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“So are you.”
“No, really a weirdo,” Redmon
said. “I’ve spent a lot of time with him in London. I know girls who have slept with him. You don’t want to get involved in that shit. It’s that weird Euro sex shit. It’s gross. It’s not American.”
Then, sure enough, Zack did turn up. “Zack!” Redmon said. “We were just talking about you.”
Zack was with some other people. “Come to the table,” he mouthed.
After Zack’s group was seated, Janey went over and wedged a chair in next to Zack. “You again,” he said. “You look like one of those girls who’s everywhere. Are you a socialite?”
Janey just smiled and sipped her drink. She knew she didn’t have to say anything. Eventually her looks would begin to affect him. She turned to the man on her other side. He was a little English fellow, eager to talk.
“Are you going to the Hamptons too, this summer?” she asked.
“No, but I’m fascinated by it. We don’t have anything like it in England. It sounds marvelous. All those movie stars fighting the traffic.”
“I go every summer,” Janey said. “It’s wonderful.”
“Will you be there this summer?”
“Oh yes. I’m looking forward to having a really good summer this year.”
Zack leaned over. “What is it with you and this ‘good summer’ business?” he asked. “Are you mentally impaired in some way that I should know about?”
“Probably,” Janey said. She put down her drink. “I have to go,” she said. “Call me.”
“I don’t call girls. I get in touch,” said Zack.
“Then I’ll look forward to your ‘getting in touch,’” Janey said.
Two days letter, Zack messengered an envelope to her apartment. Written on an engraved card was this brief missive: faney, would you like to meet for a drink? Please ring my secretary, who will give you the time and place. Regards, Zack.
III
Every five minutes during the Jitney ride out to the Hamptons on Memorial Day weekend, Janey wanted to stand up and scream, “I’m Janey Wilcox, the model, and I’m spending the weekend with Zack Manners, the English billionaire record producer. So fuck you. All of you,” just to make herself feel better. She was sitting in the front of the bus, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, trying to read The Sheltering Sky. But a niggling thought kept inserting itself into her brain, like a pencil point being pushed into Silly Putty: Zack Manners was not exactly there. He was not, as Janey liked to say, completely “in.” His invitation had been vague—he had left instructions with his secretary to inform Janey that they should meet “sixish” for drinks at The Palm in East Hampton on Friday evening. Janey wasn’t sure if the invitation extended to the weekend, and the uncertainty made her more excited about Zack than she had been about any man in a long time. The night before, she had gone to Moomba, and as the various men came by her table to pay their doting respects, Janey had said boldly, “Oh, yes, I’m wonderful. I’ve finally met a man I could fall madly in love with. He’s brilliant and funny and sexy.” And she said it in such a way as to imply that, while Zack was all those things, these other men decidedly were not.
The amazing thing was that this didn’t seem to turn any of the men off. They clustered around the table, ordering drinks and smoking cigarettes. Janey had recently developed a theory that the worse you treated men, the more they wanted you. Peter, from three summers ago, came over, swinging a chair around to sit with his arms draped over the back. “You’ve changed, Janey. You seem so confident,” he said.
“I’m not the same girl I was two years ago, Peter,” she said, and smiled viciously. “I would never put up with your shit today.”
“I never gave you any shit.”
“The ultimate was Labor Day weekend. Driving back from the Hamptons in the pouring rain. Remember? You dropped me off just outside the midtown tunnel. On Thirty-fifth Street and Third Avenue. ‘Get a cab,’ you said.”
“It was over,” Peter said, and grinned. “And you lived all the way uptown. Why should I drive a girl all the way uptown if I’m not even going to get laid?”
Janey expected Zack to be at the bar in The Palm when she arrived at six-fifteen. He wasn’t. When he still hadn’t turned up ten minutes later, she took up two guys on their offer to buy her a drink. She ordered a margarita. At six-forty-five, there was a slight commotion outside. A green 1954 250 GT Ellena Body Ferrari pulled into the circular driveway. Right-hand drive. Zack got out. He wore old tennis shoes and walked with his hands in the front pockets of his khaki trousers. Janey became very animated, talking to the two men. Zack came up behind her. Whispered in her ear, “Hello there.”
She jumped a little. “Oh. Hi,” she said. She looked at her watch. “I was going to scold you for being late, but the car makes up for it.”
“The car is priceless,” Zack said. He slid onto the bar stool next to her. He took her hand. “If you want to be with me, Janey, never, ever scold me. Unless I ask you to.”
“That sounds promising.”
“It is. If you play your cards right.” He leaned toward her. “Do you have a dark side, Janey? You look like a girl who has a dark side.”
Janey laughed, and so did Zack. She flipped her hair over her shoulder. Zack lit a cigarette. Filterless. In the daylight, he was not quite as attractive as she remembered. He had bad English teeth, ranging in color from sickly yellow to light gray. His fingers were stained with nicotine and his nails were dirty. But there was the car. And his money. And the whole summer and hopefully even longer ahead of her. “Let’s take things one step at a time, okay?” she said.
