“Wen . . .” Jenny murmured seductively. “I’m tired. I want to come to your house for dinner tonight. Will you make me your famous lasagna?”
Wendy patted Jenny’s arm. “You know Victor Matrick, don’t you?”
Jenny, who was five foot nine and about 125 pounds (including at least four pounds of saline breast implants, Wendy thought), uncoiled herself with the elegance of a snake and held out a long, white arm. “Hello, Daddy,” she said, taking Victor’s hand and then leaning forward to give him a loud smooch on the check. Victor glowed. God bless Jenny, Wendy thought. She always knew which side her bread was buttered on. “I love this, big Daddy,” Jenny gushed. The group began to move toward the elevators.
“Wendy’s working on a great new script for me,” Jenny said to Victor. Her blue eyes were enormous, and when she opened them wide for emphasis, it was impossible to turn away. “But it’s serious. We think it has Oscar potential . . .”
“Talk to Wendy about it,” Victor said, patting her on the shoulder. “I never question my executives.” He smiled at the group and walked down the hallway to his office.
Selden Rose pushed the elevator button. The screening room was on the second to the top floor, along with the secret elevator that went up to Victor’s private office and dining room, with the offices of the various divisions of Splatch-Verner below. Wendy’s floor was first. She kissed Jenny on the cheek and told her to come by the house at about eight. Selden was standing at the front of the elevator, fiddling with his cell phone, and Wendy wondered if he was angry. But it didn’t matter. Now that she’d buried him, she could afford to be generous. “Congratulations, Selden,” she said, and added without irony, “You did a great job.”
Selden looked up. “It’s your project,” he said with a shrug. This was slightly surprising. Wendy had dealt with men like Selden Rose before (they were all over the movie business), and usually, this kind of subtle in-fighting led to an unspoken declaration of war. But perhaps Selden wasn’t as much of a killer as he was rumored to be—or perhaps she’d simply put him sufficiently back in his box for him to leave her alone for a couple of months. That was fine with her—she had plenty of other things to worry about. While she was walking down the hall to her corner office, her cell phone began beeping. In the last two hours, she’d accumulated fifteen new messages, including five from Josh, one from her daughter, and three from Shane. What was going on with him? He probably wanted money. He was right. They did need to talk. She wasn’t an ATM.
She hit the speed dial for her daughter’s cell phone.
“Hello, Motherrrrrr,” Magda said, drawing out the “r” for emphasis.
“Hello, Countess Cootchy-Coo,” Wendy said.
“I think you’re going to have to purchase moi a pony.”
“I am, am I?” Wendy asked, not entirely displeased. She supposed that meant that Magda’s riding lesson with Nico’s daughter, Katrina, had gone well, which was exactly what she’d been hoping. Magda was such a funny little character. It would be good for her to have something to do with friends, something she was excited about. And besides, how much could a pony cost? It was only a miniature horse, wasn’t it? Two, maybe three thousand dollars?
“Why don’t you find some ads for ponies on the Internet and we’ll talk about it,” Wendy said.
Magda sighed with annoyance. “Motherrrrr. That isn’t how you find a pony. On the Internet.” The disgust in Magda’s voice was nearly palpable. “You have to fly down to Palm Beach in your private plane and there is a man who brings you the best ponies in the country . . .”
Jesus Christ! One riding lesson and she was talking like she was going to the Olympics. How had she picked up all this nonsense? “Sweetheart, we’re not getting a pony from Palm Beach,” Wendy said patiently. “I’m sure we can find a very nice pony right here in . . . New York City.” Was that possible? Where the hell did ponies come from, anyway? But there had to be ponies somewhere. After all, New York City was home to all kinds of vermin, human and otherwise . . . weren’t there all kinds of animals and bugs living here that no one really knew about? “We’ll discuss it when I get home. Jenny C. is coming for dinner.”
“Jenny who?” Magda asked archly.
Wendy sighed. “The actress, Magda. You remember. She’s one of your favorites. She was Princess Pointy-Nose in that movie you loved.”
“That, Motherrrrrr, was an animated film.”
“She was the voice,” Wendy said. She gave up. “Is Daddy home?”
“He is not.”
Wendy’s phone began beeping. Shane. “Daddy’s on the other line. I’ll call you back.” She clicked over. Shane was sending a text message.
“i wnt d*vorce,” it said.
It was such an obvious cry for attention that Wendy nearly laughed. Shane could never want a divorce. Where would he go? How would he eat? How would he be able to afford those expensive Dolce & Gabbana shirts he loved so much?
“don2 b sil-e,” she wrote. “i luv u.”
“i m c-re-us.”
“pt off dvr-c,” she wrote. “jen c cum-ing 2 dinr.” And added, as a postscript, “cum-ing. gt it?”
* * *
FIVE-FIFTY SEVENTH AVENUE was the most prestigious building in the Garment District. Located in the middle of the block between Thirty-ninth and Fortieth Streets, it was a narrow building with discreetly elegant appointments—the building itself was constructed of marble, and a gleaming brass revolving door led to the small foyer. On the wall was a list of the occupants, a who’s who of the fashion industry: Oscar de la Renta, Donna Karan, Ralph Lauren—and in the middle of the list, Victory Ford.
Victory sighed as she glanced at her name, and got into the elevator. She’d moved into the building four years before, from a messy loft space on one of the side streets, giving the fashion industry the message that she had arrived. Her studio was one of the smaller ones—only part of a floor as opposed to the three floors occupied by Ralph Lauren—but in the fashion industry, half of the battle was about perception. It was one of the reasons why a designer could appear to be the talk of the town one day, and out of business the next. She’d never forgotten the afternoon when she’d come back from lunch to discover moving men in the foyer, and that William Marshall had folded . . .
But Willy had had backers, she reminded herself, as the elevator door slowly slid shut. Above the elevator door was a long strip with the logos of each designer in the building—the logos lit up as the elevator passed the floors. The rumor was that William had still been making money, but not enough to please his backers, so they’d pulled the plug. His crime was nothing worse t