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Winnie washed his dishes.
“Listen, James,” she said. “You’re fucking lucky to be going out with me.” (She was an editor at a women’s magazine. A full editor. She got a free ride home in the company car if she worked past seven. She assigned pieces and had lunches with writers; sometimes she had to kill pieces too. Then she’d call the writer and say, “I’m sorry, this piece just isn’t working for us. Maybe you can try to sell it someplace else.” Sometimes the writers would cry. Everyone said that Winnie was going to go far.)
“Listen, James,” Winnie said. “I think you have a fear of success. You have a fear of change. You’re afraid that if you commit to me, you’ll have to change. You’ll have to acknowledge your success.”
“Do you think so?” James said. “I never thought about it that way. You could be right.”
All James does is agree. He agrees and then he does nothing.
“It’s too much, James,” she says now. “It’s too much for me.”
“I know,” he says. (He can’t even plan a vacation. She plans it, and then he goes along for the ride.)
He does nothing.
Winnie knows what she has to do. She has to stop taking care of James. And start taking care of herself. Isn’t that what all the shrinks tell you to do in relationships? Stop focusing on the man? And focus on yourself? (Of course, if you stop focusing on the man, he’ll probably leave. That’s what they forget to tell you.)
She has to focus o
n her needs.
Winnie is going to sleep with Tanner and she’s excited.
She calls her office. Speaks to her assistant. “What’s up?” the assistant says.
“I’m still in this emergency situation. I won’t be back this afternoon. I’ll call at the end of the day.”
“Someone named Jess Fukees called,” her assistant says.
“He’s not important. He’s only the CEO of the company.”
“Okay,” the assistant says. (Sarcasm is beyond her.)
“It’s not okay,” Winnie says. “Call his secretary and tell her that I’m out of the office . . . no, out of town, and I’ll call him first thing tomorrow.”
“You go girl,” the assistant says, and hangs up.
Winnie goes home. “Hello,” she says to the Jamaican nanny, who jumps up and quickly turns off the TV. Winnie ignores this.
“Mrs. Dieke. You’re home early.”
“I’m not home at all,” Winnie says. “I’m just stopping by. On my way to a meeting.”
She goes into the bedroom and opens her closet. Rifles through her shoes. Unopened, and still in their box, are the strappy sandals James gave her for her birthday.
She puts them on.
“Good-bye,” she says to the Jamaican nanny.
She hails a cab. “Morgans Hotel on Madison Avenue,” she says. At the desk, she says, “I’d like you to ring Mr. Paul Bunyan, please.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Yes,” Winnie says. She looks around the lobby. It’s so small, it’s claustrophobic. She drums her nails on the white linoleum.
The desk clerk turns away and whispers into the phone. “Mr. Hart? There’s a woman here to see you?”
“Winnie,” Winnie says.
