Brightness Falls (26 page)

* * *

"It's for you," Corrine said, a few nights later, holding the receiver out to him as if it were one of his nasty-smelling tennis shoes. Russell was prone on the couch, reading a manuscript.

"Melman's going to back us," Trina announced.

When Russell whooped, Corrine glanced up from the book she was reading with calculatedly restrained irritation.

"I don't want to say any more over the phone," Trina said.

"What are we, spies?"

"Meet me for a drink."

Russell looked over at Corrine, who was watching, book in her lap, from the armchair. "It's practically eleven," he said.

"If we're going to go ahead with this thing you better give up any ideas you have about normal business hours. And ditto for your wife."

Indeed, Corrine didn't understand why she couldn't come. "Haven't I been helping you all along," she asked.

"Trina's got this big thing about security," Russell explained.

"I think she's got this big thing about you."

"It's business, Corrine." He was irritated at her for his own guilty sense that it
wasn't,
in fact, just business. "Look, I'll be back soon and I'll tell you all about it."

"Don't do me any favors," she said, turning away. "I'll probably be asleep. Unless I'm out with one of my attractive male associates." That set Russell to brooding again, as he descended in the elevator, on the subject of Jeff's story.

Packaged in a tight pink coatdress, Trina was gobbling mixed nuts at a table in the Oak Bar. "They asked me in this very snotty way if anyone was joining me," she said. "Apparently they decided I was a hooker. They used to have a rule against unescorted women at the bar. What are you drinking?"

Russell tried to order a glass of white wine but Trina insisted he drink a real drink. "We're about to enter another dimension. Soon we'll be living in deal time. And only the tough survive."

"You have a peanut skin on your lip," he said.

"Where, here?" She brushed at the wrong side of her lip. "Show me.'" Russell reached over and nudged the brown speck from her pink lip. She puckered and then kissed the air between them.

"Thanks, hon'. So aren't you excited?"

"I think so."

"'Come
on."
She reached down and squeezed Russell's thigh. "Melman's going to raise a war chest of a hundred mill' for us. And he's setting me up in my own firm."

The waiter arrived to inform Trina that she had a telephone call. While she was gone Russell tried to survey the spongy tundra of his feelings. He wasn't sure he wouldn't prefer to leave everything as it was before, tell Trina he was just kidding. Who did he think he was, taking over a publishing house? A stranger was going to lend him a hundred million dollars. The whole concept was a lethal cocktail of hubris and temporary insanity. He could see that now, and he was scared silly, prematurely nostalgic for the scale and the texture of his current life, the one that was just about to end, with its mundane certainties and decencies. The idea of Corrine sitting at home made him sad, as if he were flirting with a destiny that might somehow eventually exclude her. He could stand up right now and walk out before Trina returned, throw down a twenty and leave his unfinished drink sweating beside hers on the table. If he stayed here and finished this drink, he was afraid he would commit himself to an inexorable progression of events.

A head-turning, heart-stopping redhead appeared in the door, snug in a tiny black strapless dress. She scanned the room purposefully and at that moment Russell would have considered trading his kingdom to be the man she was seeking. She caught him staring and suddenly smiled and waved, as if he
was,
in fact, the very person she'd been searching for all along. With mounting exhilaration and fear he watched her walk toward him.

"Hi."

"Hello."

"I wouldn't mind a glass of champagne."

"Do I know you?" Although he imagined himself passably good-looking, he was not so accustomed to the attentions of beautiful strangers as to be jaded.

She leaned forward, looking into his eyes, unnerving him. "Do you want to?"

Russell found himself unable to articulate an answer. She leaned still closer, put her lips against his ear, and whispered, "I'll do absolutely anything you want for three hundred dollars."

Finally understanding, he blushed at his own naive vanity at the same time that he found his imagination wandering into the dizzying space opened up by the word "anything."

She wet her pursed lips with the tip of her tongue.

His own lips were dry, his throat constricted and parched. "Actually I'm with somebody," he croaked. "She's just making a phone call."

"Too bad," she said, sliding gracefully to the adjacent stool and turning her attention to a pinkly balding man who was thoughtfully stirring the cubes in his scotch. He nodded and smiled politely when she said hello.

"Anything,"
he asked a moment later, loudly enough for Russell to overhear.

Her red hair rose and fell across her bare back as she nodded, licking the back of her dress like an inverted flame.

The pink man reached inside his jacket for his wallet. He mouthed the question again and she nodded, this time with her chest as well as her head. He slid some money across the bar and placed her hand on top of it. Then, clearly and distinctly, pausing between each word, he commanded: "Paint... my... house!"

"I want to go dancing, celebrate," Trina said, on her return. "Finish your drink, already."

"You won't believe what just happened," he whispered.

"I know, you got hit on by a hooker. Congratulations. Now take a real woman dancing."

"I can't go out dancing," he said, though the idea did seem appealing, suddenly; after his brief encounter with the redhead he was worked up, his hormones boiling.

She reached over and palmed his cheek. "Russell, we're going to be spending a lot of time together from now on. You can't be afraid of little old me."

"I'm not afraid. I could beat you up with one hand tied behind my back."

"Show me."

Somehow this sounded to him very much like the word "anything" as it had been uttered a few moments before.

"Take me to Au Bar. One drink." He looked at his watch: midnight. Russell's sense of gallantry prevailed over domestic loyalty. They had a drink at the bar and then sat down with some friends of Trina's. By the time he got home it was nearly two o'clock. He could tell from Corrine's breathing on the other side of the bed that she was awake, but since she was pretending to be asleep he decided to collaborate in the fiction, though it was possible that she might know that he knew she was only pretending and might thereby become even angrier. He felt guilty for coming in so late, and indignant at being made to feel guilty. Corrine, he told himself as he fell asleep, was going to have to loosen up a little.

18

Minky Rijstaefel acquired her nickname shortly after coming out, at age seventeen, when
Town
&
Country
announced that she owned twenty-three furs. Minky was one of the young transatlantic set, which, in its more expansive moments, brushed up against some of the indigenous population groups—like one of the kisses with which members greeted each other. The kiss was actually two kisses, one on each cheek, or rather, two simulated kisses, actual physical contact being avoided in the interest of makeup preservation and of easing the strain of performance in the case of those who actually couldn't stand the sight of each other. The kiss had come via the continent, as had a third of the guest list for Minky's party. About ten percent were English, while the American contingent was divided between social young Upper East Siders, and downtown freaks and personalities for piquancy.

Corrine wore a black Calvin Klein that she was afraid required more
pour le décolleté
than she could give it, maybe right before her period she could pull it off, but Russell insisted it looked good—in a tone that really meant, Hurry up and get dressed. Russell wore his tux. She loved him in the tux, which she'd helped pick out four years earlier—a Christmas present financed by his father. Russell had been thrilled and pretended not to be as he first debated the store—Brooks Brothers, Paul Stuart, Barneys—then wrestled with the thorny issue of notched versus shawl lapel with the salesman at Barneys, Russell trying to convey the impression of a man who had already worn out three or four tuxes in his life.

"Oh, Russell, you're such a nut," she said, turning away from the vanity mirror and looking over at him sitting on the bed struggling with his suspenders. And very handsome, she thought. Accustomed to these inexplicable exclamations, Russell stood and asked her if she would insert his cuff links—a request that inevitably followed his struggle to do it himself. He used to put them in first, before donning his shirt, but his hands had grown too big. She always savored this moment in their joint toilet, amused at Russell's frustrated helplessness.

Twenty minutes later they stepped out of a cab in front of a mansion on East 72nd Street. On the sidewalk an informal reunion was taking place as blonde women in dark raiment embraced and kissed air while their escorts pumped hands. Inside, an aging vassal took their wraps and then pointed out both the staircase and an elevator.

"Oh yes, by all means let's take the elevator," said Corrine, suddenly breaking into a limp and giggling.

Another uniformed retainer ushered them into the elevator, modest in size but lavishly paneled in rich, burled wood, trimmed in brass, where they were joined by an Italian-speaking group whose competing fragrances made the elevator seem very close. The elevator man slid the gate shut. With a barely perceptible hum they ascended one floor and emerged into a ballroom rife with chilly blondes with high-rise cheekbones and bobbed noses, and dark men, trim in their cummerbunds. The Italians began waving as soon as the elevator door opened.

"God, this looks awful," Corrine whispered.

They headed for a bar across the room, where they heard the bartender tell one of the guests, "I think the Dow has at least another five hundred points in it." Jesus, Corrine thought, when the bartenders become experts you know it's time to get out.

Their hostess suddenly materialized, a blonde of middle height who would have looked teenaged with her round cheeks and cute, tumescent mouth if not for the fierce green eyes, which appeared to have previously belonged to some antique Borgia assassin. She had a full, rounded body that men seemed to like, though Corrine was inclined to apply the word "chubby. " And in her opinion somebody ought to tell Minky she should
not
be wearing that pouf skirt which was so very hot right now, half the women here in them. Get thee to a spa, honey. Big bubble around the ass.

Minky greeted Russell, Corrine and several others in succession and Corrine was certain she had no idea who any of them were. Then Minky slipped away and Russell said, "Oh, damn, there's Harold." Now approaching with his young escort, Harold had hesitated when he first saw them but apparently concluded it would be more awkward to change directions.

"Corrine, you know Harold," Russell said. "And this is Carlton..." He suddenly couldn't remember her last name.

Both men acted flustered, though Harold always seemed uncomfortable in social situations.

"We were just going to get a drink," Harold said, pointing and retreating to the bar.

Corrine saw Casey Reynes across the room and left Russell to talk to some Englishmen he seemed to know.

The Englishmen were speculating on the authenticity of the breasts of an actress who'd just passed. "A mate of mine was on the Concorde last week, said this girl's tits exploded from the pressure."

"How extraordinary."

"Have you seen Jeff Pierce," Russell asked, remembering one of the Englishmen as a journalist who'd written about Jeff recently. Russell hadn't seen Jeff since he'd fired off the letter, which had served to drain most of his bile: now he was concerned that he'd been too harsh.

"He's here with that model, Nikki something, the bastard."

"I've heard she's involved in a cult that kills babies," said the other Englishman.

"You don't say?"

"Sort of a Ponce de Léon Fountain of Youth type of thing. Her agency has to pay off the parents."

"I should think so."

The hostess had suddenly spotted a new arrival. "Johnny, how sweet of you to come," she said, though she had never actually met the man whose cheek she kissed, bumping up against his black sunglasses. The recipient of this greeting seemed confused. He introduced his companion, a slight blond ghost in a black turtleneck. "This is Juan Baptiste, the, uh, gossip, uh, columnist."

"I just love the way you wear your tie, Johnny," Minky screeched, tugging his bow tie, knotted like a ribbon around his exposed white neck, beneath an open formal shirt and an ill-fitting gray suit. Minky tugged Johnny Moniker off to meet some people. A few minutes later, when Juan ordered a drink, the bartender asked, "Was that Johnny of Monaco. "

"An impostor," Juan answered, as he noticed Russell at the bar. "Presumably," he said, by way of greeting, "I can take it as a sign of acute interest that you have not yet returned my manuscript, or otherwise responded to my proposal."

Russell had no idea who this person was, so he stalled. "I'm showing it around to some of my colleagues."

Fortunately Juan flourished a business card with the logo of a major tabloid. "I've moved uptown myself, but I think the downtown pieces have a historical validity."

"Absolutely, Juan," Russell said brightly, placing him. "You know, my assistant's a big fan of yours, actually." Suddenly he wondered what Donna, who after all was no longer his assistant, had done with the damn manuscript, and reminded himself that he had to help her find a new job. And respond to thirty-nine other submissions, write a letter of recommendation to the Guggenheim committee, get Colin and Anne a wedding present, pay the Visa bill... and get another drink immediately...

When Corrine looked over at Russell again, he was talking to a woman she was almost sure was that trollop they'd seen in St. Barts, leaning close to hear, or more likely to look down her dress. Suddenly he looked up and saw Corrine and—was it her imagination, or was that a guilty look spreading across his face? Talking to her friend Casey, who was abstemiously pregnant, Corrine realized that everyone else around her was in some stage of intoxication and that it wasn't really fun looking in from the outside. She had a small revelation, on the order of realizing that the weather was getting warmer every day: The social world of Manhattan was a machine lubricated with alcohol. And one felt very squeaky and cranky without it. Even Casey, abstaining for her final months, sounded foolish, babbling about some minor social intrigue. Russell would want to stay till the bitter end, of course.