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“Hey,” he said. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we go by the Westacotts’ for a drink? I’m sure they’re still up. It’s only ten o’clock.”
“Whatever,” Janey said.
It was still the beginning of the summer then.
Bill and Helen Westacott were Redmon’s very best friends. Redmon insisted on seeing them practically every weekend, which made, as far as Janey was concerned, what ended up happening, really his fault. She had tried her best to avoid it. Had, in fact, refused to see them again after the first time they had dinner together. But it was no good. The next weekend, Redmon had simply gone to dinner without her, leaving her behind in the shack, where she swatted at mosquitoes all night and wondered if spending the summer in the city would really be that bad. But when she’d gone back to the city on Monday, her apartment wasn’t air-conditioned and cockroaches had taken over the kitchen. She decided it was easier to give in.
Bill Westacott was a famous screenwriter who had written five hit movies in the past seven years. Unlike Redmon, he truly was a rich writer, and he and his wife, Helen, and their two sons lived on a fifteen-acre “farm” off of Route 27. They’d been living in the Hamptons for about five years, being part of a trend of married couples with children who had chucked city life and moved full-time to the country. They had horses and servants as well as a pool and tennis court, and being able to hang out at their house for part of the weekends would have almost salvaged the summer. There was only one problem: the Westacotts themselves.
Bill Westacott was arrogant and angry and immature, while Helen Westacott was . . . well, there was only one word for Helen: crazy.
Janey wished Redmon had warned her about Helen’s insanity before they went to their house for dinner the first time, but he hadn’t. Instead, in his typical clueless Redmon manner, he banged on and on about what he perceived to be their amazing attributes: Helen was from “one of the best” families in Washington and her father had been a senator; Bill’s mother had been an actress who was now married to a famous actor; Bill had gone to Harvard (he himself, he reminded her, had gone to Yale—he and Bill met in a bar after a famous Harvard-Yale football game and had taken swings at each other); Helen had won a literary prize for her first novel, which she wrote when she was twenty-five. Janey was going to love them. They were one of the coolest couples in the world.
About the very first thing that happened when they pulled up to the Westacotts’ house in Redmon’s rented Dodge Charger, was that Bill Westacott was standing in the freshly graveled driveway, smoking a cigar with his arms folded across his chest.
Redmon rolled down his window. “Hey Bi. . .” he started to say, but before he could finish, Bill had charged up to the car and stuck his head in the window. He was a large, good-looking man with a full head of gorgeous, curly blond hair. “Shit, man. I’m glad you’re here. Or I think I am. I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or a bad thing.”
“What’s the problem?” Redmon asked.
“The Gorgon is in one of her moods,” Bill said.
Janey got out of the car. She was wearing a tight-fitting Lycra top, which had cost about five hundred dollars and was slit halfway down to her navel, no bra, and tight-fitting orange capri pants.
“Hello,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Janey.”
“Oh shit, man,” Bill said, swiveling his head around as if he were looking for a place to hide. “This is not good.”
“Helloooo . . .” Janey said.
Bill took a few steps back. “I know who you are, okay?” he said. “You’re that dangerous woman.”
“What’s wrong with me?” Janey said.
“What’s wrong with her?” Bill said, turning to Redmon. “You bring this chick who stands here asking what’s wrong with her? For starters, what’s wrong with you is you’re a woman, okay? Which means that you are genetically insane, inane, and will probably be up my ass in about thirty seconds over some kind of bullshit I have no control over and can’t do anything about. Should I go on?”
“Are you on drugs?” Janey asked.
Redmon laughed and put his arm around her. “That’s Bill’s way of saying he likes you. He’s terrified of beautiful women.”
“Well, Bill,” Janey said, unable to help herself, “you sure have a funny way of showing it.”
“Don’t get smart with me,” Bill said, pointing his cigar at her. “I know what you’re up to. I know all your tricks. I work in Hollywood, remember?”
“Janey’s not really an actress,” Redmon said, taking her hand and squeezing it.
Janey leaned a little bit against him. “I’m a . . . personality,” she said.
They went into the house. “Hey Helen,” Bill bellowed. “Come and meet Redmon’s . . . personality.”
Helen Westacott was small and dark and skinny with tiny, even features—you could see that she’d probably once been beautiful. “Oh,” she said despondently, looking at Janey. “Oh.” She went over to Redmon and gave him a kiss. She patted his chest. “Oh Redmon,” she said. “When are you going to find a nice girl and get married? Nothing against you,” she said to Janey. “I don’t even know you, and my husband is always telling me that I shouldn’t say things about people that aren’t nice who I don’t know, but guess what? I do it anyway. And you don’t look like a nice girl. You look like a girl who would steal one of my friend’s husbands.”
There was silence. Janey looked around the living room, which was really quite beautiful with its large white couches and oriental rugs, and French doors that opened out onto a patio, beyond which you could see a horse pasture. It was really a shame, Janey thought. Why was it always people like
this that had these kinds of beautiful summer houses?
“C’mon, Helen,” Redmon said, as if he were dealing with a small, confused child. “Janey is a nice girl.”
“No she isn’t,” Helen said stubbornly.
