“But he hasn’t called. It’s 12:30,” Janey said.
“He’ll call. He’s just a little strange.”
‘Put a Lid on It
At 1:30, Janey called Peter’s office. He was in a meeting. She called twice more, and at 2:30, his secretary said he’d left for the day. She called the town house. His machine kept picking up. Finally, he called her at 3:30. “Little anxious?” he asked. “You called 11 times. According to my caller ID.”
They drove out to the Hamptons in his new Porsche Turbo. Choo Choo, a bichon frisé with blue bows in his topknot, had to sit on her lap, and kept trying to lick her face. All the way out, Peter kept making his hand into a gun shape, pretending to shoot at the other motorists. He called everyone “a fucking Polack.” Janey tried to pretend she thought it was funny.
The stopped for gas at the Hess station in Southampton. That was a good sign. Janey always loved that gas station with the attendants in their white and green uniforms. There was a line of cars for gas. Peter got out of the car and went to the bathroom, leaving the engine running. After a few minutes, the people behind her started honking. She slid into the driver’s seat, just as Peter came running out of the bathroom, waving his arms and screaming, “You fucking Polack, don’t touch my car.”
“Huh?” she said, looking around in confusion.
He yanked open the car door. “Nobody drives my fucking car but me. Got that? Nobody touches my car. It’s my fucking car.”
Janey slid out of the car. She was wearing high-heeled sandals (making her an inch taller than he was) and tight jeans, and her long brown hair hung straight over a man’s white button down shirt. She lifted her sunglasses, aware that everyone around them was now staring, surely recognizing her as Janey Wilcox, the model, and probably beginning to recognize Peter as well. “Listen Buster,” she said into his face. “Put a lid on it. Unless you want to see this little incident in the papers on Monday morning.”
“Hey, where are you going?” he asked.
“Where do you think?” she said.
When she got back into the car, Peter said “Sorry about that,” and rubbed her leg. “I’ve got a bad temper. I explode. Can’t help it. You should know that about me. It’s probably because my mother beat me when I was a kid.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Janey said. She adjusted her sunglasses.
Peter roared out of the gas station. “You are so hot, baby. You should have seen all those other men looking at you.”
“Men always look at me,” Janey said.
“This is going to be a great summer,” Peter said.
Peter’s house was everything Blaire had promised. A converted farmhouse on 10 acres of pastureland, six bedrooms, decorator-perfect. As soon as they arrived, Peter got on his cellular phone and started screaming at the gardener about his apple trees. Janey ignored him. She took off her clothes, and walked naked out to the pool. She knew he was watching her through the sliding glass doors. When she got out of the water, he stuck his head out. “Hey, baby, is the heat turned on in the pool? If it isn’t, I’ll call the guy and scream at him.”
“It’s on,” she said. “I think we should figure out what parties we want to go to this weekend.” She took out her own cellular phone and, still naked, settled into a cushiony deck chair and started dialing.
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