"Shhhhh," I say. "Karen is just about to lie to her mother and tell her that she won't take laxatives anymore, and her mother is actually going to believe her. Can you believe how dumb that woman is?”
"And then ... ?”
"And then Karen is going to get down to seventy eight pounds and have a heart attack after she eats Thanksgiving dinner. In other words, she is basically killed by turkey meat.”
"How fabulously ... charming," D.W. says. "I'm really in the middle of something, so what do you want, D.W," I say, which I know is horribly rude, but if I am rude, maybe he'll get the message and go away for another three months.
"What are you doing later?”
"Oh, later?" I say carelessly. "I think I'll snort a few lines of cocaine and take a few Xanaxes and make crank phone calls to my husband's office. And then I'll walk the dog for the tenth time and scream at a couple of photographers. What do you think I'm doing?”
"You know, you're really a funny, charming girl. That's what no one realizes about you, and if s a shame. If only people could see the real you ...”
There is no real me anymore, but who cares? "Do you think my husband is having an affair?" I ask.
"Oh, come on, my dear. Why would he have an affair when he's married to one of the most beautiful women in the world?" Pause. "Do you think he's having an affair?”
"Not right now," I say. "But I'm just checking to make sure I'm not crazy.”
"You see?" D.W. says gleefully. "This is what happens when you lose touch with your old friends.”
• "We haven't lost touch—”
"And That’s why I absolutely insist on seeing you for dinner tonight.”
"Don't you have some fabulous gala to attend?”
“Only a small soiree in a store. For a very worthy cause. But I'm free after eight.”
"I have to see," I say. I put the phone down and walk slowly through the living room, up the stairs to the master bath. I take off all my clothes and step on the scale: Weight, 117.5 pounds. Percentage fat, 13. GOOD. I've lost a quarter of a pound from the morning. I put my clothes back on and go downstairs. I pick up the phone.
"D.W.?”
"Thank God. I thought you'd died.”
"I'm saving that for next week. I'll meet you at eight-thirty. At the R. But only you. And DON'T TELL ANYBODY.”
I wear Dolce & Gabbana workout pants and a Ralph Lauren Polo sweatshirt, no bra, and when I walk into the restaurant, I remember that I haven't brushed my hair for three days.
D.W. is sitting at the wrong table.
"Oooooh. You look so ... American. So ... gorgeous. I always said you were the quintessential American girl. The American girl begins and ends with you," he says.
"You're at the wrong table, D.W. I never sit here.”
“Of course not. But those pants, darling. Dolce & Gabbana.”
I walk to the back of the restaurant and sit down. D.W. follows. "You should only wear American, dear. It's soooo important. I was thinking about putting you in some Bentley.”
"Bentley hasn't had a client under sixty in fifty years.”
"But I'm making him hot. He's going to be hot, hot, hot again. Those young S. sisters are wearing him.”
I roll my eyes. "I want a martini," I say. "You don't have any pills, do you?”
"What kind of pills? Allergy pills? I don't know ...”
"Can I get off on them?”
"Oh my dear, what has happened to you? You're turning into a little Courtney Love. I sooooo wish you'd become friends with those lovely, lovely S. sisters. They adore you. And think of the parties you could throw together. Toute New York would be abuzz. It would be just like the old days.”
Why can't I be like those darling S. sisters?
They are perfect. They never give anyone trouble.
Not even their husbands. They're twins, and one of them (I always get them mixed up, and so does everyone else) got married when she was something like eighteen. She invited me over for tea once, and I went because my husband said I had to go. "My husband married me because of my hips," she said, even though I hadn't asked her. "I have childbearing hips," she said. "What can I do?" I wanted to ask her where she'd gone for brainwashing, but I couldn't. She seemed so sad. And so lost. And so tiny in a large checkered dress from Valentino. "How is it that you've never lost your hair, D.W.?" I ask, lighting a cigarette.
"Oh. You're such a card. My grandfather had a full head of hair when he died.”
"But don't you think ... that you had less hair three months ago?”
D.W. looks around the restaurant and slaps my hand. "You naughty. I did have a tiny bit of work done. But everybody does these days. You know, times have really changed. Everybody is photographed. I mean, the awful people whose photographs appear in magazines ... but I don't have to tell you about that. Now P., she does it the right way. Do you know that nobody's, I mean nobody's, picture appears in the society pages without her approval? And, of course, they have to be the right sort of person. She has the highest standards. She can spot quality a mile away.”
P. is that editor at Vogue. I yawn loudly.
"Did you see that featurette they did on you last month? The one where they analyzed your hemline lengths? That’s why the long skirt is so big this season.”
"That was only because," I say, tapping my ash on the floor, "the hem on that skirt came unraveled and I was too lazy to have it sewn back up.”
"Oh, but my dear," D.W. says. "Don't you see? That attitude, that insouciance, it's genius. If s like when Sharon Stone wore the Gap turtleneck to the Oscars.”
I fix D.W. with an evil eye. I've been trying to get rid of him for two years, but every now and again I have this AWFUL feeling that D.W. is never going to go away, that people like D.W. don't go away, especially not when you know them the way D.W. and I know each other.
"I threw up today. And I still think someone is trying to poison me.”
D.W. lowers his martini glass. "We know you're not pregnant," he says, with this cozy intimacy that gives me the creeps.
"And how do we know that?”
"Come on, my dear. You're not pregnant. You never have been and you never will be. Not with your body fat hovering at thirteen percent. Your husband may be stupid enough to buy that crap, but I'm not.”
“Fuck you.”
D.W. looks around the restaurant. "Keep your voice down. Unless you want to see yet another item in Star magazine—Princess Cecelia engaged in a lover's spat with the older man with whom she's secretly having an affair.”
I start laughing. "Everyone knows you're gay.”
“I was married. Twice.”
"So?”
"So as far as the press is concerned, my dear, I might be anything.”
"You're a psychopath, D.W. And people are starting to figure it out.”
"And you don't think they haven't figured out the same thing about you?" D.W. motions for another round of martinis. "Princess Cecelia. Maybe the most hated woman in America.”
"Hillary Clinton liked me.”
"Take a deep breath, my dear." D.W. pats my hand. He has horrible ringers that narrow to little points. "Maybe not the most hated. I believe that at one time, people hated Hillary Clinton more than they hate you. But certainly, it must have occurred to you by now that all those horrendous photographs are not a mistake.”
I light another cigarette. "So?”
"So there's a little game played in the offices of photo editors across the country: Let’s publish the worst possible photograph of Cecelia. I believe they have a pool going and the photographers are in on it too. The pot may be up to ten thousand dollars now.”
"Shut up. Just shut up." I close my eyes. And then I do what I'd trained myself to do years ago, when I was a kid. I start to cry.