"Please," Janey said. She put her hand over her eyes. "All he talks about is how the Hamptons are filled with assholes and he wants to have a real life and be with real people. He doesn't understand that those assholes are real people. I keep telling him if he doesn't like it he should move to Des Moines." That was the problem with Redmon. His perceptions about life were totally off. One evening, when he was cooking pasta (his specialties were pasta primavera and blackened redfish—he had learned to cook in the eighties and had never progressed), he said to her, "You know, Janey, I'm a millionaire." Janey was flipping through a fashion magazine. "That’s nice," she said.
"Hell," he said, pouring the pasta into a strainer that was missing one of its legs, causing the pasta to spill all over the sink, "I think if s pretty amazing. How many writers do you know who are millionaires?”
“Well," she said, "I actually know a lot of people who are billionaires.”
"Yeah, but they're all ... business people, " he said, implying that business people were lower than cockroaches.
"So?" Janey said.
"So who gives a shit how much money you have if you don't have a soul?”
The next day, on the beach, Redmon brought up his financial situation again.
"I figure that in another year or so, I'll have two million dollars," he said. "I'll be able to retire. With two million, I could buy a seven-hundred-and-fifty thousand dollar apartment in New York.”
Janey was rubbing herself with suntan lotion, and then, she couldn't help it, she snorted. "You can't buy an apartment in New York City for a million dollars," she said.
"What the hell are you talking about?" he said, opening a beer.
"Okay, you could buy an apartment, but it would be, like, a really small two-bedroom. Maybe with no doorman.”
"So?" Redmon said, taking a chug. "What the hell's wrong with that?”
"Nothing," Janey said, "if you don't mind being poor.”
For the rest of the afternoon, he would only give yes or no answers every time she tried to make conversation. Then, when they were back in the shack, making nachos, he slammed the oven door. "I'd hardly call two million dollars being poor," he said. I would, Janey thought, but she said nothing.
"I mean, Jesus Christ, Janey," he said. "What the hell is your problem? Isn't two million dollars good enough for you?”
"Oh, Redmon. If s not that," she said.
"Well, what the hell is it?" he asked, handing her a plate of nachos. "I mean, I don't see you bringing in a lot of dough. What is it you want? You hardly work and you don't take care of a husband and children.... Even Helen Westacott takes care of her kids, no matter what you might think about her....”
Janey spread a tiny paper napkin on her lap. He was right. What was it she wanted? Why wasn't he good enough? She took a bite of nacho and burned her mouth on the cheese. Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, geez, Janey," Redmon said. "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry I yelled. Come here," he said. "Let me give you a hug.”
"I'm okay," she said, wiping the tears away. She didn't want Redmon to know that what she was crying about was the prospect of spending every summer for the rest of her life in this shack.
"Hey," he said. "I've got an idea. Why don't we go by the Westacotts' for a drink? I'm sure they're still up. It's only ten o'clock.”
"Whatever," Janey said.
It was still the beginning of the summer then.
Bill and Helen Westacott were Redmon's very best friends. Redmon insisted on seeing them practically every weekend, which made, as far as Janey was concerned, what ended up happening, really his fault.
She had tried her best to avoid it. Had, in fact, refused to see them again after the first time they had dinner together. But it was no good. The next weekend, Redmon had simply gone to dinner without her, leaving her behind in the shack, where she swatted at mosquitoes all night and wondered if spending the summer in the city would really be that bad. But when she'd gone back to the city on Monday, her apartment wasn't air-conditioned and cockroaches had taken over the kitchen. She decided it was easier to give in.
Bill Westacott was a famous screenwriter who had written five hit movies in the past seven years. Unlike Redmon, he truly was a rich writer, and he and his wife, Helen, and their two sons lived on a fifteen acre "farm" off of Route 27. They'd been living in the Hamptons for about five years, being part of a trend of married couples with children who had chucked city life and moved full-time to the country. They had horses and servants as well as a pool and tennis court, and being able to hang out at their house for part of the weekends would have almost salvaged the summer. There was only one problem: the Westacotts themselves.
Bill Westacott was arrogant and angry and immature, while Helen Westacott was ... well, there was only one word for Helen: crazy.
Janey wished Redmon had warned her about Helen's insanity before they went to their house for dinner the first time, but he hadn't. Instead, in his typical clueless Redmon manner, he banged on and on about what he perceived to be their amazing attributes: Helen was from "one of the best" families in Washington and her father had been a senator; Bill's mother had been an actress who was now married to a famous actor; Bill had gone to Harvard (he himself, he reminded her, had gone to Yale—he and Bill met in a bar after a famous Harvard-Yale football game and had taken swings at each other); Helen had won a literary prize for her first novel, which she wrote when she was twenty-five. Janey was going to love them. They were one of the coolest couples in the world.
About the very first thing that happened when they pulled up to the Westacotts' house in Redmon's rented Dodge Charger was that Bill Westacott was standing in the freshly graveled driveway, smoking a cigar with his arms folded across his chest. Redmon rolled down his window. "Hey Bi ... ,” he started to say, but before he could finish, Bill had charged up to the car and stuck his head in the window. He was a large, good-looking man with a full head of gorgeous, curly blond hair. "Shit, man. I'm glad you're here. Or I think I am. I can't decide if it's a good thing or a bad thing.”
"What's the problem?" Redmon asked.
"The Gorgon is in one of her moods," Bill said.
Janey got out of the car. She was wearing a tightfitting Lycra top, which had cost about five hundred dollars and was slit halfway down to her navel, no bra, and tight-fitting orange capri pants.
"Hello," she said, holding out her hand. "I'm Janey.”
"Oh shit, man," Bill said, swiveling his head around as if he were looking for a place to hide. "This is not good.”
"Helloooo ... ," Janey said.
Bill took a few steps back. "I know who you are, okay?" he said. "You're that dangerous woman.”
“What's wrong with me?" Janey said.
"What’s wrong with her?" Bill said, turning to Redmon. "You bring this chick who stands here asking what’s wrong with her? For starters, what’s wrong with you is you're a woman, okay? Which means that you are genetically insane, inane, and will probably be up my ass in about thirty seconds over some kind of bullshit I have no control over and can't do anything about. Should I go on?”
"Are you on drugs?" Janey asked.
Redmon laughed and put his arm around her.
"That's Bill's way of saying he likes you. He's terrified of beautiful women.”
"Well, Bill/' Janey said, unable to help herself, "you sure have a funny way of showing it.”
"Don't get smart with me," Bill said, pointing his cigar at her. "I know what you're up to. I know all your tricks. I work in Hollywood, remember?”
“Janey's not really an actress," Redmon said, taking her hand and squeezing it.