Diamond Girl (34 page)

Alone and sick, sad, and afraid in a vague way I didn’t understand, I arrived at L.A.X. late at night with no one to greet me but the hired limo driver. At home I walked slowly through the dark house, wondering if I should wake Mieko and retrieve Petal from her apartment.

Before I could decide my cell rang from deep inside my bag. Thinking it was John calling to say he missed me and he loved me and he was coming home after all, I dumped the contents of my purse onto the floor and scrambled after my phone in the dark.  I was still on the floor when I answered the phone and heard not John but Dennis’s high pitched voice coming at me from three thousand miles away. “Carey, is that you? Listen I’m sorry to call so late, but I thought you’d want to know he’s fucking her.”

“What, Dennis? What are you talking about? Who’s fucking who, and who is 'her'?”

“John, Carey, that’s who I’m talking about. He’s fucking Georgia. It’s why she brought him back here. There never was a benefit.”

Chapter 37

John wasn’t Michael, the only man I ever loved, and Aunt Georgia wasn’t either one of my parents, so who knows why I decided to fight back for the first time in my life. A court-ordered shrink I went to last month after all the latest shit storm hit my life said I was probably suffering from combat fatigue. It’s amazing what fifteen years of college can teach someone. He should have saved my parents' money; I could have given that diagnosis myself. People can call it combat fatigue or whatever they want. Me, I would go old school and say I just started losing it. When my fifty-nine year old aunt poached my thirty year old unemployed last ditch attempt at love, I blew.

I had finally had enough of being poor little sick, sad, Carey, the girl who the people who were supposed to love instead did bad things to. For once I wanted to make bad things happen back, instead of going with my usual behavior which was crying in bed with Petal and wondering what was so wrong with me. 

There’s an old saying, though; 'When you seek revenge, bring two shovels, one for their grave and one for yours'. That’s a creepily appropriate statement considering that soon now somebody somewhere is going to have to break some cold winter ground and put what’s left of me in it. I don’t know, other people seem to stand up for themselves and fight back all the time and it works out better for them, but I’m a Kelleher and the rules are different for us.

Or maybe just for me because, call me paranoid, but it feels like the people around me have pretty much made up the rules for me as they went along, and if someone is doing that to you, then you’re always going to end up being wrong.

After Dennis’ call, I was hurt, but I was even more humiliated, and when the next day he gave into my request to check Aunt Georgia’s email account and forward anything he thought I should see, I was acting on my hurt. When I saw the emails, hurt turned to rage and, in my rage, I wanted to teach Aunt Georgia what humiliation felt like.

After all, I couldn’t hurt her. You can’t hurt someone who doesn’t have a heart.

Before I thought about what I was doing, which is always a bad place to start from, I picked up the phone and dialed 1-800 directory assistance and asked for the number of The New York Post.

The thick-accented Jersey girl who answered laughed in my ear when I said I wanted to speak directly to Richard Cavins, her rag's infamous editor. “Oh sure, honey. I’ll putcha right through, nevah. Mr. Cavins don’t take calls from nobody. I’ll tell ya watcha can do, honey. You leave me your name and number and I’ll give him your message, and then he’ll call you back, nevah, okay?”

Who knows, if that ignorant bitch hadn’t fed my already out of control rage, or if only Cavins had taken more than sixty seconds before calling me back, I might have changed my mind. But he did call back like the sleazy opportunistic bottom feeder he was, and when he heard what I had to say, I could practically hear him coming in his pants from across the country.

“Miss Kelleher, or can I call you Carey?”

“No, Mr. Cavins, Miss Kelleher is fine.”

“Great, that’s great, whatever you want. So do I understand you when you say that you are going to forward me private email messages between your aunt, the famously private Georgia Kelleher, and this guy, this John Bay, with whom she is having an affair, and who was your fiancé?”

“Or so I thought and, Mr. Cavins, it’s John Ray, not Bay. Please get that right in the paper and please don’t forget to add the name of his band, 'Steel Whores', okay?”

He chuckled in my ear.  “Are you kidding? I couldn’t make this stuff up,. It’s great. So, Carey ... I mean ...”

“No, never mind, call me Carey.”

“Great, great, okay, so, Carey, you say you and this John Ray were engaged but that he is basically an unemployed wannabe musician who shovels horse shit to pay the bills and manages some loser band? I understand how your aunt met this character, it was through you, but how did you hook up with him? I gotta tell you, I’ve seen you around New York and I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but if all you’re looking for is a guy, well baby I’m your man.”

“Yeah, you’ll be the first to know, Richard. I met John because he was working with my horses. He’s so pathetic that he was living in his freaking truck when I met him and … no, wait, don’t print that, it makes me sound like a loser. Just say he was working with horses, okay?”

“Sure, whatever you say, but I gotta tell ya, if a girl like you can bring home a homeless guy, then it gives the rest of us ...”

“Jesus, would you shut up? So, besides what I’ve told you and the emails, is there anything else you need from me?”

“Not unless you want to fly out and have dinner with me. No, just kidding. I don’t think I need anything else, but before we hang up, I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do, just to show you not all of us gentlemen of the fourth estate are the scum you seem to think we are. I’m going to give you a five second out.”

“What are you talking about?” For the first time since we had started talking, I noticed that he had a really nice voice - warm.

“I’m going to hate myself in the morning for this because you are giving me a great story here, but,” he sighed, “It’s just a story that will sell a couple hundred thousand issues and end up lining cat boxes in Queens. For you it might be something worse. Listen, you’re a gorgeous girl, I think you’re probably a sweet girl too, and this piece of crap guy that did this to you is an asshole and he’s an idiot. What your aunt did was pretty ugly too. So what I’m saying is that I hope you kick both of them to the curb and all, but this might not be the way you want to go to do it.”

I’d like to say I gave his really excellent advice the consideration it deserved. I didn’t. I was so angry that I was blinded to any long term effects. I was in pain and I wanted to cause pain. “Print the story, Richard. I’m not looking for advice but thanks anyway.”

“Okay, your party, Carey. Call me anytime you want to scorch some earth. My readers will eat it up.” 

*  *  *

It was a more lurid forty point typesetting than even I thought I wanted to see. Milan, knowing what was coming, had also tried and failed to stop me, and she was also the one who woke me up the next morning stomping into my bedroom with her copy of the Post.

She slammed it down on my bed. “Holy crap, Cares, this is going to like make your dad blow up. I just got this from Daddy an hour ago. He had a friend overnight it to him. Look at this!” She sat down beside me and cuddled Petal while I read.

Debutante vs. Celebutante clash of the rich girls

The famously private old school Debutante, Georgia Kelleher, has received a knock-out punch from her much younger niece, the wildly pretty and just plain wild bi-coastal heiress we all love to watch, Carey Kelleher.

It seems the ladies are tangling for the affection of the same lucky man, one John Ray, erstwhile manager for the tastefully named band 'Steel Whores'. Showing steel determination, Miss Carolyn Kelleher has granted this reporter an exclusive story, details inside.

I dropped the paper to the floor and looked at Milan blindly. She gathered me up in her arms and rocked me back and forth. “Shh, calm down, Cares. It’s pretty bad for sure, but you know Daddy told me that in a couple of days all this will blow over, and that you should call your dad right away and say you were misquoted, blah blah blah, and then
just lay low for a while.”

Her advice was almost as good as Richard Cavins' had been and it might have ended there if not for John.

I did call Daddy. His cell went to voice mail, so I rang the apartment. George answered in a funeral voice. “Hello, Miss Carey. No, your father is unavailable right now. I’ll put you through to Miss Sarah, shall I?” 

Sarah’s tone was light when she answered. “Carey, you terrible girl, but never mind, it was awful what Georgia did, and anyway people will forget this. Nobody we know reads the Post anyway, or if they do they won’t admit it, so they can hardly mention this.”

I exhaled the breath I had been holding since I had dialed. “Sarah, I love you. Thank you for saying that. I know it was a crazy thing to do, but I …”

“Don’t say another word. We’ll all act like this never happened.”

“Believe me, I wish I could but … oh well, never mind. Is Daddy furious with me?”

She laughed. “Oh well, not furious. You know Kells. I mean what would furious even look like on him. Let’s say he’s a little bit perturbed and leave it at that.”

“Could you define perturbed for me, Sarah, in terms of say when he’ll start taking my calls again?”

“Oh, I don’t think you need to worry about that, Carey, since you’ll be seeing him in a couple of weeks.”

“Oh my God, you and Daddy are coming to visit me? I’m so …”

“No, Carey, you’re coming to visit us. Besides, I can’t fly for a while.”

“What?”

“I’m pregnant, Carey, almost eight months. It’s a boy. We didn’t want to tell anyone until I was through the danger zone. Well, really, I didn’t even tell Kells until after I got the sonogram and knew we were having a boy. He’s thrilled, of course, and there’s even bigger news.”  Through numb lips I asked what could possibly be bigger. She giggled. “We’re getting married, in ten days, actually. I’m going to have to wear a tent and I would have been happy to wait until after Kells VI is born but your father insisted, so here we are. Isn’t it fabulous? Now, no matter what this silliness is between you and Georgia, who I know can be difficult,
trust me, you have to come. We’ll send the plane for you if you want. That way you can bring Petal.”

I needed to sit down alone in a dark room for a day to process her news but I was touched that she remembered Petal. “Oh well, that would be great, Sarah, but I can’t bring Petal. You know how Daddy is about his carpets.”

There was a little silence. “Don’t worry about that, Carey. Kells thought you’d be more comfortable staying at the Carlisle, you know with all the wedding bustle and ...”

“Of course, yeah, I wouldn’t want
…”

“Carey, please don’t be upset. It’s just, well, you know. Uhm, would you rather stay with your mother? We just thought
…”

“God no, the Carlisle’s great, Sarah. Listen I have to go now, there’s some kind of pool emergency I have to deal with, but it’s all so amazing and I’m so happy for you and Daddy and Kells VI too. A brother, it’s
…” My voice broke and Sarah, kind, pretty, pregnant Sarah, let me off the hook, literally.

I was going to have a brother. Sarah was laying the golden egg.
Where my mother had failed so miserably, producing only girls, and defective ones at that, Sarah had pulled it off. I have always liked Sarah who has never been anything but good to me, so I have never allowed myself to wonder how she managed the impossible on her first pregnancy or if there had ever been earlier tries and earlier sonograms. I prefer to just write it off to incredible luck.

My week went downhill from there because the next morning when I pulled up The Post online, I had another surprise.

Thursday’s headline was more screaming huge red point type.

JOHN RAY DENIES RELATIONSHIP WITH HEIRESS CAREY

KELLEHER.
SAYS “SHE NEEDS HELP”. DETAILS ON PAGE 8.

Gentleman John had decided to give his side of the story, and in what turned into a futile attempt to look good in front of my aunt, announced to the world that not only had we never had a relationship but that I had stalked him and he feared I was delusional, maybe dangerous to myself and others.

The article ended with a moving personal plea from jack-off-John that I please seek help ASAP or, if I was 'too far gone in fantasy', possibly someone close to me should look at having me put in treatment.

I’ll say this for him, if I wasn’t crazed before, I was after reading The Post, and so I made a couple more phone calls.

I don’t regret calling the first adoption lawyer I found in the yellow
pages - I can never regret her - but I wish after that I had just gone to my room and started picking out what I wanted to take to New York for Daddy’s upcoming nuptials. Or, hell, I could have done anything less self-destructive: driven to Rodeo Drive and bought a pair of diamond shoes or driven to Sunset and bought an eight ball of coke. Anything would have been better than making another call to New York.