meet for a drink? Please ring my secretary, who will give you the time and place. Regards, Zack.

Every five minutes during the Jitney ride out to the Hamptons on Memorial Day weekend, Janey wanted to stand up and scream, "I'm Janey Wilcox, the model, and I'm spending the weekend with Zack Manners, the English billionaire record producer. So fuck you. All of you," just to make herself feel better.

She was sitting in the front of the bus, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, trying to read The Sheltering Sky. But a niggling thought kept inserting itself into her brain, like a pencil point being pushed into Silly Putty: Zack Manners was not exactly there. He was not, as Janey liked to say, completely "in." His invitation had been vague—he had left instructions with his secretary to inform Janey that they should meet "sixish" for drinks at The Palm in East Hampton on Friday evening. Janey wasn't sure if the invitation extended to the weekend, and that uncertainty made her more excited about Zack than she had been about any man in a long time. The night before, she had gone to Moomba, and as the various men came by her table to pay their doting respects, Janey had said boldly, "Oh, yes, I'm wonderful. I've finally met a man I could fall madly in love with. He's brilliant and funny and sexy." And she said it in such a way as to imply that, while Zack was all those things, these other men decidedly were not.