Даниэла Стил - All That Glitters

“Sure,” she said casually. She didn’t imagine for a minute that he was attracted to her. She wasn’t in his league. He was much too glamorous, very famous, and could go out with anyone he wanted. She was five months pregnant now, so he thought she was either fat, or off-limits and probably married. Leslie had read a lot about him, since she loved his books, and she said he was omnivorous and dated everything from teenagers to sixty-year-old movie stars, who were twenty years older than he was. But most of the time, he dated beautiful young girls like Coco.

“How about tomorrow?” he suggested, and they agreed to meet at a trendy bar in Notting Hill that Coco had heard about and never been to. Writers, models, photographers, and movie stars went there.

She told Leslie about it the next day. She was impressed and raised an eyebrow to tease her.

“Hardly,” Coco said, patting her slightly protruding belly. She had worn black jeans, and a pink sweater, and her own motorcycle boots that she had brought with her but hadn’t worn since college. She had dressed like an adult for Nigel, in fancy cocktail dresses when they went out. She could be more casual now, which suited her better and was more familiar. It was a relief not to be at parties all the time, or a houseguest somewhere every weekend.

She had read in the gossip columns that Nigel was entertaining in his fabulous new country estate in Sussex, and invitations to spend a weekend there were in high demand. She wondered how he was paying for it on his five-thousand-dollar-a-month spousal support the judge had awarded him instead of three million a year.

She met Ian at the bar in Notting Hill on Friday night at seven. The place was jammed with lots of people from the neighborhood, and a smattering of models and well-known trendies in jeans and T-shirts. He was waiting at the bar for her when she arrived, and she walked over to him with a smile. Her sweater was loose enough that her pregnancy barely showed, and he didn’t seem to notice, and probably didn’t care. It was just a courtesy drink, but she thought it was a nice gesture on his part to thank her.

“Is that your dog outside?” she asked him, after they ordered beers. Her doctor said she could have two a week and an occasional glass of wine. They were more relaxed about pregnant women drinking moderately in Europe. She had seen a huge cinnamon-colored bull mastiff sitting politely next to the entrance. He was massive and no one was going to bother him.

“That’s Bruce. He likes it here. He’s my best friend. He’s my alter ego. I’m not so good with people,” he confessed, with his dazzling smile. “Most writers aren’t. That’s why they become writers. Because they’re afraid to talk to people, so they write. We’re born observers, but poor participators.” It was an interesting analysis of the breed. His mind was quick and sharp, and she suspected that his tongue could be as well. She could easily imagine him getting angry. He exuded brooding inner tension, and then he smiled and the sun came out. He made you want to work for one of those smiles, like winning a trophy for a game well played. “How did you wind up in London? Did you grow up here?” he asked her.

“The reason I’m here is boring and complicated,” she said quietly.

“Like life.” He nodded.

“I dropped out of school in New York, Columbia, journalism major, got an internship at Time over here, worked there for about eight months, and got a job offer from Leslie, who was my boss at Time and started the relocation business, so here I am.”

“I have a feeling it’s more complicated than that,” he said, pointing to her belly. He had noticed.

“Yes, it is. I thought I’d spare you the long version. Bad romance in New York, with a married man, after I dropped out of school. I was an idiot. Lesson learned, so I got that out of the way. Fell for someone else when I got here, got married too quickly. It lasted for eleven months, now I’m getting divorced. And I’m having a baby. He gave up his rights, so my daughter and I will be on our own, which is fine.” At least she hoped it would be. She wasn’t as confident as she appeared, but she didn’t know him.

“Well, it sounds like you got all your big mistakes out of the way quickly. Married man, bad guy. I’m sure the next one will be a good one.”

“I’m not looking. I’m taking a breather.”

“Is your family in New York?” She hesitated at the question, and he noticed that too. He was an observer of people and the human condition, and good at it. It was what he did for a living. “Bad question? Didn’t like your husband? Angry about the baby?”

“No, they died almost three years ago. In the attack in Cannes. Two of the eleven Americans who were killed.”

“Oh Jesus, I’m sorry.” He winced. “Terrible question. Writers always think they can ask whatever they want to get to the truth. It must have been awful for you when it happened?”

“We were very close. They were wonderful.” She managed not to cry when she said it. She was better at that these days. Time had helped, although she still missed them every day.

“I lost my parents young too. You grow up fast after that. My mother was fantastic, a saint, and my father was a devil. He was a drunk, and violent. He killed my mother and then shot himself. I was seventeen, in high school. I dropped out too, hitchhiked my way around Europe, wound up in Turkey, and then in North Africa, Morocco, Tangiers, Libya for a while, then lived in Paris, and eventually went back to New York, when my first book was published. I wrote it at eighteen, dragged it around in my backpack for a couple of years, finally sent it to a publisher, and presto magic, became a writer.

“I come to London a lot. I like it here. I eventually wind up back in New York for a while, and then leave again. I find it hard to stay in one place, and stay connected. I disappear when I write, which most people find difficult, particularly women. I’ve been married twice, to two very nice women I made miserably unhappy, but they seem to have forgiven me, since they’re better people than I am. I spend a lot of time with Bruce. He understands me. I don’t have kids. I’d be afraid to turn out like my father. I like being alone, until I get tired of it, and then I surface, and discover that everyone is pissed at me because I disappeared.” He smiled, without remorse. He was warning her of just how difficult he was. He was more than complicated, but utterly fascinating. “I hate the idea of being responsible for another human being, and I’m allergic to commitment of any kind. So at the risk of sounding rude, if you’re looking for a father for your baby, it won’t be me. I get hives thinking about it. But I think you’re terrific, and I’d like to spend time with you, if you don’t mind my disappearing act, and don’t count on me. I believe in truth in labeling. I’m a nice guy, but I’m an asshole too, as my ex-wives would be happy to tell you, but they love me anyway. I love them too. We’re very devoted to each other.” She laughed. He was certainly an honest person, and a little bit odd, or even a lot, and didn’t pretend to be anything other than what he was. As he finished his full disclosure, two women came up to him and asked for an autograph. He was polite to them but not warm. He looked at Coco intensely after they left. “And I’m not good with strangers,” he added. “I find being famous a pain in the ass. Sometimes I pretend I’m not me.”

“I’m not looking for a father for my baby,” she told him just as bluntly. “She was an accident, and the day I found out and rushed home to tell my husband, I found him having sex with someone else, for the second time in four months. So that was the end of it. He suggested giving up his parental rights, which sounded good to me. I traded him a country estate for her. I think it was a good trade. I’m planning to do this on my own. I think I can manage it.”