It was chilly, and she’d worn a lightweight blue silk coat. As Harold escorted her to the door, she saw Skaaden standing in the hallway with her coat over his arm. Harold had not only planned the breakup, but discussed it with Skaaden beforehand. As he helped her into her coat, she imagined what Harold would have told him: “The young lady will be arriving for drinks, but leaving shortly. She may be upset so be sure to have her coat ready.”
She made it as far as the corner, then she leaned over a garbage can and started crying. She had a dialogue with herself: “Come on," said one voice. “This has happened a million times before. You should be used to it.”
“But it still hurts,” said the other voice.
“Only a little. Harold was short and ugly and you never would have married him, anyway. Besides, he spent an hour a day on the crapper.”
“I loved him”
“Did not. You’re only upset because he was going to take you to Bouley for dinner and you wanted the foie gras.”
A cab stopped in front of Harold’s building and a lanky blonde girl got out. She was clutching a cheap leather bag. "My replacement," Janey thought. The cab’s yellow light came on. Janey stuck out her hand and hailed it.
Two weeks later, Harold messengered an envelope to her apartment. Inside was a note: "If you ever need anything, call," attached to a $5,000 gift certificate at Chanel.
‘A Little Crazy’
The following summer, driving on the back roads in his Porsche, after one of their horrendous fights, Peter would say, "I’m a little crazy, Janey,” like he was proud of it. “Do you think I should go to a shrink?”
“I think it would be totally useless,” Janey would say, and he’d laugh, taking it as a compliment, so by the time they arrived at the party, he’d have his hand on her leg. Then they’d walk, arms around each other, up somebody’s lawn or gravel pathway, laughing, smiling over their shoulders a the other guests. All the P.R. people knew them, so they wouldn’t even have to give their names. The weather was always green and warm.
Sometimes they bumped into Harold. One Monday, Harold called.
“I’m worried about you, Janey,” he said. “You shouldn’t be with a guy like Peter.
“Why not?” she said.
“He’s a creep.”
“Oh, Harold. You think every other guy is a creep.”
“Janey, I want to give you some advice. Maybe it’s not my place, but I’m going to. Stop this running around and get married. You’re not the kind of girl who’s going to do something with her life, so marry a man you love and have his children.”
“But I will do something, Harold.”
‘Weird Euro Sex’
Pravda again. Janey sat by herself, sipping a martini at the bar. The bartender was young. He said, “I remember you in that movie. I’m embarrassed about this, but I used to jerk off to your picture."
“Good,” Janey said. “Then I don’t need to give you a tip.”
She willing Zack Manners, the big British producer, to show up. She’d found she had this uncanny knack: If she willed something hard enough, it would happen. Instead Capote Duncan, the Southern novelist, came in. He walked all around the room to see who else was there. Then he came over.
“Where’s Zack?” she asked.
“How the hell should I know?”
“I’m hoping he’ll show up,” Janey said.
