The Other Half (15 page)

She looked around desperately for Jean, who was standing a little way off. She went up and grabbed her friend’s arm. “Jean, you don’t think Jamie’s having an affair, do you?”

“Goodness!” Jean started. “It’s powerful stuff—this exhibition’s really getting to you, isn’t it?”

Perhaps I’m being silly, Maggie told herself. Still, she was too rocked to reply.

“Why on earth would you think that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Maggie couldn’t face putting it into words; saying it might make it real.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” cried Jean, causing a few people to turn around. Then she added more quietly, “You were only just telling me that things between you are fine. This lot were far more experimental in their sexuality than most, I assure you.” She gave her friend’s shoulders a comforting squeeze. “Sometimes you worry too much, Maggie darling.”

“Mm…” Maggie’s panic subsided. She was probably imagining things. “Perhaps I spend too much time on my own.”

“I’m sure that’s what it is. I know Jamie adores you—and Nathan.” Jean laughed. “And I’ll tell you one thing, if he ever messes around on you he’ll have me to answer to!”

Maggie was cheered. If there was one person she could rely on to poke fun at her, it was Jean.

“If it will make you feel better, I’ll have a word with him. I’m flying out tomorrow for the editorial presentations, and we’ll be in the same venue for much of the week.”

Maggie hesitated. Jamie would be furious if he found out they’d been talking about him. “Don’t tell him I was worried.”

“I won’t. I’ll simply hint that he’s so wrapped up in his work that he might be forgetting to pay you enough attention, that’s all.”

“OK.” Maggie was apprehensive. “Only if it comes up without looking forced. Be subtle, won’t you?”

“Leave it to me.” Jean winked conspiratorially. “Now then, my dear, I suggest we give this last room a miss. What we need is a cup of tea and a
huge
slice of cake.”

20

“I’m going to skip the conference this afternoon,” said James as he was getting dressed on Tuesday morning. “I want to go to Bloomingdale’s.”

“Fab!” Chloë kissed him. “I haven’t been yet. Shall I meet you there?”

“If you like.” James hesitated. “I was going to get something for Nathan.”

“Oh.” Not for the first time in the last couple of days, Chloë was unsure what to say. Should I help him choose? she wondered. No, that would be interfering. But I do
so
want to go to Bloomingdale’s, I’ve hardly done any shopping. So she said, “Perhaps we can meet after you’ve bought something,” and they arranged to rendezvous at the MAC beauty counter on the ground floor at three.

Once he’d gone, Chloë had a burst of loneliness. Mention of Nathan concerned her, and she was yearning to speak to Rob, yet calling the UK was exorbitant at this time of day. Instead she would have to make do with instant messenger on her mobile—she could use the wireless connection at the hotel, and had already updated him this way on Saturday.

Cooey Rob!
she tapped.
You there?
No reply. Chloë continued anyway.
So, update 2 from the Big A … Followed your recommendation on Sunday morning and went for a walk around Central Park. Saw something that would have cracked you up—a mother-and-stroller exercise class.

Just then:
I’m here, I’m here!
from Rob.

Yay!
from Chloë.

Describe!

OK, well, on the edge of the track by the reservoir there were a group of women, complete with pushchairs and offspring, doing a slow stretch-and-tone class.

Ballet with babies?

Sort of. The instructor was fearsome.

Bizarre! Maybe I should add it to my personal training repertoire. So what else have you been up to?

Best be careful how much I reveal about James, thought Chloë. Although she’d have liked some input into how things were evolving, she couldn’t face another lecture.

Sunday afternoon, Metropolitan Museum,
she tapped
. There’s something about art galleries on a Sunday that feels so right.

If you say,
Rob responded.

I do!
tapped Chloë. And it felt especially right with James, she thought, recalling how they’d wandered around together, discussing their likes and dislikes and pointing out their particular favorites. Sometimes they’d agreed, sometimes disagreed vociferously, and it was stimulating arguing with someone whose opinions were as strong as her own. But Rob wasn’t into art like she was, so she carried on.
In the evening we went to that restaurant you recommended in the meatpacking district. And I saw a transvestite hooker on the corner!

No way,
replied Rob.

Chloë went on to describe the meal in detail, omitting how she and James had talked of their pasts—childhood memories, school successes and failings, first relationships, their siblings and parents. They’d spoken about the first time they’d smoked pot, and discovered a shared appetite for champagne and—very occasionally, as a wicked treat—cocaine. And finally, freed by being a long way from anyone who might know them, they’d exchanged saucy tales of their fantasies in hushed whispers.

It was one of the most romantic days of my life, thought Chloë. If James wasn’t married, I would have believed I’d died and gone to heaven …

Monday,
she continued to Rob,
James was at the conference, so I went to the Tenement Museum.

Eh?

It’s on the Lower East Side—ever so interesting—shows you how tough the living conditions were for immigrant workers.

Bit chastening then?

Yes, though I made up for it by having lunch in Battery Park and eyeing up the wealthy bankers!
She joked, not wanting Rob to think she only had eyes for James—although, increasingly, she did.
By the end of the day I was in love with New York.

Long as that’s all you’re in love with,
he replied.

It seemed there was no deceiving Rob, however hard Chloë tried.

*   *   *

Two thirty p.m., and after testing a dozen different perfumes and concluding that she didn’t like any of them as much as the one she wore, Chloë located the MAC counter. She still had half an hour before she was due to meet James, but luckily the thickly powdered beautician was free to give her a makeover. She stripped Chloë’s face of its usual makeup and clipped her hair back in order to transform her attractive yet far from supermodel features.

And that is exactly where Chloë was—one eye half made up, the other bare—when there was a screech from across the counter, a screech that made her blood run cold.

“Chloë! It can’t be!
Chloë!
Is that you?” Out of one eye—she couldn’t move her face—Chloë verified that the voice matched the person she feared it did.

Jean.

Oh, fuck. Fuck.
Fuck!

Now Jean was at her shoulder. After years of working together, she’d recognize Chloë anywhere.

“Hi,” said Chloë weakly, the powdered beautician still determinedly dabbing at her eyelid.

“Have you come to the conference?” asked Jean.

Chloë had to think at supersonic speed. “Er, no…”

“Gosh, really? How strange. Well, what a coincidence!”

“I’m on vacation. If you remember, I had to use it up before starting work with Vanessa.” When lying, stick as close to the truth as possible, she’d always been told. And deflect: “How about you?”

“I’m here for the conference, of course. You should know that!”

If she thought about it Chloë did, but she was playing for time.

“So,” continued Jean, “where are you staying?”

“With some friends in the Village.” Chloe spoke as best she could with her jaw wide open as the beautician lip-lined her mouth. God, being made up by this woman and grilled by her ex-boss—what a torturous combination. “How about you?” Oh, please, please, not the Paramount.

“The Algonquin. I know it’s not trendy like some of the others but I love it there. I can kid myself I’m almost literary.”

Phew, thought Chloë. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. But—oh, heavens—James! James was meeting her here! If she squinted sideways she could just see her watch: 2:55. She had five minutes to get rid of Jean, at most.

Yet Jean seemed to have no desire to go. “So, if you’re here anyway,” Jean continued, in her most I-mean-business voice, “you should come to the conference, Chloë. Or at least tomorrow. They’re talking about special projects, I believe. I’ll arrange for you to attend. Call me in the morning at the Algonquin before nine and we can meet up and go together.”

Aargh! Worse and worse! “That would be great.” Chloë opened her eyes extra wide in horror. The powdered beauty misread the signal, and leaped to attack her with another layer of mascara.

“Afterward, if you like, we could go out for supper.”

No, no, no! thought Chloë. James and I have only got a few nights left. “I’m afraid I’ve arranged to meet my friends,” she said. Then, in case Jean decided to invite herself to join them, added, “They’ve booked at Nobu for a birthday bash.” She plucked a well-known restaurant from the air.

“Really?” Jean was evidently impressed. “I gather you have to reserve a table weeks in advance.”

“That’s right,” said Chloë, thinking, exactly—there’s no way you can gate-crash.

“What a hip crowd you must know here.”

“Oh, I do,” said Chloë. In for a penny. “My friend Matt is a playwright. Lives in the East Village.”

“Is that where you’re staying?”

“Um, yes.”

“Where, exactly?”

Addresses! “It’s on Spring Street,” she fabricated.

“Gosh, how
trendy,
” said Jean. “Though I’d call that SoHo.”

“SoHo, East Village, NoHo … it’s all the same,” laughed Chloë, desperately. “Eh?”

“If you say so.”

At that moment, just when she thought she was winning, Chloë saw James weaving his way through Lancôme, Chanel, Bobbi Brown … And as Jean had her back to him, he was bound not to realize who she was talking to …

Drastic action was called for.

There, on the side, was a huge bottle of eye-makeup remover. Hideously oily, but … “Oh, my God,
Jean
!” Chloë shrieked theatrically as she sent the bottle flying. The liquid spilled all over Jean’s designer suit. Then again, to make doubly sure everyone in the vicinity heard the ruckus, “
Jean!
I am so sorry!”

James was almost upon them, only ten feet away, armed with a Bloomingdale’s bag signifying success on the Nathan front. Jean was bent over frantically sponging her jacket with some tissues. The powdered beauty was mopping the counter—it needed one more shriek.

“Oh, JEAN, how can I make it up to you?”

And—thank
God
—all at once James seemed to realize what the commotion was about. Chloë saw him dart behind a pillar, just before Jean stood upright again, and flee as fast as he could (without running), through Christian Dior and Trish McEvoy, past women’s belts and gloves, and out of the nearest door onto Lexington Avenue.

*   *   *

Half an hour later Chloë was back at the Paramount. Believing James would have returned immediately too, she was surprised and disappointed not to find him there. She was still shaken, so she sat on the bed and tried to calm down.

That was pretty nifty footwork, she congratulated herself. Nonetheless, she was lumbered with going to the conference—probably not only tomorrow but on Thursday as well. And while Chloë was passionate about magazines and her job, experience of such events had taught her one normally had to sit through hours of mind-numbing facts, figures, and forecasts to obtain a morsel of interesting information.

I’d far rather be exploring New York, she thought huffily. Surely that’s a more useful way for an up-and-coming magazine editor to spend her time? And James will be at the conference, so I’ll have to fake not knowing him that well, and there’s even a possibility Vanessa will be there—how
stupid
of me not to have realized this was where she might be going too—and God knows who else besides …

As minutes ticked by and there was still no sign of James, she grew increasingly pissed off. Why hadn’t he hurried back at once to sing her praises for being so quick-thinking and avoiding a nightmare situation?

About an hour later, James returned.

“Where have you been? I was worried.”

“Sorry. I had some other things to get.” He plonked several carrier bags on the bed.

“Wasn’t that awful? Imagine if she’d seen you!”

“It doesn’t bear thinking about.” James shook his head. “And Jean of all people. My God! She’s Maggie’s best friend!” He looked as traumatized as Chloë felt.

Chloë, though she knew it was unreasonable, was hurt. I suspected it—now I know: James is ashamed of our affair, of me, she concluded. Immediately, she pushed the observation aside. “And I’ve got to come to the bloody conference—Jean’s arranging for me to attend. She’ll see me as lacking dedication to my job if I don’t go.”

“Maybe it’ll be useful,” he said with equanimity. “You could find out some stuff for your magazine.”

“Pah!”

“Well, there are a lot of interesting developments in the American market. It might not be such a bad idea to learn more.”

“I suppose.” This was not what Chloë wished to hear. She wanted him to be grateful to her, while instead he was coming over pragmatic and professional. “So.” She changed the subject—her usual ploy when things got sticky. “What did you get? Anything for me?”

“Er, no,” said James. “I had to buy some stuff for Nathan…” Then he added, as if being honest would alleviate his guilt, “… and I thought I ought to get something for Maggie.”

“Oh.” This upset Chloë further. Clearly it was Maggie who had been foremost in his thoughts over the last hour, not her. Nonetheless, punishing herself, she had to find out more; she wanted a better idea of the woman. “Can I see?”

James looked surprised. “Suppose so, if you want.”