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Johnny returned, gave them each a drink, and left again.
After a long silence, Tully said, "I say this because I love you, Katie: you dont have to go to every field trip and bake sale. You need to make time for yourself. "
"Now tell me something I dont know. "
"I read the magazines and watch television. At-home moms are forty percent more likely to—"
"No. I mean it. Tell me something I dont know. Something fun. "
"Did I tell you about Paris at the turn of the millennium? And I dont mean the fireworks. There was this guy, a Brazilian . . . "
On the first of July 2000, Tullys alarm clock went off, as it did every weekday morning, at three-thirty. With a groan, she smacked the snooze button, wishing just this once she could sleep for ten more minutes, and snuggled back up against Grant. She loved waking up near his arms, although she rarely woke in them. They were each too solitary to meld well, even in sleep. In the years of their on again/off again relationship, theyd been all over the world together, attended dozens of glittering parties and black-tie charity events. The press had dubbed him Tullys "sometime love" and she had always thought it was as apt a nickname as any. Lately, though, shed been reconsidering.
He wakened slowly, rubbed her arm. "Morning, love," he said in the scratchy, raspy voice that meant hed smoked cigars last night.
"Am I?" she asked quietly, angling up onto one elbow.
"Are you what?"
He stopped just short of rolling his eyes, but the effect was the same. "That talk again? Youre thirty-nine. I know. It doesnt change who we are, Tully. Lets not ruin a good thing, shall we?"
He acted as if shed asked him to marry her, or knock her up; neither of which was true. She rolled out of bed and walked through her spacious apartment toward the bathroom. There, she turned on the lights.
"Oh, God. "
She looked like shed slept in a Dumpster. Her hair, cut short now and highlighted with blond streaks, stuck out all around her face in a way that only Annette Bening or Sharon Stone could pull off, and the bags under her eyes were carry-on-sized.
No more red-eye flights from the West Coast. She was too damned old to party all weekend in Los Angeles and be at work Monday morning. She hoped no one had snapped a photo of her coming home last night. Ever since John Kennedy, Jr. s tragic death, the paparazzi had been swarming. Celebrity—and pseudo-celebrity—news was big business.
She took a long, hot shower, washed and dried her hair, and dressed in a pair of designer sweats. By the time she emerged from the steamy room, Grant was waiting for her at the door. In his suit from last night, with his hair messy in a studied way, he looked incredibly handsome.
"Lets play hooky," she said, sliding her arm around his waist.
"Sorry, love. Got a flight to London in a few hours. Im to see the folks. "
She nodded, unsurprised. He always found a reason to leave. Locking her door, they went to the elevator and rode down together. At their separate black town cars, parked one in front of the other on Central Park West, she kissed him goodbye and watched him leave.
She used to love the way he came and went in her life, always arriving unexpectedly and leaving before she could get bored or fall in love. In the past few months, though, she felt as lonely with him as without him.
Her uniformed driver handed her a double-shot latte. "Good morning, Ms. Hart. "
She took the coffee gratefully. "Thanks, Hans," she said, getting into the car. Settling back, she tried not to think about Grant or her life. Instead, she stared out the tinted window at the dark streets of Manhattan. This time of day was as close as the city came to sleeping. Only the hardiest of souls were out—garbage collectors, bakers, newspaper deliverymen.
For more years than she wanted to count, shed lived this routine. Almost from her first day in New York, shed been waking up at three-thirty A. M. for work. Success had only made long days longer. Since CBS had lured her over, shed had to include afternoon meetings in addition to her morning broadcasts. Fame and celebrity and money should have allowed her to slow down and enjoy her career, but the opposite had occurred. The more she got, the more she wanted, the more afraid she was of losing it, and the harder she worked. Every job that came her way, she took—narrating a documentary on breast cancer, guest-hosting a super new game show, even being a judge for the Miss Universe contest. And then there were her guest appearances on Leno, Letterman, Rosie, etc. And holiday parades that needed a grand marshal. She made sure no one could forget her.
In her early thirties, it had been easy to keep up the schedule. Back then, shed been able to work long hours, sleep all afternoon, party all night, and wake up looking and feeling great. But she was approaching forty now, and she was beginning to feel tired, a little old to be running from one job to the next, and in heels, no less. More and more often when she came home from work, she curled up on her sofa and called Kate or Mrs. M. or Edna. Being seen—and photographed—at the It new club or at some red carpet premiere had lost its appeal. Rather, she found herself longing to be with people who really knew her, really cared.
Edna repeatedly told her that this was the deal shed made; the life she got in exchange for all the success. But what good was success, Tully had asked over drinks last week, if there was no one to share it with you?
Edna had simply shaken her head and said, "Thats why they call it sacrifice. You cant have it all. "
But what if that was exactly what you wanted: everything?
At the CBS building, she waited for her driver to open her door, then stepped out into the still-black, summer morning. She could already feel heat rising from the street; today would be a scorcher. Somewhere nearby she could hear the thunk-wheeze of a garbage truck loading up.
She hurried to the front door and went inside, nodding to the doorman as she walked to the elevator. Upstairs, at her makeup desk, her savior was already waiting. Dressed in a too-tight red T-shirt that showed off his bulging muscles and form-fitting black leather pants, Tank put one hand on his hip and shook his head. "Someone looks like shit this morning. "
"Youre being too hard on yourself," Tully said, easing into the chair. Shed hired Tank about five years ago to do her hair and makeup. It was a choice she regretted almost daily.
