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“I told you it would happen, and what happened?”
“It happened,” Janey said.
“Who can make your dreams come true?”
“Oh, Comstock,” Janey said.
“I’ll see you later,” he said. “You’ll be home? Or will you be out trying to pick up my replacement?”
“Never,” Janey said
“I’m losing you,” he said, and rang off.
Janey smiled and snapped the cell phone shut. It was tiny and violet and brand-new, the smallest model available. Comstock had given it to her two weeks before (he was paying the phone bill, which went directly to his office), along with a Macintosh laptop and a twenty-thousand-dollar check with which to rent the cottage.
The cottage had actually only cost fifteen grand, but Janey thought she’d keep that information to herself. After all, she’d need the five grand for expenses and car rentals. And besides, Comstock wouldn’t care. He was the most generous man she’d ever been with—not just monetarily but spiritually and emotionally as well.
“I’m in love,” she said to Allison, who was sworn to secrecy as to the identity of her swain. If the press got wind of the affair, they’d be all over them in two seconds. They probably wouldn’t be able to walk down the street.
“He’s not a movie star,” Allison commented. “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating? Just a little?”
And later: “Oh Janey. How can you be in love with Comstock Dibble? How can you have sex with him?”
“This is big,” Janey said warningly. “I might even marry him.”
“But think about your kids,” Allison said helplessly. “What if they looked like him?”
“Don’t be so old-fashioned,” Janey said.
She did have to admit, however, that at first her feelings for Comstock were as much a surprise to her as they were to Allison. Never in a million years did she think that she would fall in love with a man like Comstock Dibble (or, correction, a man who looked like Comstock Dibble). But when you thought about it, it made sense. That first night they’d gone out together, he had taken her back to her apartment in his chauffeured Mercedes and then casually invited himself upstairs for a “nightcap.” Janey liked the sound of the old-fashioned word, and she liked the way he shyly took her hand in the elevator. He was wearing a tweedy gray overcoat, which he took off and held folded over his arm when they walked into her apartment. “Should I put this down, or are you going to ask me to leave right away?” he asked.
“Why would I want you to leave?” Janey asked. “You just got here.”
“Janey,” he said. He took her hand and pulled her to the large, gilt-framed mirror that hung on the wall in her tiny living room. “Look at you,” he said. “And look at me. You’re a beauty, Janey, and I’m an ugly, ugly man. My whole life I’ve had to deal with this . . . this creature.”
He was right. He was ugly. But, like everything else about his life, his ugliness had a sort of legendary quality to it that became (in Janey’s mind, anyway) a badge of honor. His face and body were riddled with deep pockmarks—the result of the kind of uncontrollable acne in which it seems the skin is trying to destroy the body—and his red hair was sparse and curly. His one good feature was his nose, which was small, but was unfortunately set off by a large gap between his front teeth. He had a receding chin.
But spend ten minutes in his company and you forgot about how he looked. Which was what she kept telling Allison. “I don’t think so, Janey,” Allison said, shaking her head. “I couldn’t sleep with him no matter how much time I spent with him.” She paused. “Now that you mention it, I don’t think I would want to spend any time with him, either.”
“Allison,” Janey said patiently. “He’s a great man. He’s succeeded against all odds.”
“Oh yes, I know,” Allison said. “I read that story in The New York Times, too. Don’t forget the part about him being a bully and a fraud, and being sued for sexual harassment and arrested for possession of cocaine.”
“He was framed,” Janey said. “The cops framed him because they didn’t like that movie he made about the ten-year-old cop killers.”
“That was a horrible movie,” Allison said.
Janey didn’t care. As far as she was concerned (and as far as a lot of other people were concerned as well), Comstock was a genius. People said he was the most important producer in the business. Movie stars worshiped him. Gossip columnists vied for his attention at parties. Powerful men in Hollywood were afraid of him. He was rich, and he’d earned every penny himself.
Janey had laughed that first evening and pulled him down to the couch. “Oh Comstock,” she said. “Don’t you realize that, really, we’re the same? We’re like twins. My whole life I’ve had to deal wit
h this creature too. This creature who looks a certain way, who makes people think I am a certain way. All my life, people have told me that I’m stupid.” She turned her head away so that he could see the beauty of her profile. “I’m beginning to think that they’re right. That I am . . . stupid. I mean, if I weren’t stupid, I guess my life would have turned out better.”
“You’re not stupid, Janey,” he said gently.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“You just haven’t been given a chance,” he said. His hand snaked out and intertwined with hers again. “I’m going to help you, Janey. I help people all the time. If you could do anything, and we’re talking wish list here, what would it be?”
