"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, if 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.
Dr. Q. puts down his yellow legal pad and looks out. "Is that a problem?" he asks. "You've been here for—what?—a year and a half now, Cecelia, and you've never mentioned it before.”
Like I never mentioned Hubert's affair with Constance. Until a few days ago. Right after I told Hubert I was going to the Cannes Film Festival with Dianna.
"Maybe I'm getting paranoid," I say, half attempting a joke.
"You are paranoid," Dr. Q. says, looking down at his legal pad. "We all know that's why you're here.”
" 'We?' Who's 'we'? What is this? Some kind of conspiracy?”
"Me, your husband, the press, or should I say 'the media,' and probably this D.W. character you're talking about all the time ... should I go on?" Dr. Q.
says in kind of a bored voice, so I say no, and then add suddenly, "Maybe I use my paranoia as a sort of weapon. Did you ever think about that, Dr. Q.?”
“Do you?" he says. "Use your paranoia as a weapon?”
Shit. I don't KNOW.
Dr. Q. sits staring at me, the way Hubert stared at me when I told him I was going away. Without him. But he couldn't say anything about it, just as he couldn't say anything about the four pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage I purchased after a boozy afternoon with Dianna, not to mention the several pairs of shoes, handbags, and dresses. "I need to get away," I had said. "I have to think.”
"I need to get away," I say to Dr. Q.
"What will," he says, "going away do for you?”
“Nothing," I say. "But it will get me away from my husband. Did I mention that I think he's having an affair?”
"You mentioned that"—Dr. Q. flips through his legal pad—"months ago. Along with that tell-all book.”
"So?”
"So the point is ... all of this is probably in your imagination.”
"I think I can distinguish between fantasy and reality.”
"Can you?" he says.
"I SAW him with her.”
“Were they ...”
"WHAT? Doing it? No. But I could tell. By the way they acted.”
"What does he say?”
"Nothing," I say, swinging my foot. "But he doesn't deny it.”
"Why won't you at least DENY it?" I had screamed. "Cecelia," Hubert said coldly, "that kind of assertion doesn't merit a response.”
He can be so cold, my husband. Underneath the beautiful manners is absolutely ... nothing. "He's definitely having an affair," Dianna said later. "Otherwise, he would have denied it." Well, we ALL know that, don't we?
I can tell this session is going absolutely nowhere, so I say, pretty much out of the blue, "I have a new ... friend, " suddenly realizing how PITIFUL this sounds, just like when I was four years old and I told everyone I had a friend, but it was only an imaginary friend named Winston. I'd tell everyone I was going to play with Winston, but in reality I was going to my favorite mud puddle, where I tried to float bugs on matchstick covers.
"And this friend ...”
"Is real," I counter, realizing that this, too, sounds insane, so I quickly cover it up with, "I mean, I think we're going to be friends. We're friends now, but who knows how long it will last.”
"Do your friendships with women ... usually end quickly?”
"I don't know," I say, exasperated. "Who knows? That's not the point. Don't you even want to know ... who she is?”
"Is that important? Who she is?”
"The point is that I haven't had a girlfriend in a long time. Okay?" I say, glaring at him.
"And why is that?”
"I don't know. Because I'm married. You tell me.”
“So this girlfriend ...”
"Dianna—”
Dr. Q. holds up his hand. "First names only.”
“What is this? Some kind of AA meeting?”
“It's whatever you think it is, Cecelia. Now let’s see. Dianna," Dr. Q. says, writing the name in block letters and underlining it.
"You know EXACTLY who she is," I scream. "Jesus. It's Dianna Moon. Don't you read Page Six? They've been writing about us for two weeks. How we're seen everywhere together.”
Dr. Q. sucks the end of his pen. "I don't read Page Six," he says thoughtfully.
"Goddammit, Dr. Q. Everyone reads Page Six," I say, crossing my arms and swinging one foot, clad in a beige silk Manolo Blahnik shoe, four hundred and fifty dollars and completely impractical, which Dianna and I bought two days ago when we went on a "shopping spree." I picked them out, and Dianna said that we should both buy a pair because we were "sisters," and this was confirmed when it turned out that we wore the same size shoe: nine. "I have good taste," I say suddenly. And Dr. Q., probably relieved that I'm not going to go bat shit on him after all, says mildly, "Yes, you do. That’s one of the things you're known for, isn't it? Good taste. It's probably one of the reasons why Hubert married you.”
He looks at me. I just stare at him, so he continues, floundering, "After all, that is one of the reasons why men like Hubert get married, isn't it? They want the wife with good taste, who will wear the right things to ... charity benefits .. and decorate the house in the Hamptons ... or no, aren't the Hamptons over? ... according to you people...." And I lean back in the chair and close my eyes.
I think about what Dianna would do in this situation.
"You know what, Dr. Q.?" I ask. "What," he says.
"Fuck you," I say, and walk out.
VII
This morning I wake up and say to Hubert, "Do you think Xanaxes are illegal?" while he's in the bathroom, shaving, and he says, "Why?" and I say, "Because I don't want to have any scandal. With customs. When I go to France," just to rub it in. And he gets this sick look on his face, which he's been pretty much sporting ever since I told him, two weeks ago, that I was going away, and he says, "I don't think you have to worry about it. You know, if there's any problem, you can always call my father.”
"Oh la," I say gaily, for absolutely no reason. "I just love calling the castle.”
He brushes by me, lifting his chin to button his shirt and pull a tie under his collar, and I see that hurt look in his eyes, like the outer corners of his eyes are drooping downward, and for a minute I feel like a corkscrew's been thrust in my stomach, but then I remember that he SHOULD feel bad.