Not that he seemed to have any trouble. Old girlfriends were constantly calling, and Harold was always sending these women little gifts to help them get through their crises—cellular phones and computers and even paying for nursery school for the child of a woman who’d had the kid out of wedlock. On Janey’s first Hampton weekend, he had pulled her by the hand out to his garage. “I want you to have your freedom this summer,” he said. “I can tell that you’re a girl who likes her freedom.”
“You’re right,” Janey said.
“Otherwise, you’d be married by now.” He opened the side door to the garage. He was behind her, and when she was inside he jerked her around and fastened his lips on her and stuck his tongue in her mouth. It took Janey by surprise, and she sort of remembered flailing her arms around like a live insect impaled by a pin. But the kiss wasn’t bad.
“Just a little something to get your motor running,” he said. Then he pushed past her and turned on the light. “Pick the car you want to drive this summer,” he said. There was a Range Rover and two Mercedeses, one a 500 coupe and the other an SL convertible. “There’s only one rule. You can’t change your mind in the middle of the summer. I don’t want you coming to me and saying, ‘I want to drive the Rover’ when you’ve already chosen the Benz.”
“What if I don’t like any of them?” Janey asked. “What if I want a Maserati?”
“I don’t want you to get too spoiled,” Harold said. “You’ll end up hating me because no other guy is ever going to treat you as nice.”
“That’s probably true,” she said, touching him on the nose with hr index finger.
“Why don’t you marry him?” Alison kept hissing all summer.
“I couldn’t,” Janey said. “I couldn’t marry a man unless I was totally in love with him.”
“I could be in love with him in two seconds,” Alison said.
"Yes, you probably could,” Janey said, not bothering to add that Alison wasn’t anywhere near attractive enough to interest a man like Harold.
Harold took Janey a little bit seriously. “Be smart,” he said. “Do something with your life. Let me help you.”
Janey said she’d always wanted to do something important, like be a journalist or write a novel. So one Sunday, Harold invited a lady editor in chief to brunch. Harold always served cappuccino in oversize cups, and Janey remembered the lady editor, who was wearing a blue and white jacket in a swirly design, balance the large cup on her thigh while they were sitting outside.
“Janey wants to be a writer,” Harold said.
“Oh my,” said the lady editor. She raised the cup to her lips. “Why is it that pretty girls always want to do something else.”
“Come on, Maeve,” Harold roared. “You used to be pretty yourself. Before you got smart.”
Maeve said, “What is it you want to do dear?”
“I want your job,” Janey said, in that soft voice that gave no offense.
When Janey and Harold broke up at the end of September, she actually cried on the street afterward. The breakup took place in his Park Avenue apartment; they had arranged to meet there for a drink before going out to dinner. Harold was in the library. He was sipping a Scotch, staring up at his prized Renoir. “Hello, crazy kid,” he said. He led her to a red silk couch. “Something’s come up. I won’t be able to make it to dinner tonight.”
“I see,” Janey said.
“It’s not you,” said Harold. “It’s me. I don’t want to get married.”
“Please,” Janey said. She stood up. “I was going to break up with you tonight, anyway. Isn’t that funny?”
