For a moment, they rode in stubborn silence. She didn’t even know him, so why were they arguing like they actually were in a relationship? She began to feel guilty. It wasn’t like her to be such a bitch. There were men like Lyne Bennett who could bring out the worst in a woman, but she mustn’t succumb. “Was that really the president of Brazil?” she asked.
“It was Ellen,” he said, and laughed. “I’m one up on you.”
She bit her lip, trying not to smile. “So far,” she said.
“Actually, you’re one up on me. Because that really was the president of Brazil.”
Oh God. He was crazy, she thought.
The SUV rounded the corner onto Madison Avenue. There was a crush of cars in front of the Whitney Museum, and Lyne suddenly became obsessed with making sure Bumpy pulled up right in front of the entrance. “Get in there, Bump!” he shouted encouragingly.
“I’m trying, Mr. Bennett. But there’s a limousine in front of us . . .”
“Fuck the limousine,” Lyne exclaimed. “It belongs to old man Shiner. The Shitter, I call him,” he said to Victory. “When I first started in business, he told me I’d never make a dime. I’ve never let him forget it either. If Shitter’s limo isn’t out of the way in five seconds, hit it, Bumpy.”
“Then the police will come. And that’ll take more time,” Bumpy grumbled.
“What’s the big deal? You know how to deal with the police . . .” Lyne said.
Victory had had enough. “Will you stop it?” she said, turning to Lyne. “You’re acting like a complete and utter lunatic. It’s embarrassing. If you can’t walk five feet to the curb, you have a serious problem.”
Lyne didn’t miss a beat. “D’ya hear that, Bump?” he asked, slapping the driver on the shoulder. “We’ve only been together for ten minutes, but already she knows me. Come on,” he said, taking Victory’s hand. “I knew you’d be fun.”
She grimaced. Lyne Bennett was clearly a man who couldn’t easily be insulted. She decided she was starting to like him just a teeny bit.
Which was good, because even if she had wanted to get away from him at that point, she couldn’t have. As soon as they got out of the car, they were surrounded by photographers. The Whitney Biennial was the biggest showcase for a hotly contested small group of artists selected by the Biennial committee. It was one of the most important and controversial art events in the country, but Victory always forgot that it was extremely social as well. Everyone would assume that she and Lyne were not only seeing each other, but probably had been for a while. Showing up at the Whitney Biennial together was the kind of thing a couple did when they wanted to make a public announcement that they were officially dating.
And there was Lyne, holding her hand in front of the photographers like they were lovers. She didn’t mind being seen with him, but she didn’t want people to think they were actually having sex. She tried gently pulling her hand away, but he gripped tighter.
“Did you ever consider the possibility that you may be suffering from adult attention deficit disorder?” she asked, thinking about his behavior in the car.
“Whatever you think,” he said, glancing down at her dismissively. “C’mon, kiddo,” he said, tugging on her hand. “If you’ve had enough of the paparazzi, let’s go inside.” Just like she was a little girl!
Even in her heels, he was at least six inches taller than she was, so she couldn’t exactly protest physically. That added another point to his side on the one-upmanship column. Then she got him back at the Vaginas. But the coup de grâce, she thought smugly, was that moment in Cipriani . . .
* * *
“GIANT VAGINAS? IN THE Whitney?” Wendy asked. She wasn’t really shocked—nothing, she thought, could shock her now, but she was having a hard time concentrating on the conversation. That morning Shane had called and asked to take the kids to visit his parents, who lived on the Upper West Side. The thought of Shane hanging out with the kids and their grandparents without her made her feel queasy.
She was sitting in the coveted corner front table at Da Silvano with Nico and Victory. The restaurant was packed and the door kept opening with people coming in, only to be told there were no tables, causing a cold breeze to blow on the back of her neck. She kept adjusting her pashmina, but the damn thing wouldn’t stay up. Pashminas were apparently out of fashion, but this was the best she could do to look decent on a Sunday.
She hunched forward, trying to appear interested. Had Shane told his parents? Were they talking about her? Shane’s mother had never really liked her. She was probably telling Shane that she was a bad mother . . .
“They try to do something shocking every year,” Nico was saying. “A few years ago it was a videotape of a guy in blue body paint, playing with his penis.”
“They’re equal opportunity shockers,” Victory said, dipping a breadstick into a small plate of olive oil. “This year they’re giant vaginas with plastic dolls stuck in the opening.”
“Not very well executed,” Nico said.
“Have you seen them?” Wendy asked.
“Had to,” Nico said. “We’re putting them in the December issue.” Wendy nodded, feeling left out. All she did was make movies and take care of her family. She had no culture, no life outside of her small raft of existence, which took every ounce of her energy to keep afloat. She looked over at Victory, who was glowing like a twenty-five-year-old. They were the same age, but Victory still went everywhere and did everything—she still had dates. It suddenly struck Wendy that she hadn’t had a date
for over fifteen years. The thought caused the queasy feeling to return with a vengeance. What if she had to start dating again? She would have no idea what to do . . .
Victory said, “The artist, a young woman from Brooklyn, apparently just had a baby and she was horrified by the experience. She said that no one ever tells you what it’s really like.”
“Please,” Wendy said dismissively. “Why is it that everyone who’s had a baby acts like they’re the only one who ever has?”