Paris! It was just as exciting as New York, and more beautiful—or that was what everyone said, anyway. When she’d been there a week ago, she had stayed in a suite at the Plaza Athénée, in a room with a small balcony that overlooked the Eiffel Tower. Then she walked in the Tuileries, looking at tulips, and she’d eaten a jambon sandwich and crossed over the river to the Left Bank, where she’d sat in a café drinking coffee. It was all a bit of a cliché, and she’d realized, sadly, that she was at a point in her life where a view of the Eiffel Tower just wasn’t enough to do it for her anymore. But then there had been all those other hours when she was jizzing around the city in taxis and speaking poor French and running down the sidewalks in her high heels and new, loose boy-cut trousers covered with sequins, and she’d kept thinking, “I’m going to live in Paris! And I’m going to be rich!”
There was really only one thing that bothered her: that image they’d presented at the meeting today. But she could change that. Of course it wasn’t all perfect, yet. Having some doubts was bound to be part of the business process, just as it was an integral part of the creative process. The important thing was to make a decision and to go for it. Decisions could be changed. Indecision couldn’t . . .
“Ten-carat yellow sapphire ring set in platinum with two-carat certified diamonds. Estimate $30,000-$35,000,” the card read.
“Excuse me,” Victory said to Ms. Smith. “Could I try this on?”
“Of course,” Ms. Smith said. She unlocked the case and took out the ring, placing it on a small black suede pad.
Victory slipped it onto her finger. The stone was so big it looked like a walnut.
Her phone rang. “What’cha doin’?” Lyne purred.
“Buying jewelry at Sotheby’s,” she said, liking the way that sounded.
“So I guess you signed on the dotted line,” he said, following this statement with a low chuckle.
Victory stiffened. “Not quite yet,” she said primly, picking at a piece of fluff on her sweater. “But they’re drawing up the contracts. They’re sending them to the lawyers.”
“Then I still have time to save you.”
“No, you haven’t,” Victory said, wondering why she continued to see this man. There was something so irritating about him, but she just couldn’t let him go—at least not quite yet. “I’m going to sign as soon as I get the contract.”
“That’s right. ‘As soon as,’ ” Lyne said. “Kiddo, how many times do I have to tell you? Never do business with the Frogs. I promise you, they have a different way of doing things.”
“Lyne,” she sighed. “You’re just jealous!”
Lyne burst out laughing. “Oh yeah? Of what?”
Well, that was a good question, she thought. What was she going to say now? That Lyne was jealous of Pierre? That would sound silly—New York men like Lyne couldn’t conceive of being jealous of anybody, especially a man like Pierre Berteuil, whom Lyne considered “poncy” just because he was better-looking. Nor could she say that Lyne was jealous of the fact that she was in the middle of a big deal—Lyne was in the middle of big deals all the time. “I just don’t want to get into it. Again,” she said carelessly.
“Why?” Lyne said tauntingly. “Because you know I’m right?”
“Because I don’t want to prove to you that you’re wrong—again,” she said.
Silence. Lyne seemed to be considering this. “I like it when you prove that I’m wrong. But I don’t think I will be when it comes to the Frogs!” Then he got another call and hung up, after promising to call her back in a few minutes. She sighed, half-wishing he wouldn’t. Lyne would do that for hours—calling her back repeatedly in between his more important business calls, as if she had nothing better to do than to sit around waiting to hear back from him . . .
She handed the ring back to Ms. Smith and moved on, staring down at a pair of antique diamond clip earrings. Lyne was annoying, but their conversation reminded her of how ironic and satisfying it had been to get that first phone call from Muffie Williams shortly after she’d had that fight with Lyne over making money. The fight had taken place in his apartment, a few days after she’d had her show and had gotten those good reviews. She was feeling cocky, feeling as if she could accomplish anything she’d ever dreamed of doing, but suddenly, entering Lyne’s enormous town house, she became irked. Every room in Lyne’s residence was a decorator showpiece that screamed money and taste, but it wasn’t just the furniture or the rugs or the window treatments, it was the endless number of bibelots and objets d’art, each one always perfectly in its place, dusted and polished and shined, so that all a visitor could think about was how much it must have cost and how much time it would have taken to collect it and get it right. Even Nico’s town house didn’t begin to approach this level of detail. It was the kind of detail that could only be accomplished with millions and millions of dollars. And it suddenly struck her that no matter how successful she might become, she’d probably never have the kind of money Lyne did—and it wasn’t fair. She knew plenty of women who were successful, who made “real” money, b
ut none who had the wealth of a Lyne Bennett or a George Paxton. Why was it always men and not women? And following Lyne into the screening room, she suddenly asked, “Just how do you make a billion dollars, Lyne?”
Lyne, of course, didn’t take the question seriously. He picked up the phone and barked to the butler to bring them two vodka tonics, and then sat down on a beige silk couch that consisted of one long semicircular piece that was obviously custom-made. The screening room was Lyne’s favorite room in the house; located on the top floor, it had a view of Central Park, and looking east, one could see a sliver of the river. The room had a contemporary Asian-fusion feel, with brownish-red window treatments edged in a tasteful fringe, and silk cushions, and Tang dynasty horses and warriors arranged on a shelf across one wall. The room opened out onto an enormous terrace with perfectly trimmed topiary in huge terra-cotta pots, and more Asian statuary.
“I mean it, Lyne,” she insisted, looking out at the park. The trees were bare, and she could see the reflecting pond where children raced remote-control sailboats on good days. “I really want to know how you do it.”
“How I did it, or how people do it in general?” he asked.
“In general,” she said.
“Well, that’s easy. You can’t.”
“You can’t?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You can’t what? Tell me!” The butler brought in the drinks on a red-lacquered tray—the tray that Lyne insisted had to be used in this room and this room only.
“Do it,” he said, picking up his glass and taking a large swig of his drink.
“And why’s that?”
“Because, Vic,” he said pompously, crossing one leg over the other and hitting a button located on the side of the coffee table that caused the room to be filled with music. “It’s like a club. The billionaires club. You work for years and years and years, and at some point, the other billionaires decide to make you a member.”