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“Why Norman?” I ask.
Then we have to pee, so we stumble upstairs, and sure enough, Juliette “that little girl from Vermont” follows us into the bathroom. Dianna takes one look at herself and stumbles back, screaming, “I need makeup,” and Juliette slips in and whispers, “Hi,” and before anything else can happen, Dianna grabs Juliette’s Prada handbag and shakes it upside down, and sure enough, a pile of MAC cosmetics spills out, along with a junior Tampax, a brush containing a tangle of hair, and a condom.
“Oh Juliette,” I say. “Don’t you even use Ally cosmetics?”
“I use Ally cosmetics,” Dianna says, carelessly smearing lipstick all over her lips, “and look at me. I’ve gone from crack addict to society lady. And guess what? You can too.”
“Cecelia,” Juliette says meekly, “you’re coming to my wedding, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I say. “Even though I hardly know you.”
“But isn’t that the great thing about New York? It doesn’t matter,” Juliette says. “I mean, everyone is—”
“I’m gonna conquer this town. Just the way I conquered Los Angeles,” Dianna says.
“You’re coming too, aren’t you?” Juliette says to Dianna.
“Ask my publicist,” Dianna says.
“Oh. Well, I’ve got a publicist too,” Juliette says. “D.W.”
“So get your publicist to call my publicist. Let the publicists figure it out.” And with that, we leave Juliette in the bathroom, wiping her tube of lipstick with a tissue.
The phone is ringing when I walk through the door of the loft, and sure enough, it’s Dianna.
“Hi sugarpuss,” she says. “That’s what I used to call Norman. Sugarpuss.”
“Well, hi there,” I say. “Hello Norman.”
“Are you lonely, Cecelia? Because I sure am. I sure am lonely,” Dianna says.
“I guess I’m lonely. Yeah,” I say.
“Well, we won’t be lonely anymore. We’re going to be best friends.”
“That’s right,” I say, the champagne beginning to wear off.
“Hey. I was wondering if you wanted to hang out. Maybe we could go shopping tomorrow. I’ve still got the limo and the driver. Hell, I’ve always got the limo and the driver. Sometimes I forget, you know?”
My husband is having an affair. With Constance.
“Hey Dianna,” I say, looking out the window as a bus from the Midwest deposits a gaggle of tourists onto Prince Street. “Is it true what they say? That you killed your husband?”
There’s a pause, then Dianna gives a short, loud laugh. “Well, let me put it this way. If I didn’t, it’s the kind of thing I would do, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“Well . . . I’d know how to get it done. If that’s what you’re asking. And just remember. It’s a lot cheaper than divorce.”
She laughs and hangs up.
VI
I’m going away.
Sitting in Dr. Q.’s office, watching the dirty gauze curtains fluttering in the breeze coming off of Fifth Avenue, I think about yachts and movie stars in satin dresses and Louis Vuitton hatboxes like the one I just bought for the trip even though I don’t have a hat, and Dr. Q. interrupts this reverie with one word: “Well?”
“You can see in through those windows,” I say.
