Four Blondes

I

Janey Wilcox spent every summer for the last ten years in the Hamptons, and she'd never once rented a house or paid for anything, save for an occasional Jitney ticket. In the early nineties, Janey was enough of a model to become a sort of lukewarm celebrity, and the lukewarm celebrity got her a part ("thinking man's sex symbol") in one of those action movies. She never acted again, but her lukewarm celebrity was established and she figured out pretty quickly that it could get her things and keep on getting them, as long as she maintained her standards.

So every year around May, Janey went through the process of choosing a house for the summer. Or rather, choosing a man with a house for the summer. Janey had no money, but she'd found that was irrelevant as long as she had rich friends and could get rich men. The secret to getting rich men, which so many women never figured out, was that getting them was easy, as long as you didn't have any illusions about marrying them. There was no rich man in New York who would turn down regular blow jobs and entertaining company with no strings attached. Not that you'd want to marry any of these guys anyway. Every rich guy she'd been with had turned out to be weird—a freak or a pervert—so by the time Labor Day came around, she was usually pretty relieved to be able to end the relationship.

In exchange, Janey got a great house and, usually, the man's car to drive around. She liked sports cars the best, but if they were too sporty, like a Ferrari or a Porsche, that wasn't so good because the man usually had a fixation on his car and wouldn't let anyone drive it, especially a woman.

The guy she had been with last summer, Peter, was like that. Peter had golden-blond hair that he wore in a crew cut, and he was a famous entertainment lawyer, but he had a body that could rival any underwear model's. They were fixed up on a blind date, even though they'd actually met more than a dozen times at parties over the years, and he asked her to meet him at his town house in the West Village because he was too busy during the day to decide on a restaurant. After she rang the buzzer, he left her waiting on the street for fifteen minutes. She didn't mind, because the friend who fixed them up, a socialite type who had gone to college with Peter, kept emphasizing what a great old house he had on Lily Pond Lane in East Hampton. After dinner, they went back to his town house, ostensibly because he had to walk his dog, Gumdrop, and when they were in the kitchen, she spotted a photograph of him, in his bathing suit on the beach, tacked to the refrigerator door.

He had stomach muscles that looked like the underside of a turtle. She decided to have sex with him that night.

This was the Wednesday before Memorial Day, and the next morning, while he was noisily making cappuccino, he asked her if she wanted to come out to his house for the weekend. She had known he was going to ask her, even though the sex was among the worst she'd had in years (there was some awkward kissing, then he sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing himself until he was hard enough to put on a condom, and then he stuck it in), but she was grateful that he had asked her so quickly.

"You're a smart girl, you know," he said, pouring cappuccino into two enameled cups. He was wearing white French boxer shorts with buttons in the front. "I know," she said.

"No, I mean it," he said. "Having sex with me last night.”

"Much better to get it out of the way.”

"Women don't understand that guys like me don't have time to chase them." He finished his cappuccino and carefully washed out the cup. "If s a fucking bore," he said. "You should do all of your friends a favor and tell them to quit playing those stupid girl games. If a girl doesn't put out by the second or third date, you know what I do?”

"No," Janey said.

He pointed his finger at her. "I never call her again. Fuck her.”

"No. That’s exactly what you don't do. Fuck her," Janey said.

He laughed. He came up to her and squeezed one of her breasts. "If everything goes well this weekend, maybe we'll spend the whole summer together. Know what I mean?" he said. He was still squeezing her breast.

"Ow," Janey said.

"Breast implants, huh?" he said. "I like 'em. They should make all women get them. All women should look like you. I'll call you.”

Still, when he hadn't called by noon on Friday, she began to have doubts. Maybe she'd read him wrong. Maybe he was totally full of shit. It was unlikely, though—they knew too many people in common. But how well did anybody really know anyone else in New York? She called up Lynelle, the socialite who had fixed them up. "Oh, I'm so glad you guys hit it off," Lynelle said.

"But he hasn't called. It's twelve-thirty," Janey said.

"He'll call. He's just a little ... strange.”

“Strange?”

"He's a great guy. We have this joke that if I weren't married to Richard, we'd be married. He calls me his non-future-ex-wife. Isn't that hysterical?”

“Hysterical," Janey said.

"Don't worry. You're just his type," Lynelle said. "Peter just has his own way of doing things.”

At one-thirty, Janey called Peter's office. He was in a meeting. She called twice more, and at two thirty, his secretary said he'd left for the day. She called the town house several times. His machine kept picking up. Finally, he called her at three-thirty. "Little anxious?" he asked. "You called eleven times. According to my caller ID.”

They drove out to the Hamptons in his new Porsche Turbo. Gumdrop, a bichon frise with blue bows in his topknot, had to sit on her lap, and kept trying to lick her face. All the way out, Peter kept making his hand into a gun shape, pretending to shoot at the other motorists. He called everyone "a fucking Polack." Janey tried to pretend that she thought it was funny.

In Southampton, they stopped for gas at the Hess station. That was a good sign. Janey always loved that gas station, with the attendants in their civilized white and green uniforms—it really made you feel like you were finally out of the city. There was a line of cars. Peter got out of the car and went to the bathroom, leaving the engine running. After a few minutes, the people behind her started honking. She slid into the driver's seat just as Peter came running out of the bathroom, waving his arms and screaming, "You fucking Polack, don't touch my car!”

"Huh?" she said, looking around in confusion. He yanked open the car door. "Nobody drives my fucking car but me. Got that? Nobody touches my fucking car but me. If s my fucking car.”

Janey slid gracefully out of the car. She was wearing tight jeans and high-heeled sandals that made her an inch taller than he was, and her long, nearly white, blond hair hung straight down over a man's white button-down shirt. Her hair was one of her most prized possessions: It was the kind of hair that made people look twice. She lifted her sunglasses, aware that everyone around them was now staring, recognizing her as Janey Wilcox, the model, and probably beginning to recognize Peter as well. "Listen, Buster," she said into his face. "Put a lid on it.

Unless you want to see this little incident in the papers on Monday morning.”

"Hey, where are you going?" he asked. "Where do you think?" she said.

"Sorry about that," Peter said after she got back in the car. He rubbed her leg. "I've got a bad temper, baby. I explode. I can't help it. You should know that about me. If s probably because my mother beat me when I was a kid.”

"Don't worry about it," Janey said. She adjusted her sunglasses.

Peter roared out of the gas station. "You are so hot, baby. So hot. You should have seen all those other men looking at you.”

"Men always look at me," Janey said.

"This is going to be a great summer," Peter said. Peter's house was everything Lynelle had promised. It was a converted farmhouse on three acres of manicured lawn, with six bedrooms and a decorator perfect interior. As soon as they arrived, Peter got on his cell phone and started screaming at the gardener about his apple trees. Janey ignored him. She took off her clothes and walked naked out to the pool. She knew he was watching her through the sliding glass doors. When she got out of the water, he stuck his head out. "Hey baby, is the heat turned on in the pool? If it isn't, I'll call the guy and scream at him.”

"It's on," she said. "I think we should figure out what parties we want to go to this weekend." She took out her own cell phone and, still naked, settled into a cushiony deck chair and started dialing.

In mid-May of the summer Janey was to turn thirty one (her birthday was June first, and she always told everyone she was a "summer baby"), she went to the nightclub Moomba three times in one week. The first night was a party for the rap artist Toilet Paper. She stood in the middle of the room with one hip pushed out, letting photographers take her picture, then someone escorted her to a table in the corner. Joel Webb, the art collector, was there. Janey thought he was cute, even though everyone said he'd had a nose job and cheek implants and liposuction and wore lifts in his shoes because he was only five foot four. But that wasn't the problem. It was his house. For the past three years, he'd been building a big house in East Hampton; in the meantime, he'd been renting what Janey considered a shack—a run-down three-bedroom cottage.

"I need a girlfriend. Fix me up with one of your gorgeous friends, huh?" he said.

"How's your house coming?" Janey said.

"The contractors promised it would be done by July fourth. Come on," he said, "I know you can think of someone to fix me up with.”

"I thought you had a girlfriend," Janey said. "Only by default. We break up during the year, but by the time summer comes, I get so lonely I take her back.”

Two nights later, Janey showed up at Moomba with Alan Mundy, whom everyone was calling the hottest comic in Hollywood. She'd met Alan years ago, when she was doing that film in Hollywood he was a nobody then and had a tiny part in the movie, playing a lovesick busboy. They sort of became friends and sort of stayed in touch, talking on the phone about once a year, but Janey now told everyone he was a great friend of hers. Her booker at her modeling agency told her Alan was coming into New York on the sly, so Janey called his publicist and he called her right back. He'd just broken up with his girlfriend and was probably lonely. "Janey, Janey," he said. "I want to see all the hot places. Tear up the town.”

"As long as we don't have to patch it back together when you're done," she said.

"God, I've missed you, Janey," he said.

He picked her up in a Rolls Royce limousine. His hair had been dyed red for his last movie role, and he had an inch of black roots. "Whatcha doing now, kid?" he asked. "Stffl acting?”

"I've been acting every day of my life," Janey said. Inside the club, Alan drank three martinis in a row. Janey sat close to him and whispered in his ear and giggled a lot. She had no real interest in Alan, who in actuality was the kind of geeky guy who would work at a car wash, which was exactly what he used to do in between jobs before he became famous. But nobody else had to know that. It raised her status enormously to be seen with Alan, especially if it looked like they could potentially be an item.

Alan was drunk, sticking the plastic swords from his martinis into his frizzy hair. "What do you want, Janey?" he asked. "What do you want out of life?”

“I want to have a good summer," Janey said.

She got up to go to the bathroom. She passed Redmon Richardly, the bad-boy southern writer. "Janey, Janey," he said. "I'm soooo glad to see you.”

“Really?" Janey said. "You were never glad to see me before.”

"I'm always glad to see you. You're one of my good friends," Redmon said. There was another man at the table. Short brown hair. Tanned. Slim. Too handsome. Just the way Janey liked them. "See? I always said Janey was a smart model," Redmon said to the man.

The man smiled. "Smart and a model. What could be better?”

"Dumb and a model. The way most men like them," Janey said. She smiled back, aware of the whiteness of her teeth.

"Zack Manners. Janey Wilcox," Redmon said. "Zack just arrived from England. He's looking for a house in the Hamptons. Maybe you can help him find one.”

"Only if I get to live in it," Janey said. "Interesting proposition," Zack said.

Janey went upstairs to the bathroom. Her heart was thumping. Zack Manners was the huge English record producer. She stood in line for the bathroom. Redmon Richardly came up behind her. "I want him," Janey said.

"Who? Zack?" He laughed. "You and a million other women all over the world.”

"I don't care," Janey said. "I want him. And he's looking for a house in the Hamptons.”

"Well ... you ... can't ... have ... him," Redmon said.

"Why not?" Janey stamped her foot.

Redmon put his arms around her like he was going to kiss her. He could do things like that and get away with it. "Come home with me tonight.”

"Why?”

"Because if d be fun.”

“I'm not interested in fun.”

"Ditch that geek you're with and come home with me. What are you doing with a geek like that, anyway? I don't care if he's famous. He's still a geek.”

"Yeah, well, being with a geek like that makes men like you more interested in me.”

"Oh, come on.”

"I want to have a good summer," Janey said. "With Zack.”

Janey and Alan left half an hour later, after Alan accidentally spilled two martinis. On their way out, they passed Redmon's table. Janey casually slipped her hand into the back pocket of Alan's jeans. Then she looked over her shoulder at Zack.

"Call me later," Redmon said loudly.

II

Janey Wilcox heard about Harold Vane, the billionaire, in the bathroom of a club. That was two years ago, and even though Harold had turned out to be a little squeaker of a man, with his shiny round head and his ever-shiny shoes (he made the servants polish his Docksiders to a high sheen), he was one of the best summers. "I've got to find a man for the summer," Janey was complaining to her friend Allison when a voice from one of the stalls shouted out, "Harold Vane.”

Harold had a stucco mansion on Gin Lane in Southampton. There was a long green lawn in front of the house, and a shorter green lawn in the back, edging down to the dunes and the beach. There was a sit-down lunch with wine and two courses on both Saturday and Sunday, a cook, and a man called Skaaden who mixed cocktails and discreetly served the food from silver platters. The grounds could be entered only through a wrought-iron gate with the letter "H" on one side and "V" on the other. Harold had a security man v\ ho dressed like a gardener but carried a gun.

"Don't you worry that one of these guys is going to figure out what you're up to?" Allison asked. This was at the beginning of the Harold summer, when Janey had invited Alison (who had a share in a tiny house in Bridgehampton) over for the day.

"What do you mean?" Janey asked, thinking about the gardener.

"Using them. For their summer houses.”

"I'm a feminist," Janey said. "If s about the redistribution of wealth." They were lying on chaises by the pool, and Skaaden kept bringing them glasses of iced tea.

"Where is Harold, anyway?" Allison asked. She had bulging gray eyss—no matter how you made her up, she would never be pretty, Janey thought.

She had been waiting for Allison to ask the question. Allison was a sort of professional best friend to the rich and famous; as soon as she left, she'd probably call up everybody and tell them she'd been lunching at Harold Vane's house, and that they were now good friends. In fact, Janey expected that after she and Harold broke up at the end of the summer, Allison would continue to pursue his friendship. She'd invite him for drinks, and when she saw him at parties, she'd put her hand on his arm and whisper jokes in his ear to make him laugh.

"Harold's on the crapper," Janey said. She had a soft, girlish voice, and despite her stunning face and figure, she knew her voice was really her secret weapon—it allowed her to say anything and get away with it. "He spends an hour on the crapper every evening before he goes out, and on weekends, an hour in the morning and an hour in the late afternoon. It really cuts into the day. Last weekend we basically missed a book party because he wouldn't get off the can.”

"What does he do in there?”

Janey shrugged. "I don't know. Shits. Reads. Although how it can take a person an hour to shit, I don't know. I keep telling him if s not good for his intestines.”

"It's probably the only time he can get away from everything.”

"Oh, no," Janey said. "He has a phone and e-mail in there." She looked at Allison. "Forget I said that, okay?" She could just imagine Allison going around to dinners telling people that Harold Vane spent an hour on the crapper while he talked on the phone and sent e-mails, and it made her feel guilty. After all, Harold had never done or said anything even remotely unpleasant to her, and she was actually a little bit in love with him.

That was the surprising thing about Harold. She couldn't bring herself to have sex with him at first but after they'd finally done it, the second Saturday after Memorial Day, she'd wondered why she'd waited so long. Harold was commanding in bed. He told her what he wanted her to do and how to position herself (later on in the summer, he shaved off all her pubic hair and told her to sunbathe naked), and he had a huge penis.

His unmentionable was so large, in fact, that all during that summer, when other women came up to her to ask her if it was true she was really dating Harold (this seemed to happen most in the ladies' rooms at the various trendy Hamptons restaurants they frequented), Janey would roll up her lipstick and say confidentially that his willy was so enormous, the first time she saw it she told him there was no way he was going to put that thing in her. Then she would go back to lipsticking her open mouth. It might have been a little off-color to talk about Howard's willy, but on the other hand, Janey felt she was doing rum a favor—when she broke up with him, it would make it easier for him to get other women.

Not that he seemed to have any trouble. Harold was like everybody's Santa Claus. Old girlfriends were constantly calling, offering to fix him up with their friends, and Harold was always doling out advice, and sending these women little gifts to help them get through their crises—cell phones and computers and even paying for private nursery school for the child of a woman who'd had the kid out of wedlock. On Janey’s first Hamptons 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 said.

He opened the side door to the garage and they went down three steps. He was behind her, and when she was at the bottom, he jerked her around and fastened his lips on hers 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 550 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 Mercedes.”

“What if I don't like any of them," Janey said.

"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 affectionately on the nose with her index finger.

"Why don't you marry him," Allison kept hissing all summer.

"Oh no, 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," Allison said.

"Yes, you probably could," Janey said, not bothering to add that Allison 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 oversized cups, and Janey remembered the lady editor, who was wearing a blue and white jacket in a swirly design, balancing 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.”

"And before you got rich," 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 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 took her hand and 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. She had an inkling of what was coming next.

"It was wonderful spending time with you this summer," he said. "But....”

"If s over/' Janey said.

"If s not you," said Harold. "If s me. I don't want to get married, and you should know that there's another woman I'd like to start seeing.”

“Please," Janey said. She stood up. "I was going to break up with you tonight anyway. Isn't that funny?”

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, he had discussed it with Skaaden beforehand. As Skaaden helped her into her coat, she imagined what Harold would have told him: "The young lady will be arriving for drinks, but leaving shortly thereafter. She may be upset, so be sure to have her coat ready," and she smiled. "Good-bye Harold," she said. She took his hand, but allowed him to kiss her on the cheek.

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 fois gras.”

A cab stopped in front of Harold's building and a lanky blond 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 that read, "If you ever need anything, please call," attached to a five-thousand-dollar gift certificate from Gucci.

The next summer, when Janey was with Peter, she ran into Harold at a big party in East Hampton, thrown on a beachfront estate. The summer was only half over, but she'd developed an unusual and alarming hatred for Peter. At the beach, he either talked on his cell phone to clients or criticized other women's bodies. His pet peeve was women over forty who'd had kids. "Look at her," he'd scream. "Look at that belly. Useless. Why doesn't she get off the beach?”

"Oh Peter," she'd say.

"Oh Peter what? If s in a man's nature to be attracted to beautiful young girls. If s instinctual. A man wants to sleep with as many beautiful young girls as possible. If s all about reproduction." Driving on the back roads in his Porsche, he'd 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 at the other guests.

All the PR people knew them, so they didn't even have to give their names at parties, and photographers took their picture. The summer was green and warm, and for those moments, anyway, it felt perfect. The Monday after Janey and Peter ran into Harold, Harold called.

"I'm worried about you, Janey," he said. "You're a nice girl. 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.”

"I'm serious, Janey," Harold said. "I want to give you some advice. Maybe if s not my place, but I'm going to give it to you anyway. 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.”

“What?”

"I don't know.”

"Take my advice, Janey. You're young now, and you're beautiful. This is the time to find a real guy.”

“Who?" Janey asked.

"A nice young guy. A good-looking guy. I don't know. I'll fix you up with my architect. He's thirty three and wants to get married.”

"No thanks," Janey said, and laughed softly.

The relationship with Peter went from bad to worse. It was partly the sex. Peter didn't want to be touched, and could barely bring himself to touch her. They had sex once every three weeks. "Do you think maybe you're gay?" Janey asked. She'd developed a habit of baiting him. "I'm going to find some hot young guy to have sex with. Men over forty really can't perform, you know." Then they'd get into a screaming argument in his house. One morning, Janey burned some toast, and he stormed into the kitchen and fished the burnt toast out of the garbage, scraped it off, and tried to make her eat it. She fed it to Gumdrop instead, who promptly threw up. Janey had fantasies of killing Peter, and wondered if she accidentally threw his cell-phone recharger into the pool, he'd be electrocuted.

They'd make up because they always had parties to go to, and eventually, the summer passed.

Moomba 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 masturbate to your picture.”

“Good," Janey said. "Then I guess I don't need to give you a tip.”

"This is on me," he said, nodding at the martini. He leaned over the bar. "What are you doing now?”

“Waiting for a friend," she said, and turned away.

She was willing Zack Manners to show up. She'd found she had this uncanny knack: If she willed something hard enough, it would happen. Instead, Redmon Richardly, the novelist, came in. He nodded at her, then walked all around the club 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.”

"Forget about Zack," Redmon said. "I'm the best you're going to do tonight.”

"I want Zack.”

"Zack is a weirdo," Redmon said. He ordered a scotch.

"So are you.”

"No, really a weirdo," Redmon said. "I've spent a lot of time with him in London. I know girls who have slept with him. You don't want to get involved in that shit. If s that weird Euro sex shit. If s gross. If s not American.”

Then, sure enough, Zack did turn up. "Zack!" Redmon said. "We were just talking about you.”

Zack was with some other people. "Come to the table," he mouthed.

After Zack's group was seated, Janey went over and wedged a chair in next to Zack. "You again,” he said. "You look like one of those girls who's everywhere. Are you a socialite?”

Janey just smiled and sipped her drink. She knew she didn't have to say anything. Eventually her looks would begin to affect him. She turned to the man on her other side. He was a little English fellow, eager to talk.

"Are you going to the Hamptons too, this summer?" she asked.

"No, but I'm fascinated by it. We don't have anything like it in England. It sounds marvelous. All those movie stars fighting the traffic.”

"I go every summer," Janey said. "If s wonderful.”

“Will you be there this summer?”

"Oh yes. I'm looking forward to having a really good summer this year.”

Zack leaned over. "What is it with you and this 'good summer' business?" he asked. "Are you mentally impaired in some way that I should know about?”

"Probably," Janey said. She put down her drink. "I have to go," she said. "Call me.”

"I don't call girls. I get in touch," said Zack. "Then I'll look forward to your 'getting in touch,' " Janey said.

Two days letter, Zack messengered an envelope to her apartment. Written on an engraved card was this brief missive: Janey, would you like to meet for a drink? Please ring my secretary, who will give you the time and place. Regards, Zack.

III

Every five minutes during the Jitney ride out to the Hamptons on Memorial Day weekend, Janey wanted to stand up and scream, "I'm Janey Wilcox, the model, and I'm spending the weekend with Zack Manners, the English billionaire record producer. So fuck you. All of you," just to make herself feel better.

She was sitting in the front of the bus, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, trying to read The Sheltering Sky. But a niggling thought kept inserting itself into her brain, like a pencil point being pushed into Silly Putty: Zack Manners was not exactly there. He was not, as Janey liked to say, completely "in." His invitation had been vague—he had left instructions with his secretary to inform Janey that they should meet "sixish" for drinks at The Palm in East Hampton on Friday evening. Janey wasn't sure if the invitation extended to the weekend, and that uncertainty made her more excited about Zack than she had been about any man in a long time. The night before, she had gone to Moomba, and as the various men came by her table to pay their doting respects, Janey had said boldly, "Oh, yes, I'm wonderful. I've finally met a man I could fall madly in love with. He's brilliant and funny and sexy." And she said it in such a way as to imply that, while Zack was all those things, these other men decidedly were not.

The amazing thing was that this didn't seem to turn any of the men off. They clustered around the table, ordering drinks and smoking cigarettes. Janey had recently developed a theory that the worse you treated men, the more they wanted you. Peter, from three summers ago, came over, swinging a chair around to sit with his arms draped over the back. "You've changed, Janey. You seem so confident," he said.

"I'm not the same girl I was two years ago, Peter," she said, and smiled viciously. "I would never put up with your shit today.”

"I never gave you any shit.”

"The ultimate was Labor Day weekend. Driving back from the Hamptons in the pouring rain. Remember? You dropped me off just outside the midtown tunnel. On Thirty-fifth Street and Third Avenue. 'Get a cab,' you said.”

"It was over," Peter said, and grinned. "And you lived all the way uptown. Why should I drive a girl all the way uptown if I'm not even going to get laid?”

Janey expected Zack to be at the bar in The Palm when she arrived at six-fifteen. He wasn't. When he still hadn't turned up ten minutes later, she took up two guys on their offer to buy her a drink. She ordered a margarita. At six-forty-five, there was a slight commotion outside. A green 1954 250 GT Ellena Body Ferrari pulled into the circular driveway. Righthand drive. Zack got out. He wore old tennis shoes and walked with his hands in the front pockets of his khaki trousers. Janey became very animated, talking to the two men. Zack came up behind her. Whispered in her ear, "Hello there.”

She jumped a little. "Oh. Hi," she said. She looked at her watch. "I was going to scold you for being late, but the car makes up for it.”

"The car is priceless," Zack said. He slid onto the bar stool next to her. He took her hand. "If you want to be with me, Janey, never, ever scold me. Unless I ask you to.”

"That sounds promising.”

"It is. If you play your cards right." He leaned toward her. "Do you have a dark side, Janey? You look like a girl who has a dark side.”

Janey laughed, and so did Zack. She flipped her hair over her shoulder. Zack lit a cigarette. Filterless. In the daylight, he was not quite as attractive as she remembered. He had bad English teeth, ranging in color from sickly yellow to light gray. His fingers were stained with nicotine and his nails were dirty. But there was the car. And his money. And the whole summer and hopefully even longer ahead of her. "Let’s take things one step at a time, okay?" she said. "I guess that means you want to see my house before you decide whether or not you want to fuck me," Zack said.

"Come on," Janey said. "I'm interested in you. Everyone says you're fascinating.”

"Everyone is a fool," Zack said. And then: "You're going to love the house. If s perfect." He stood up and pulled her off the bar stool. He put his arm around her, walking her to the door. He was taller than she, the perfect size, she thought. "I got the house just for you," he said.

"Of course you did," Janey said. She believed him, not thinking for a moment that it was unusual for a complete stranger to rent a house in the Hamptons in me hope that she would be with him. She nodded at the valet, who held open the car door. She slid into the front seat. The car was in perfect condition. She took off her baseball cap and shook out her hair. She laughed. "If s beautiful," she said, feeling generous. Zack started the engine. "Ah yes," he said, pulling out of the driveway. "I suppose That’s where I'm supposed to say, 'No, you're beautiful, Janey.'" He looked at her. "Feel like you're in a movie?”

“Yes.”

"You're a very silly girl. Don't you know that if s dangerous to be so silly?”

"Maybe I'm not silly," Janey said. "Maybe if s just an act.”

"Maybe if s all just an act," Zack said. "But then where does that leave you?”

He turned the car onto Further Lane. "I told the rental agent I wanted a house on the best road in the best town in the Hamptons. I hope she hasn't done me wrong, Janey." He growled a bit on the word "wrong" and Janey thought he was adorable all over again. They turned in to a long gravel driveway. "I know the house," Janey said. "It's one of my favorites.”

"Really?”

"A friend of mine rented it five years ago. Ifs the perfect summer house. Pool, tennis courts ...”

“Did you play tennis without your knickers on?”

“Oh please, Zack.”

"That's how I imagine you, all in white, without your knickers ...”

The house was situated well back from the road, fronted by a long green lawn that was always set up for croquet. It was a classic, shingled-style manse, built in the 1920s for a rich family with a pack of kids and servants. Zack pulled up to the front. "Come along, come along my lovely, and we shall see ... , " he said, jumping out of the car and taking her hand. There was a wide porch and a balcony that ran around the second floor. He opened the door. "A veritable fun house," he said, turning around. "Now, I expect you to play lots of naughty games.”

"Like what?”

Zack rustled through a paper sack. "Provisions," he said, holding up a bottle of vodka and a plastic container of tonic water.

Janey laughed a little nervously.

Zack went to the kitchen and returned with two cocktails. "Chin-chin," he said, holding up his glass. "Cheers," Janey said. "To a great summer.”

Zack came up behind her. He put his arm around her waist and pressed her to him. "What’s behind all this great summer nonsense?”

Janey turned and slipped out of his grasp. "Nothing," she said.

"There must be something. I've never heard of anyone so obsessed with summer. I spent my summers working in a factory.”

"Of course you did," Janey said softly.

He pointed his finger at her and shook it. "You have to answer my questions. That’s one of the rules. I get bored very easily. Right now I'm interested. In hearing all about you. About all of the men who have had you before me.”

"What?" Janey said.

"This is going to be fun," Zack said. "Do you take coke?”

“Coca-Cola?”

"Cocaine," Zack said with mock patience. Then: "You're not very bright, are you? When I first met you, I didn't think you were, but then I thought perhaps I'd made a mistake." He sat down on the couch in front of a coffee table, looked up at her, and smiled. "But then, one doesn't really need intelligence in these situations. Just a sense of adventure.”

"I don't do cocaine," Janey said coldly.

"What a shame," Zack said. "I figured you for a player." He tapped some cocaine out on the coffee table, rolled up a bill, and snorted it up. He tipped his head back, inhaling deeply, the bill still in his nostril. Janey stared, and he caught her eye. "Stop playing the good little American girl, will you," he said.

"How do you know I'm not?”

"Oh, come off it," Zack said. He stood up. Walked to her. Touched her hair. "I didn't invite you here to be my girlfriend," he said.

"Then why did you invite me?”

"I didn't. You invited yourself. Remember?”

“Fuck off," Janey said softly.

"Come here," he said. "Sit down. My dear, you're as transparent as that shirt you're wearing. Everyone knows what your game is. You're available. For the summer. Providing the man is rich enough. At least I want to know why.”

"Because I just want to have a good summer," Janey screamed. "Is there anything wrong with that?”

"But you don't do anything," Zack said. He snorted some more cocaine.

"I don't do anything because I don't want to. I don't have to.”

"You don't feel much of anything, do you, Janey?”

“No," she said. She shrugged. "Even if the sex is great, it doesn't mean anything. Because the guy isn't going to stick around. So why not beat men at their own game. Use them. I'm a feminist, Zack," she said, which somehow made her feel better.

"Oh, the modern woman speaks," Zack said. "How old are you?”

"Twenty-eight," Janey said, casually lying. She'd been fibbing about her age for professional reasons for so long that she actually believed it.

"You look older," he said, and laughed. "You use men, but you yourself are totally useless. You think your views are revolutionary, but they're not. They're just annoying and immature.”

"And yours aren't?'' "As a matter of fact, they're not," Zack said. "I'm what you Yanks would call a self-made man. Everything I have, I got myself." He lit up a cigarette. "But along the way, I noticed something curious. I lost my emotions. My ability to feel. It comes from having to fuck people over all the time to get what you think you want." He smiled. Those teeth! Janey thought. "So you see, you and I are really quite alike.”

"I have my reasons," Janey said.

"No doubt you do. But they're probably very mundane," he said. Janey reached across the couch and slapped him. He grabbed her wrist. "Very good," he said. "You're getting the idea.”

"I'm not mundane," Janey hissed.

"Oh, but you are," he said. He pushed her back against the couch. She didn't struggle too much. "Degradation," he said into her face. She could smell his breath. "That's all that's left for people like us. Degradation. If s the only way we can feel.”

"You're nuts," Janey said.

"Come upstairs. Quickly!" he said. He grabbed her hand. He hopped up the stairs two at a time. He pulled her into the bedroom. "I've been looking forward to this all week." He pulled off his shirt and pants. Underneath, he was wearing tatty stained briefs that were frayed in the leg holes. He turned around and pulled down his underpants. His bottom was splattered with pimples. "Hit me, Mum!" he shouted.

"I'm not your mum," Janey said. "Hit me, Mum! Please!”

Janey didn't know what to do, so she started screaming. She backed toward the window. It was open. She backed out of it, onto the balcony. Then she ran to the edge and jumped over, onto the roof. She scrambled across that and jumped to the ground. "Owwww," she screamed.

For a few minutes, she just lay there. Then she heard footsteps coming down the stairs and the front door banged open. Zack, still naked, and smoking a cigarette, walked toward her. "Get up, you silly cow. You're not hurt.”

"Fuck off," Janey said.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd leave the premises as quickly and expediently as possible," Zack said. Then he went back in the house and snorted more cocaine. Janey limped into the house. She passed Zack. He didn't look up. She went into the kitchen to make a phone call. "Please, please be home," she said, then, "Thank God." She started sobbing. "If s me. Something terrible has happened. I was with this English guy and he went crazy. I'm scared. Yes. Yes," she said, sniveling, and gave the address. Then she went out onto the porch to wait.

Twenty minutes later, a Range Rover came roaring up Further Lane. The driver bypassed the driveway, and drove across the lawn, scattering bits of the croquet set. The Rover stopped in front of the house and Harold got out. He kept the car door open. "Your ride is here," he said.

Zack ran out of the house with a towel around his waist. "You really fucked it up," he said to Janey. "You had a chance. We could have spent the whole summer together. You blew it.”

"Get away from her," Harold said.

Zack ignored him, following Janey as she limped to the car. "Go back to your little Jew boys. Where you feel safe.”

Harold took a step forward. "Hey. Listen here, asshole. Take it easy. This is America. You can't talk like that.”

"Oh yeah?" Zack laughed. He took a drag on his cigarette. "I'll say whatever I damn please.”

“When my lawyers get finished with you, you won't be out of court for years," Harold said calmly. He got into the car and slammed the door.

"Yeah, yeah, 'course you will," Zack shouted.

"You Yanks. Take all the fun out of everything with your damn lawyers." He hiked the towel up around his waist and walked back into the house.

Harold backed his car across the lawn. "Jesus Christ, Janey," he said.

"Harold," Janey said. She put her hands over her eyes. "I can't really take any lectures right now, okay?”

"I'm not going to lecture you, baby. I just want to make sure you're all right. He didn't ...”

"No," she said. "Who is that creep?”

"Zack Manners," Janey said. "The English record producer.”

"Goddamn Brits," Harold said. "Why don't they go back to England where they belong? Don't worry," he said, patting Janey's hand, "I'll see to it that he's persona non grata on the East End. He won't be able to get a reservation anywhere.”

“You're wonderful, Harold. You really are," Janey said.

"I know," Harold said.

"I just wanted to have a good summer," Janey said an hour later, lying in a bed in a private room in Southampton Hospital. "Like when I was sixteen.”

"Shhhh," said the nurse. "Everyone wants to be sixteen again. Count backwards from a hundred and go to sleep.”

Sixteen. That was the summer when Janey had gone from ugly to beautiful. Until then, she'd been the pudgy, funny-faced kid in a family of beauties.

Her father was six foot two, all-American, the town's local doctor. He wanted Janey to be a nurse, so she'd find a decent husband. Her mother was French and perfect. Janey was the middle child, sandwiched between a boy and a girl who could do no wrong.

While the rest of the family ate veal with a mushroom cream sauce, Janey's mother served her half a head of iceberg lettuce. "If you don't lose weight, you won't find a man. Then you'll have to work. There is nothing more unattractive than a woman who works," she'd say.

"I want to be a vet," Janey said.

Every summer, spent at the country club, was agony. Janey's mother, thin, tanned, in a Pucci bathing suit, was constantly drinking iced tea and flirting with the lifeguards, and later, with her son's friends, who adored her. Janey's brother and sister, both on the swim team, were state champs. Janey, who had a fat belly and fat thighs, was never able to distinguish herself. At fourteen, when she got her period, her mother said, "Janey, you must be very careful with boys. Boys like to take advantage of girls who are not pretty because the boys know the girl is, how you say, desperate. For attention.”

Then Janey turned sixteen. She grew four inches. When she walked into the country club that summer, no one recognized her. She took to wearing her mother's Pucci bathing suits. She stole her lipstick. She smoked cigarettes behind the clubhouse. Boys flocked around. Her mother caught her kissing a boy under a picnic table. She slapped Janey across the face. That was when Janey knew she'd won. "I'll show you," Janey said. "I'll do better than you.”

“You cannot do better than me," said her mother. "Oh yes I can," Janey said.

The Saturday after Janey jumped from Zack's roof, she showed up at Media Beach in Sagaponack with Redmon Richardly. Her foot was in a cast, and Redmon helped her, limping, across the sand. He settled her on a beach towel, then he went to take a swim. Allison came running over. "Is it true?" she asked breathlessly.

"Which part?" Janey asked. She leaned back on her elbows, in order to better display her magnificent body. "You mean about Redmon and me being together?”

"No. About last night.”

"Don't say anything to Redmon. Especially don't mention Zack's name," Janey said.

The night before, Janey and Redmon had stopped at the club Twenty-Seven on their way out to the Hamptons. Zack was there. He walked by Redmon and said, "Another sucker born every minute. Isn't that what you Yanks say?" and Redmon had taken a swing at him. Since then, Redmon had told everyone that Zack had been in love with Janey, but she'd left Zack for him, and that's why Zack was flipping out.

It was a small misperception that Janey had no intention of ever correcting.

IV

The next year, Janey determined to get her own house for the summer. This would probably entail a certain amount of hardship, since the kind of houses she was used to staying in probably cost their occupants upward of a hundred thousand dollars for the season. Nevertheless, she had a strong feeling that it would be a much better "look" for her to be independent, even if it meant doing without a pool, a gardener, a cook, a car, and maybe even a dishwasher. But even this would be preferable to what she'd had to endure the summer before with Redmon and Zack. Something Zack had said kept repeating itself in her head like an annoying pop tune: "You're available. For the summer. Providing the man is rich enough." It was one thing to date rich men, but another to have people thinking you were a whore.

Someday (maybe soon), Janey would likely have to make one of these rich men her husband. She would have to be madly in love with him, but even so, it wouldn't do if this rich man heard that his future wife had a reputation for being a prostitute. Janey had learned that while most rich men thought women were whores deep down anyway, they didn't actually want you to be one.

And so, around about February, when it was time to start thinking about summer houses, Janey began putting the word out "I'm looking for my own house this summer," she said, flipping her long hair over her shoulder and standing with her hip pushed out, to the various rich men she ran into at restaurants and parties. "I've decided if s time to grow up." The rich men laughed and made suggestive comments like "Don't grow up too much," but not one of them took the bait. Janey was hoping that someone would say they had a carriage house where Janey could stay for free, but the only one who offered anything was Allison.

"You could share my house," Allison said eagerly. They had just arrived at a dinner for a European fashion designer who was trying to stage a comeback in New York.

"That’s not the point," Janey said, moving forward to allow the photographers to take her picture while Allison moved to the side; luckily, Allison had been on the scene long enough to understand that her presence in a photograph would likely render it unpublishable.

"I just don't know what kind of summer I want to have," Janey explained. "I might want to spend the whole summer reading books.”

Allison made a completely unnecessary gesture of choking on her cocktail. "Books? You? Janey Wilcox?”

“I do read books, Allison. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

Allison changed her tack. "Oh, I get it," she said, sounding hurt. "Why didn't you tell me you wanted to share with Aleeka Norton.”

"I'm not sharing a house with Aleeka," Janey said. Aleeka Norton was a beautiful black model whom Janey considered a "friend" even though she only saw her a couple of times a year at the fashion shows. Aleeka, who was Janey's age, was writing a novel, and when people asked her what she did, she always said, "I'm a writer, " like they were really stupid to think that she might be anything less, like a model. This approach seemed to get Aleeka a lot more respect from men. Joel Webb, the art collector, had actually lent Aleeka his little three-bedroom house for the summer so she would have a quiet place to work. And he didn't even want to have sex with her. True, the house was basically a shack, but the one thing Janey had learned after the Redmon summer was if you had to be in a shack, you were better off being in your own shack.

"Allison," Janey hissed, moving through the crowd. "Haven't you noticed? Something happens when you get into your thirties. People catch on to your shit. Especially men. It's important to look like you're doing something, even if you're not.”

"But Redmon wasn't like that," Allison said.

Janey looked at her. Poor Allison. She had a huge crush on Redmon, having read all his books and fantasized that deep down, Redmon was like the men he put into his novels: sensitive, misunderstood, and looking for the love of one good woman.

"Redmon lives in a dream world," Janey said. "He was nice to you. Really nice," Allison said. Janey smiled. She sipped her martini. "He was a loser," she said.

The Redmon summer, which was supposed to be the Zack summer, spent in Zack's amazing house, Janey thought bitterly, was one of the worst summers in years.

"Well, at least Redmon was better than Zack. You have to admit that," Allison said.

Janey took another sip of her martini. She kept her face impassive. Zack! Every time she heard his name, she wanted to scream. But it wouldn't do for Allison to know that.

"Zack Manners," Janey said. She smiled and waved at someone across the room. "I haven't thought about him for months.”

The very first thing Zack had done last summer, after Janey dumped him and went with Redmon, was to immediately begin dating some Russian model whose name no one could remember, but whom Zack insisted on practically fucking every time they were in public. Janey had consoled herself with the fact that everybody knew that the Russian "model" was really a prostitute. But then she screwed things up when she bumped into Zack coming out of the bathroom at a club. She was a little drunk, and she sneered, "I see you're with your whore.”

Zack laughed. "Yeah," he said, "but she's honest about it. She admits to what she is. Why don't you?" Janey had taken a step forward and raised her hand as if to slap him, but she stumbled a little and had to steady herself against the wall. Zack had laughed again and lit a cigarette. "Why don't you get a life, baby?" he said.

The summer went steadily downhill from there.

It was all Zack's fault. She and Redmon went to a beach party on Flying Point Road, and as they walked across the sand, they spotted Zack Manners sitting on the wooden steps leading up to the house. It was the fifth time they'd gone to a party and run into Zack. "That’s it," Redmon said on the drive back home. "I'm not going to any more parties. They're all filled with assholes like Zack Manners. The Hamptons," he said dramatically, "are over." After that, he swore he wouldn't leave the house, except to go to the supermarket, the beach, and his friends' houses for dinner.

This might have been bearable, if it weren't for Redmon's own house.

Even calling it a house was pushing it. Despite being a mere thousand yards from the beach, there was no getting around the fact that the "house" was nothing more than a dirty shack. But the weirdest thing about it was how Redmon didn't have a clue. "I think this house is as nice as any house I've ever been to in the Hamptons," he said one afternoon, when Allison had stopped by for a "chat.”

“If s certainly as nice as the Westacotts', don't you think?" he said.

"Ifs soooo charming," Allison gushed. "Ifs so hard to find these antique houses that haven't been completely ruined.”

Janey was mystified. The shack couldn't have been more than four hundred square feet (about the size of the master bedrooms in the houses she normally stayed in) and the roof looked like it was caving in. There was a broken window in the bedroom, which Redmon had taped over with a piece of newspaper from The New York Times—from August 1995. The galley kitchen contained stained appliances (the first time Janey opened the refrigerator, she had screamed), and the furnishings were sparse and uncomfortable—like the couch, which was one of those flat wooden-legged affairs that appeared to have been purchased at a tag sale. The bathroom was so tiny, there was no room for towels: When they came back from the beach, they had to throw their towels on the bushes outside the house to dry.

"Actually, Redmon," Janey said. "I would have thought you could do better than this.”

"Better?" Redmon said. "I love this house. I've been renting it for fifteen years. This house is like my home. What’s wrong with this house?" he demanded. "Are you insane?" Janey asked.

"Redmon is so cool," Allison said when Redmon went back into the house. They were sitting in the tiny backyard at the picnic table; Redmon's only other concession to lawn furniture was two moldy, ripped folding chairs.

"Please," Janey said. She put her hand over her eyes. "All he talks about is how the Hamptons are filled with assholes and he wants to have a real life and be with real people. He doesn't understand that those assholes are real people. I keep telling him if he doesn't like it he should move to Des Moines." That was the problem with Redmon. His perceptions about life were totally off. One evening, when he was cooking pasta (his specialties were pasta primavera and blackened redfish—he had learned to cook in the eighties and had never progressed), he said to her, "You know, Janey, I'm a millionaire." Janey was flipping through a fashion magazine. "That’s nice," she said.

"Hell," he said, pouring the pasta into a strainer that was missing one of its legs, causing the pasta to spill all over the sink, "I think if s pretty amazing. How many writers do you know who are millionaires?”

“Well," she said, "I actually know a lot of people who are billionaires.”

"Yeah, but they're all ... business people, " he said, implying that business people were lower than cockroaches.

"So?" Janey said.

"So who gives a shit how much money you have if you don't have a soul?”

The next day, on the beach, Redmon brought up his financial situation again.

"I figure that in another year or so, I'll have two million dollars," he said. "I'll be able to retire. With two million, I could buy a seven-hundred-and-fifty thousand dollar apartment in New York.”

Janey was rubbing herself with suntan lotion, and then, she couldn't help it, she snorted. "You can't buy an apartment in New York City for a million dollars," she said.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he said, opening a beer.

"Okay, you could buy an apartment, but it would be, like, a really small two-bedroom. Maybe with no doorman.”

"So?" Redmon said, taking a chug. "What the hell's wrong with that?”

"Nothing," Janey said, "if you don't mind being poor.”

For the rest of the afternoon, he would only give yes or no answers every time she tried to make conversation. Then, when they were back in the shack, making nachos, he slammed the oven door. "I'd hardly call two million dollars being poor," he said. I would, Janey thought, but she said nothing.

"I mean, Jesus Christ, Janey," he said. "What the hell is your problem? Isn't two million dollars good enough for you?”

"Oh, Redmon. If s not that," she said.

"Well, what the hell is it?" he asked, handing her a plate of nachos. "I mean, I don't see you bringing in a lot of dough. What is it you want? You hardly work and you don't take care of a husband and children.... Even Helen Westacott takes care of her kids, no matter what you might think about her....”

Janey spread a tiny paper napkin on her lap. He was right. What was it she wanted? Why wasn't he good enough? She took a bite of nacho and burned her mouth on the cheese. Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, geez, Janey," Redmon said. "I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry I yelled. Come here," he said. "Let me give you a hug.”

"I'm okay," she said, wiping the tears away. She didn't want Redmon to know that what she was crying about was the prospect of spending every summer for the rest of her life in this shack.

"Hey," he said. "I've got an idea. Why don't we go by the Westacotts' for a drink? I'm sure they're still up. It's only ten o'clock.”

"Whatever," Janey said.

It was still the beginning of the summer then.

Bill and Helen Westacott were Redmon's very best friends. Redmon insisted on seeing them practically every weekend, which made, as far as Janey was concerned, what ended up happening, really his fault.

She had tried her best to avoid it. Had, in fact, refused to see them again after the first time they had dinner together. But it was no good. The next weekend, Redmon had simply gone to dinner without her, leaving her behind in the shack, where she swatted at mosquitoes all night and wondered if spending the summer in the city would really be that bad. But when she'd gone back to the city on Monday, her apartment wasn't air-conditioned and cockroaches had taken over the kitchen. She decided it was easier to give in.

Bill Westacott was a famous screenwriter who had written five hit movies in the past seven years. Unlike Redmon, he truly was a rich writer, and he and his wife, Helen, and their two sons lived on a fifteen acre "farm" off of Route 27. They'd been living in the Hamptons for about five years, being part of a trend of married couples with children who had chucked city life and moved full-time to the country. They had horses and servants as well as a pool and tennis court, and being able to hang out at their house for part of the weekends would have almost salvaged the summer. There was only one problem: the Westacotts themselves.

Bill Westacott was arrogant and angry and immature, while Helen Westacott was ... well, there was only one word for Helen: crazy.

Janey wished Redmon had warned her about Helen's insanity before they went to their house for dinner the first time, but he hadn't. Instead, in his typical clueless Redmon manner, he banged on and on about what he perceived to be their amazing attributes: Helen was from "one of the best" families in Washington and her father had been a senator; Bill's mother had been an actress who was now married to a famous actor; Bill had gone to Harvard (he himself, he reminded her, had gone to Yale—he and Bill met in a bar after a famous Harvard-Yale football game and had taken swings at each other); Helen had won a literary prize for her first novel, which she wrote when she was twenty-five. Janey was going to love them. They were one of the coolest couples in the world.

About the very first thing that happened when they pulled up to the Westacotts' house in Redmon's rented Dodge Charger was that Bill Westacott was standing in the freshly graveled driveway, smoking a cigar with his arms folded across his chest. Redmon rolled down his window. "Hey Bi ... ,” he started to say, but before he could finish, Bill had charged up to the car and stuck his head in the window. He was a large, good-looking man with a full head of gorgeous, curly blond hair. "Shit, man. I'm glad you're here. Or I think I am. I can't decide if it's a good thing or a bad thing.”

"What's the problem?" Redmon asked.

"The Gorgon is in one of her moods," Bill said.

Janey got out of the car. She was wearing a tightfitting Lycra top, which had cost about five hundred dollars and was slit halfway down to her navel, no bra, and tight-fitting orange capri pants.

"Hello," she said, holding out her hand. "I'm Janey.”

"Oh shit, man," Bill said, swiveling his head around as if he were looking for a place to hide. "This is not good.”

"Helloooo ... ," Janey said.

Bill took a few steps back. "I know who you are, okay?" he said. "You're that dangerous woman.”

“What's wrong with me?" Janey said.

"What’s wrong with her?" Bill said, turning to Redmon. "You bring this chick who stands here asking what’s wrong with her? For starters, what’s wrong with you is you're a woman, okay? Which means that you are genetically insane, inane, and will probably be up my ass in about thirty seconds over some kind of bullshit I have no control over and can't do anything about. Should I go on?”

"Are you on drugs?" Janey asked.

Redmon laughed and put his arm around her.

"That's Bill's way of saying he likes you. He's terrified of beautiful women.”

"Well, Bill/' Janey said, unable to help herself, "you sure have a funny way of showing it.”

"Don't get smart with me," Bill said, pointing his cigar at her. "I know what you're up to. I know all your tricks. I work in Hollywood, remember?”

“Janey's not really an actress," Redmon said, taking her hand and squeezing it.

Janey leaned a little bit against him. "I'm a ... personality, " she said.

They went into the house. "Hey Helen," Bill bellowed. "Come and meet Redmon's ... personality. “

Helen Westacott was small and dark and skinny with tiny, even features—you could see that she'd probably once been beautiful. "Oh," she said despondently, looking at Janey. "Oh." She went over to Redmon and gave him a kiss. She patted his chest. "Oh Redmon," she said. "When are you going to find a nice girl and get married? Nothing against you, " she said to Janey. "I don't even know you, and my husband is always telling me that I shouldn't say things about people that aren't nice who I don't know, but guess what? I do it anyway. And you don't look like a nice girl. You look like a girl who would steal one of my friend's husbands.”

There was silence. Janey looked around the living room, which was really quite beautiful with its large white couches and oriental rugs, and French doors that opened out onto a patio, beyond which you could see a horse pasture. It was really a shame, Janey thought. Why was it always people like this that had these kinds of beautiful summer houses? "C'mon, Helen," Redmon said, as if he were dealing with a small, confused child. "Janey is a nice girl.”

"No she isn't," Helen said stubbornly.

"Hey Hel," Bill said, puffing on his cigar. "What do you care who Redmon fucks?”

At first, Janey figured that she could have almost gotten used to Helen (it wasn't her fault she was insane, Redmon explained, and Bill would have divorced her except that he'd promised her family he wouldn't), but she couldn't deal with Bill.

He seemed to have a deep, unexplained hatred for her. Or for women like her, anyway. Every time Janey saw him, he would invariably launch into some kind of diatribe that was apropos of nothing. "All of your type think they know more than they do," he'd say, "and you berate men, and berate men, and use your tits and your pussy"—there was something about the way he said "pussy" that made Janey wince with excitement—"to get what you want and then you put the man down for having used you.”

“Excuse me," Janey would say, "but have I ever met you before?”

"Probably," he'd say. "But you wouldn't remember, would you?" And Janey would turn away and sip some red wine and look over her glass at Redmon, who would look over at her and wink, thinking this was all great fun and wasn't everyone having a terrific time?

And then the inevitable happened.

It must have been well into July that first night that Bill followed her into the bathroom. She must have known that he was going to follow her, because she'd left the door unlocked and had peed quickly and was leaning over the sink, applying lipstick, when the door handle turned. Bill slipped in and quickly shut the door behind him.

"Hello," Janey said nonchalantly.

"Janey," he said. "You're driving me insane.”

Janey rolled up her lipstick and smiled. "God, Bill. You're always so dramatic. I think you've been writing too many screenplays.”

"Screenplays, fuck it," he said, taking a step toward her. "I know Redmon's in love with you, goddammit, but so am I.”

"I thought you hated me," Janey said.

"I do," he said. "I hate you because I fell in love with you the minute I saw you. And you're with Redmon. What the hell are you doing with him anyway?”

Men are so disloyal, Janey thought.

He raked his fingers through his hair. "Jesus Christ, Janey," he said. "Just tell me what you want. I could get you a part in a movie ...”

"Oh Bill," Janey said. "Don't be ridiculous." He came toward her and put his arm around her neck. He kissed her and put his tongue in her mouth. She kissed him back and put her hand on his penis. It wasn't quite as large as she hoped it would be, but it would do. He tried to put his hand down her pants, but they were too tight.

"Stop it," she said. "What if someone comes?”

“What if they do?" he said, raising his eyebrows. "Get out of here," she said, pushing him out the door.

She reapplied her lipstick and went back to the table. "Everything okay?" Redmon asked.

"Oh yes," she said. "Everything's fine.”

Janey began fucking Bill whenever she could. They did it in one of the stalls in his barn. In the bathrooms at restaurants. Even in Redmon's bed during the day, when Redmon was grocery shopping at the King Kullen. When Redmon returned, swinging white plastic bags, she and Bill would be sitting in the living room, pretending he had just stopped by. It was terrible and she knew it, but dammit, she reasoned.

It wasn't fair. Why did he have to be married? He was the kind of guy she could marry. Why was it that guys like Bill always ended up being caught by insane women like Helen? The world made no sense. And that house. She could be happy in a house like that for a long time.

"Redmon," she would say innocently, when they were buying lettuce and strawberries at the produce stand up the street, "are you sure Bill will never divorce Helen?”

"I'm sure he wants to," Redmon would say. "But he can't.”

"Why not?”

"Because she's insane. And you can't divorce an insane woman." Redmon picked up a peach and squeezed it. "Christ, Janey. Haven't you ever heard of Zelda Fitzgerald? F. Scott Fitzgerald?" he asked. "Bill and Helen are the same. They have to stay together.”

Redmon found out about it, of course. He probably wouldn't have, but Bill told him.

It was the middle of August. The weekend. Redmon kept looking at her, watching her. It was the first weekend they didn't go to the Westacotts'. "What’s wrong?" Janey asked.

"Why don't you tell me?" he said.

"Don't you want to go to the Westacotts'?”

“Do you?”

"I don't care," Janey said. "Why should I care?" And later: "Maybe the Westacotts want to come over here?" she said.

"Do you want them to?”

"It might be fun," she said, "considering you're in such a bad mood.”

"I'm not in a bad mood," he said.

"Could have fooled me," she said. "Besides, I don't think Helen would like to.”

“She's come over here before," Janey said.

"That’s not what I mean," he said.

"Are you going to cook pasta for dinner?" she asked.

On Sunday morning, they got into an argument about the messy kitchen.

"Fuck it!" he screamed.

Janey came running out of the bedroom. "What’s wrong?" she said.

"Look at this mess!" he shouted. He was holding a roll of paper towels in his hand.

"So?" Janey said.

"So don't you ever clean up?”

"Redmon," Janey said coolly. "You know what I am. I don't clean.”

"That's right/' he screamed. "How could I have been so stupid? You're a modern woman. You don't cook, you don't clean, you don't take care of a husband and children, and you don't work. You just expect some rich guy to take care of you because you're ... a ... a ... woman. And the whole world owes you, " he finished, throwing a damp sponge at her.

"Golly, Redmon," Janey said calmly. "You sound just like Bill Westacott.”

"Oh yeah?" he said. "Well maybe there's a reason for that. Since you've been fucking him. “

"I have not," Janey said, injured. "That's what he said. He told me.”

"He only told you because he's jealous. He wanted to fuck me and I wouldn't.”

"Oh Christ," Redmon said. "Do I need this?" He put his head down in his arms. "I always knew I should never have gotten involved with a girl who can't even read a newspaper.”

"I can read a newspaper," she said. "But I choose not to. They're boring, okay? Like you and all of your friends.”

Redmon said nothing. Janey drummed her fingernails on the counter. "What else did Bill say?”

"He said you were a whore." He picked up his head and looked at Janey. "He said you have no money ... you're just looking for a rich guy ... you'd never stick around.”

Janey said nothing for a moment. And then she screamed, "Fuck you! How dare you! You have some nerve, laying this crap on me. You're not in love with me and I'm not in love with you. So stop being such a baby.”

"But that’s the problem," he said. "I was in love with you.”

He drove her to the Jitney stop in Bridgehampton. They didn't speak during the ride. Janey got out of the car with her bag. Redmon drove off. She looked down the street to see if the Jitney was coming. It wasn't. She sat on a bench in the bright sunshine. A man walked by with a dog and she asked him when the Jitney was coming and he said not for another hour. She went across the street to the Candy Kitchen and bought an ice cream cone. She went back to the bench. She wanted to call Bill Westacott, but she didn't think it would be a good idea.

She probably shouldn't have done what she did, but was it really her fault? This was something that men just couldn't seem to understand. It was okay for them to fuck around and to do it in the name of biology ("I have to spread my seed around"), but when a woman behaved the same way, they were horrified. Didn't they know that the door swung both ways? There was Redmon, who had some money and was sort of okay when it came to status, with his tiny little shack, and there was Bill, who was rich and successful, with his big house. What did Redmon think was going to happen? That she was going to waste herself on him? Why should she, when she knew she could do better? It was biology.

Halfway back to the city, her cell phone rang. Redmon. "Listen," he said. "I just want you to know.

Helen was here. She was hysterical. Bill told her too. The thing you probably didn't get about Bill is that he's a big, big baby. He can't live without Helen, even if she is insane. She supported him when he started writing screenplays.”

"So?" Janey said.

"So you have basically messed up three people's lives. For no reason. Not to mention their kids. Bill had to come and get Helen and take her to the hospital.”

"I'm sure Bill's had lots of affairs," Janey said. "If s not my fault if he can't keep his pecker in his pants.”

“But I'm their friend," Redmon said. "I was the one who brought you around, and I thought you were my friend too. What did you think was going to happen, Janey? Did you think Bill was going to leave his wife for you?”

"Exactly what are you trying to say, Redmon? That I'm not good enough?”

"That’s exactly what I'm saying.”

"Then I don't think we need to continue this conversation/' Janey said.

"Just think about this," he said. "Where do you think you're going to end up, Janey? What do you think's going to happen to you if you keep messing up people's lives like this?”

"What about my life, Redmon? Why don't you assholes ever think about how I feel?" she said. She hung up the phone.

There were two weeks left of summer, but Janey didn't go to the Hamptons again. She sat in her sweltering apartment for the rest of August, taking a couple of hours of refuge a day in the coolness of her air-conditioned gym. As she banged away on the treadmill, she thought over and over again, "I'll show you. I'll show you all.”

Next year, she would get her own house for the summer.

V

"Janey!" Joel Webb said.

"Hi!" Janey said. She waved and moved toward him, pushing through the crowd. Her martini sloshed out of its glass. She licked the rim.

"I haven't seen you for ages," Joel said.

They were at yet another party for an Internet site, held in another smoky, overheated club. It was February, and everyone was sweating. Janey bent over to allow Joel to kiss her on the cheek. "Whew," he said. "Who are all these people?”

“I have no idea," Janey said, and laughed. "It seems like none of the old crowd goes out anymore.”

“But you ought to be able to find a rich guy here," Joel said. "Aren't all these Internet guys billionaires?”

“They're boring," Janey shouted above the crowd noise. "Besides, I'm getting my own house this summer.”

"Well, this is one of my last nights out," he said.

"I'm having a baby. Or rather, my girlfriend's having a baby.”

"That’s terrific.”

"No, it isn't. I was trying to break up with her.

I've been trying to break up with her for years. And then she got pregnant. I still won't marry her though. I told her, 'I'll live with you, I'll pay the bills, but if s your responsibility.' “

"That's so kind," Janey said sarcastically.

He didn't catch the sarcasm. "Yeah, I think it is. Hey," he said. "Why didn't you tell me you had a gorgeous little sister?”

"What are you talking about?”

"Your sister. Patty. You could have fixed me up with her and saved me all this trouble.”

"I think she already has a boyfriend," Janey said.

She moved away. Patty! Everywhere she went, it was Patty and her boyfriend, Digger. Janey hadn't even thought about Patty for years. But Patty had suddenly materialized. She'd actually been living in New York for five years, but Janey never paid any attention to her and saw her only on holidays at home, and even then it was like they lived in separate cities. But this year was different.

Janey had never thought that Patty, who was the darling of the family but who had ended up not being a beauty (she was prone to being twenty pounds overweight), would amount to anything, but mysteriously she had. Patty, five years younger than Janey, had moved to New York right after college and started working for VH1 as some kind of assistant. Which, Janey figured, was where she would stay.

But suddenly Patty blossomed. She was now some hot-shit TV producer (New York magazine had put her in a story about up-and-coming young talents), she lost weight, and she had a serious boyfriend—a pallid, sickly looking guy named Digger who everyone was convinced was the next Mick Jagger.

And now Patty and Digger were everywhere—or at least at all of the places Janey seemed to go. She'd walk into a club, and some PR girl would say, "Oh, Janey, your sister is here!" and then lead her up a narrow staircase and lift a velvet rope, and there would be her sister with Digger, lounging in a banquette, smoking cigarettes, and as likely as not wearing sunglasses and the latest East Village fashion; like pants made out of silver foil. "Your sister is waaaaay cool," the PR girl would whisper.

"Hey," Patty would say, stubbing out her cigarette. "Hello," Janey said. The hello always came out with a slightly hostile edge. It wasn't that she didn't like Patty, it was simply that she and Patty never had anything to say to each other. They'd sort of sit there, looking away from each other, and then Janey would blurt out, "Urn, how's Mom?”

"Mom's a pain in my fucking ass," Patty would say eagerly, relieved to have something to talk about. "She still calls me once a week and asks me when I'm getting married.”

"She's given up on me," Janey would say. The truth was her mother rarely called. She didn't care about her enough to even bug her about marriage. And now here was her little sister, Patty, the toast of the town. For the first time in her life, Janey felt old. After all, Patty really was twenty-seven. Her skin was better, but it wasn't just her outside that was younger: Patty had a freshness about her. Her world was new, and she was enthusiastic about everything. "Guess what?" she said to Janey one night, nearly knocking over her drink in excitement. "I'm going to be in a fashion spread in Vogue! And someone's asked me—me—to star in this movie they're making about downtown New York. Isn't that great?”

Janey didn't have the heart to tell her it was unlikely that any of it would happen, but she found herself involuntarily pursing her lips in disapproval like an old lady. But if it really was all pie in the sky, then why did Janey feel like she and Patty were on two different planets? And everyone was on Patty's planet, and not hers?

For months, Janey tried to avoid mentioning Patty's name, as though if she didn't talk about her maybe she would go away. But she didn't. Janey spilled it all out to Harold.

"I can't figure out how it ... happened," Janey said, in a tone of voice that was much lighter than what she really felt. "I don't want to be mean, Harold," she said, intending to be just that, "but no one paid any attention to Patty after she was sixteen. It was like she was just another adolescent lump.”

“Maybe she didn't want to compete with you," Harold said. They were at the gala dinner for the opening of the ballet. The theme was Midwinter Night's Dream and the floor was awash in sparkle and fake snow.

"She couldn't compete with me/' Janey said. She reached out and lightly touched the centerpiece, a miniature pine tree spray-painted white and studded with pink roses. "And besides," she said. "Why would she want to?”

"I think you're suffering from a case of good old garden-variety jealousy," Harold said. "You feel like she's doing something with her life and you're not. If you would just do something ... “

"But I have, Harold," Janey said. "I've done a lot ...”

"Real estate," Harold said. "Become a realtor. That’s the ticket.”

Janey rolled her eyes. In the last six months, she and Harold had become great friends, which was wonderful because he took her to black-tie dinners, gave her money to pay her rent, and didn't ask for anything in return. Unfortunately, after Janey told him about Zack and Redmon and Bill, he became determined to help Janey find a new career. This might have been tolerable, but his ideas about what Janey should do for a living were so painfully mundane that she could hardly bear to discuss it.

Two weeks ago, he'd been convinced she should become a paralegal ("You've got a good mind, Janey, you should use it."), and the week before that, a tutor for underprivileged kids ("If 11 take your mind off your own problems.”

“Yes, but then J couldn't afford to eat."). This week, it was real estate.

"Can we please discuss Patty?" Janey asked. "I feel like she's secretly trying to be me.”

"Patty isn't your problem," Harold said. "You need to find something rewarding to do. Patty will take care of herself.”

"I'm sure she will," Janey said softly. "But I couldn't be a real estate agent either." She sipped her champagne and looked around the room. They were seated at one of the best tables. A real estate agent! She knew girls who had done that. It was pathetic. It was one thing to be Janey Wilcox, the model, and quite another to be Janey Wilcox, the real estate agent.

"Why not? Ifs the perfect profession for you," Harold said, picking up his fork. "Who wouldn't buy a house from you? You could do it in the Hamptons. You know every house out there worth knowing anyway.”

"I've certainly stayed in them ...”

"All you'd have to do is apply yourself a bit and well, I'd pay for the course. My treat.”

The room swirled around them. Someone stopped and said hello; there were pictures taken.

"Oh Harold, how could I be a real estate agent?" she said impatiently, throwing down her napkin. She was wearing her hair in ringlets that she'd swept back from her face; her breasts spilled out of a beaded ivory bustier. Her skin was dazzlingly white, and she knew the whole effect was what she had come to think of as an "Elizabethan fairy princess." She was certainly one of the most beautiful women in the room, if not the most beautiful.

"Janey," Harold said patiently. "Look at the facts.

You live in a lousy one-bedroom apartment on the East Side. You don't even have a doorman. You're broke. You're not interested in dating anyone who's remotely sensible for you ...”

"By sensible, you mean boring," Janey said. "I mean a regular guy who stays home and watches football on Sunday. A guy who really loves you.”

"But I could never love a guy like that," Janey said. "Don't you understand?”

"Have you ever loved anyone, Janey?" he asked. "As a matter of fact, I have.”

"Who?" Harold demanded.

"Just some guy," Janey said. "When I was younger. Twenty-three.”

"You see," Harold said. "Just some guy. You said it yourself.”

Janey pushed her salad around her plate and said nothing. It was ridiculous to call Charlie "just some guy" because he was anything but, but there was no point in explaining to Harold. She'd met Charlie at a fashion shoot when she was twenty-three and he was twenty-one (he was modeling as a joke, to piss off his father), and they had instantly fallen in love. Charlie was the scion of a wealthy oil family from Denver; it was rumored that he'd inherited sixty million dollars when he turned eighteen. But it wasn't his money that made him attractive. There was the time he bought Rollerblades and skated down Fifth Avenue in a tux. The Valentine's Day that he drove her around in the back of a flower van filled with roses. And the birthday when he gave her a pug named Popeye that they dressed up like a baby and snuck into their friends' apartment buildings. He called her Willie (short for Wilcox, he said) and was the only man who ever thought she was funny. They lived together for a year and a half, and then he bought a five-thousand-acre ranch in Montana. He wanted to get married and live there and raise cattle. He wanted to be a cowboy. Janey thought it was another joke. She told him he was the only twenty three year-old in the world who was dying to get married and have kids. But he was serious.

"I can't move to Montana and live on a ranch," she screamed. Her career was starting to take off. She'd just gotten the part in that movie.

She was convinced if she moved to Montana, her life would be over. Everything she had would be wasted.

At first, he used to call her on the set. "I got up at four a.m. I had my lunch at nine!" he would shout excitedly. "We rounded up four hundred head of cattle." But by the time she'd finished shooting the movie and it was a hit and she thought she was going to have a career as an actress and then realized she wasn't, he had married his old girlfriend from high school.

"Janey! Smile!" a photographer said. Janey complied, leaning her head on Harold's shoulder. Harold patted her hand. "Why don't you get married?" she said.

Harold shook his head. "You know I don't want to get married until I'm at least sixty.”

"You'll be nearly dead by then.”

"My father didn't marry my mother until he was sixty. And she was twenty-five. They were very happy together.”

Janey nodded. She'd heard this story before, and what Harold didn't point out was that his father had died at seventy, and Harold had grown up a frightened little boy raised by his mother and two aunts in a crabbed Fifth Avenue apartment: the result being that Harold was an anal retentive who spent an hour a day on the crapper and still saw his old mother every Sunday. It was so stupid. If only men like Harold would do their part and behave sensibly—i.e., get married and have children—then women like Janey wouldn't have to worry about how they were supposed to support themselves and—ugh—make a living. Didn't Harold realize that there really wasn't any profession in which she could make as much money as he did, short of becoming a famous movie star, no matter how hard she tried?

"We could be married and have children by now," Janey said. "Do you ever think about that?”

“Children!" Harold said. "I'm still a child myself. But think about what I've said, won't you?”

Janey nodded.

"I won't be able to lend you money forever," he said quietly.

"No. Of course not," Janey said. She picked up her fork and concentrated on her lobster quadrilles. Rich people were always like that, weren't they? They'd help you out a couple of times and then, no matter how much money they had and how meaningless the amount would have meant to them, they cut you off. They didn't want to be used.

And then there was the Swish Daily incident. Janey was in the designer showroom, getting fitted for his runway show, when suddenly he came in, looked at her, and screamed, "Oh my dear! Those hips!”

The fitter, a nondescript woman of about fifty, looked at Janey and shrugged. Janey tried to laugh, but the fact was that she had gained about ten pounds in the last year and hadn't been able to lose it.

"What are you talking about?" Janey said, turning sideways in the mirror to hide her discomfort, but it was no use. Swish came rushing up, knelt down, and put his hands on either side of her thighs.

"This is going to be a problem," he said.

At that moment, Aleeka Norton arrived in the showroom. She threw down a Louis Vuitton handbag and called across the floor, "Hey, Swish, leave her alone about her hips, huh? She's a woman, for Christ's sake. That’s the problem with you fags. You don't know women.”

"Hello, darling," Swish said. "I hope you're not getting fat on me too.”

"Oh shut up, Swish," Aleeka said. "Why don't you try eating pussy sometime? Then we'll talk about hips.”

Swish giggled and the fitting continued as if nothing had happened, but Janey was scared. She'd been pudgy as a child, and she'd heard stories about girls who got into their early thirties and suddenly put on weight and couldn't take it off, even if they'd never had children. Afterward she found Swish in his office, where he was pretending to study fabric swatches. "I'm not over, am I?" she asked. She was usually never this frank, but on the other hand, she usually didn't have to be.

"Oh my dear," Swish said sadly. "Of course you're not over. But your type of figure ... that nineties, fake-titted thing ...”

"I could take out the implants," Janey said.

"But can you take out everything else?" Swish said. He put down the fabric samples and regarded her frankly. "You know what if s like, Janey. You've seen these new girls. They've got hips the size of swizzle sticks. I think Ghisele is a size two. And she's five-eleven.”

"I get it," Janey said.

"Oh listen, Janey." Swish came out from behind the desk and took her hands in his. "We've known each other a long time. You were in my first fashion show. Remember?”

Janey nodded. The show had been held in an art gallery in Soho. "It was so hot," she said. "And we were late. We kept the audience waiting an hour and a half. And then they loved it.”

"They went mad," he said. "And the funny thing was, none of us knew what we were doing then." He let go of her hands and lit a cigarette, turning toward the large window that overlooked Prince Street. A bus had pulled up outside and was unloading tourists.

"You know, in some ways I really miss those days," he said. "There was everything to look forward to. It was like a big amusement ride, wasn't it, Janey?" He stubbed out his cigarette. "We didn't know then how nasty people could be.”

"No," Janey said. "We didn't.”

"I always wonder if it's the times that change, or just us getting older. Do you know?”

"No.”

He began moving things around on his desk. Janey shifted from one foot to the other. "You're not over, Janey," he said. "Not one of us can ever be over unless we decide to be. But take my advice. I tell all the girls this. Go to London.”

"London?" Janey said.

"London," Swish said, nodding. "You get married.”

“Well. Really—" Janey said.

Swish held up his hand. "But not to just anyone. You marry ... a titled Englishman. You know, a lord, a duke, a marquis ... Rupert and I were just over there in October and it was fantastic.”

Janey nodded patiently.

"Lady ... Janey," Swish said. "You have the stately home, the title, money, hounds ..." The phone rang, but Swish didn't answer it. "Oh darling, hounds are just fantastic, aren't they? You've got to do it. I could do the most fantastic trousseau for you. I could design my whole fall line around it. Lady Janey's Trousseau. What do you think?”

"Fantastic," Janey said. "But I don't know anyone in England.”

"Darling, you don't need to know anyone," Swish said. He laughed, caught up in his own fantasy. "A beautiful girl like you? English girls look like crap. There's no competition. You show up in London, and within minutes, you'll be everywhere.”

Janey smiled coldly but said nothing. Why was it, she thought, everyone assumed that if you were beautiful, things just fell in your lap? Ever since she was sixteen, she'd been promised this big fucking prize for being beautiful and (later) having tits, but where was it? Where was this fantastic life her beauty was supposed to bring her?

And now she had to move to another country? "I don't think so," she said.

"You could go this summer. I hear the summer season is very hot in London. Ascot and all that. I'll make you a hat.”

"I always go to the Hamptons for the summer," Janey said.

"The Hamptons?" Swish said. "You're not still caught up in that, are you? Darling," he said, "the Hamptons are over.”

"I'm looking for my own house this year," Janey said. She kissed him on the cheek and went out the door and got into the freight elevator. It was already early April. She was fat. And she still didn't have a house for the summer.

When she came out onto the street, she banged her hand against the building in frustration.

Her nail broke painfully below the quick. She stuck her finger in her mouth. A couple of tourists wandered by. "Are you a model?" one of them asked.

They were foreign, maybe from Denmark. "Yes," Janey said.

"Do you mind if we take your picture?”

"I don't give a shit what you do," Janey said. Two days later, she met Comstock Dibble.

His first words to her were: "They used to make fun of me in school. What did they do to you?”

“They stole my bicycle," Janey said.

He was smoking a cigar. He took a puff and held out his hand, clenching the cigar between his teeth. "Comstock Dibble," he said.

"The man who's going to save the movies," Janey said.

"Oh. So you read that shit, huh?" he said. "Who didn't?" Janey said. "It was only on the cover of the Sunday Times Magazine. “

They were standing in the middle of the VIP room in the nightclub Float, at the premiere for Comstock Dibble's new movie, Watches. It was crowded and smoky and loud. He shifted the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.

"I like you," he said. "I want to get to know you better. Do you want to get to know me?”

Janey leaned toward him and put her hand on his shoulder. "Yes," she whispered.

The next day, a brand-new bicycle arrived at her apartment.

Janey ripped open the attached card with glee. It read: Dear Janey: If anyone tries to steal this bicycle, they'll have to deal with me.

Regards, Comstock Dibble

VI

Memorial Day weekend again. The grass and trees were beginning to turn a deep green, reminding Janey of every summer she'd had in the Hamptons and, she thought happily, was going to have again. The cottage she'd rented was only a converted carriage house in the back of a Victorian house in the town of Bridgehampton, but it was hers. It had a tiny kitchen, a living room with built-in cupboards that contained mismatched glassware, and two attic bedrooms that were furnished with old photographs and down comforters and feather pillows. It was charming. A steal, the real estate agent said, adding that the only reason it had been available was that the couple who usually rented it had decided to get divorced the week before, and couldn't agree on which one should get the house. "My luck," Janey said, as her cell phone rang. "Is it great?" the male voice asked.

"It is great." Janey giggled. She walked toward a little garden framed by hedges that contained white wicker tables and chairs, where she imagined she would hostess small but important dinners that summer.... She'd invite Comstock, and Harold Vane ... hell, she might even invite Redmon. After all, Redmon was a best-selling author no matter what you thought about the rest of him.

"I told you it would happen, didn't I?”

“Yes," Janey said happily.

"I told you it would happen, and what happened?”

“It happened," Janey said.

"Who can make your dreams come true?”

“Oh, Comstock," Janey said.

"I'll see you later," he said. "You'll be home? Or will you be out trying to pick up my replacement?”

“Never," Janey said "I'm losing you," he said, and rang off.

Janey smiled and snapped the cell phone shut. It was tiny and violet and brand-new, the smallest model available. Comstock had given it to her two weeks before (he was paying the phone bill, which went directly to his office), along with a Macintosh laptop and a twenty-thousand-dollar check with which to rent the cottage.

The cottage had actually only cost fifteen grand, but Janey thought she'd keep that information to herself. After all, she'd need the five grand for expenses and car rentals. And besides, Comstock wouldn't care. He was the most generous man she'd ever been with—not just monetarily but spiritually and emotionally as well.

"I'm in love," she said to Allison, who was sworn to secrecy as to the identity of her swain. If the press got wind of the affair, they'd be all over them in two seconds. They probably wouldn't be able to walk down the street.

"He's not a movie star," Allison commented. "Don't you think you're exaggerating? Just a little?" And later: "Oh Janey. How can you be in love with Comstock Dibble? How can you have sex with him?”

"This is big," Janey said warningly. "I might even marry him.”

"But think about your kids," Allison said helplessly. "What if they looked like him?”

"Don't be so old-fashioned," Janey said.

She did have to admit, however, that at first her feelings for Comstock were as much a surprise to her as they were to Allison. Never in a million years did she think that she would fall in love with a man like Comstock Dibble (or, correction, a man who looked like Comstock Dibble). But when you thought about it, it made sense. That first night they'd gone out together, he had taken her back to her apartment in his chauffeured Mercedes and then casually invited himself upstairs for a "nightcap." Janey liked the sound of the old-fashioned word, and she liked the way he shyly took her hand in the elevator. He was wearing a tweedy gray overcoat, which he took off and held folded over his arm when they walked into her apartment. "Should I put this down, or are you going to ask me to leave right away?" he asked.

"Why would I want you to leave?" Janey asked. "You just got here.”

"Janey," he said. He took her hand and pulled her to the large, gilt-framed mirror that hung on the wall in her tiny living room. "Look at you," he said. "And look at me. You're a beauty, Janey, and I'm an ugly, ugly man. My whole life I've had to deal with this ... this creature.”

He was right. He was ugly. But, like everything else about his life, his ugliness had a sort of legendary quality to it that became (in Janey's mind, anyway) a badge of honor. His face and body were riddled with deep pockmarks—the result of the kind of uncontrollable acne in which it seems the skin is trying to destroy the body—and his red hair was sparse and curly. His one good feature was his nose, which was small, but was unfortunately set off by a large gap between his front teeth. He had a receding chin.

But spend ten minutes in his company and you forgot about how he looked. Which was what she kept telling Allison. "I don't think so, Janey," Allison said, shaking her head. "I couldn't sleep with him no matter how much time I spent with him." She paused. "Now that you mention it, I don't think I would want to spend any time with him, either.”

“Allison," Janey said patiently. "He's a great man. He's succeeded against all odds.”

"Oh yes, I know," Allison said. "I read that story in The New York Times, too. Don't forget the part about him being a bully and a fraud, and being sued for sexual harassment and arrested for possession of cocaine.”

"He was framed," Janey said. "The cops framed him because they didn't like that movie he made about the ten-year-old cop killers.”

"That was a horrible movie," Allison said.

Janey didn't care. As far as she was concerned (and as far as a lot of other people were concerned as well), Comstock was a genius. People said he was the most important producer in the business. Movie stars worshiped him. Gossip columnists vied for his attention at parties. Powerful men in Hollywood were afraid of him. He was rich, and he'd earned every penny himself.

Janey had laughed that first evening and pulled him down to the couch. "Oh Comstock," she said. "Don't you realize that, really, we're the same? We're like twins. My whole life I've had to deal with this creature too. This creature who looks a certain way, who makes people think I am a certain way. All my life, people have told me that I'm stupid." She turned her head away so that he could see the beauty of her profile. "I'm beginning to think that they're right. That I am ... stupid. I mean, if I weren't stupid, I guess my life would have turned out better.”

"You're not stupid, Janey," he said gently. "I don't know," she said.

"You just haven't been given a chance," he said. His hand snaked out and intertwined with hers again. "I'm going to help you, Janey. I help people all the time. If you could do anything, and we're talking wish list here, what would it be?”

"I don't know," Janey said slowly. "I guess I've always wanted to ... write. Aleeka's writing a novel....”

"Why do you want to write?" he asked carefully.

"I don't know," she said. "I feel like ... I've got so much inside me—so many things that nobody knows about—I observe people all the time, you know. They don't know that I'm observing them, but I am.”

“Forget novels," he said. "You should write a screenplay.”

After that, it was easy to fall into bed with him.

All during that first month of summer, Janey felt like calling up everyone she knew and announcing, "Hi, if s Janey Wilcox. I've got my own house this summer and I'm writing a screenplay." Indeed, when people did call her during the day at her little cottage in Bridgehampton, with the split-rail fence and espaliered roses, she often as not said, "D'you mind if I call you back? I'm right in the middle of a scene." Comstock told her that she had "vision." He said he'd make her movie a hit. That he could promote the hell out of anything, that, hell, he could strong arm an Oscar if he had to.

"I can do anything, Janey," he said. "You've got to remember, I'm from Jersey and my father was a plumber." He was lying in her bed naked, smoking a cigar. He wasn't a big man, and he had (rather disconcertingly) skinny little legs, but he had a barrel chest and his voice was deep and impressive. It was a voice that Janey could listen to forever. "Being a successful movie producer is better than being president," he said, twirling the tip of the cigar in his lips. "You have more impact on the lives of the people, and you—hey hey—have a hell of a lot more fun." He winked at her leeringly.

"You naughty man!" Janey squealed, throwing herself on him. He grabbed her and twisted her around, kissing her face. "Who's naughty?" he asked. "Who's the naughty one?" His cigar fell to the floor as he spanked her bottom.

Mostly, though, they had serious discussions about life, with a capital "L." Janey loved those evenings when he'd turn up at her house around midnight, after he'd been out at some business dinner. During the evening, Janey would usually be at some stupid party at a store, and she'd get a message from him: "Chicken, Chicken Little. If s the Big Bad Wolf calling to huff and puff down your door—hey hey—your back door! See you later?" And Janey would make her excuses and rush home to greet him in lingerie. "Am I the luckiest guy in the world or what?" he said. "You don't know a thing about fairy tales." Janey giggled. "It was the three little pigs who had their door huffed down.”

They almost always got around to sex, but not before they talked for a couple of hours. They would sit around her glass coffee table, snorting tiny amounts of cocaine and drinking neat vodka. It was not at all like Janey to snort cocaine, but then again, since she'd met Comstock, she felt like she was discovering parts of herself that she didn't know existed.

He was opening her up. To life. To sex. To the realities of her own possibilities.

It was dizzying.

They talked about his movies. "What did you think of that one?" he asked her again and again. "What’s your opinion?”

"I like the way you don't think you're too smart or too good to talk to anybody/' Janey said.

He told her about his success—how he'd imagined it, struggled for it, finally won it—and how it was important to do something that had meaning, not just for yourself but for others as well.

"You're the only person who understands me," Janey said. "Who doesn't put me down for what I'm about and what I think.”

"If s important for people to feel free even if they're not free," he said.

Then he'd lean over and put his hand under her shirt, pinching her nipples until she thought she would scream in agony.

He would watch her, his breathing getting heavier and heavier.

And then he would come at her from behind, spreading her cheeks and ramming her asshole with his penis. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you," he'd say.

Luckily, it was small, so it didn't hurt too much. Even her sister was impressed.

"Why didn't you tell me you knew Comstock Dibble," she squealed into the phone one morning at the beginning of summer.

"Why didn't you ask?" Janey said. A light rain was falling, slowly darkening the dirt in the flower beds outside her door.

"Gosh, Janey. He's only the man I want to meet most in the world.”

Janey couldn't help rubbing it in a little. "Why?" she asked.

"Because I'm a producer? Because I want to make movies for him?”

Janey moved around her little house, plumping up the cushions on the couch. "But I thought you were a television producer," she said. "Isn't it ... I mean, it's my understanding that those two things are completely different animals.”

"Goddammit, Janey. You've only known that I wanted to be a movie producer since I was eight!" Patty screamed.

Janey smiled, picturing Patty gritting her teeth in frustration, the way she had when she and Janey were kids and they would fight, which was basically every minute they were in a room together.

"Oh, really?" Janey said. "As a matter of fact, I didn't know that.”

"Christ, Janey. I've only been working my butt off for five years. I need a break. I've been trying to meet Comstock Dibble for-ever ... Janey," she pleaded, "if you told him I was your sister ...”

Janey went into her tiny bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. "I don't mind introducing you, but as a matter of fact, he's already helping me.”

"He is?”

"I'm writing a screenplay for him." There was silence.

"You're not the only smart one in the family," Janey said viciously.

"I think that's ... awesome," Patty said. She spoke to someone else in the room. "Hey Digger," she said. "Janey's writing a screenplay for Comstock Dibble." Digger got on the phone. "Janey?" he said. "That’s way cool.”

"Thank you," Janey said primly.

"Hey," he said. "Why don't you come over to our house for dinner.”

"I'm in the Hamptons," Janey said patiently.

"So are we. We've got a house here. Where's that place we have a house?" he called to Patty. "Sagaponack," Patty yelled back.

"Sagaponack," Digger said. "Shit, who can keep up with these Indian names?”

Janey winced. Sagaponack was only her favorite area in the Hamptons. How had Patty gotten a house in Sagaponack?

"Come this Saturday," he said. "I've got the guys from the band staying here. Oh, and, hey, if you do this thing with Comstock, you should think about making Patty a producer. And bring Comstock on Saturday night too.”

"I'll try," Janey said. She should have been pissed off, but she was actually pleased.

Janey wrote twenty-five pages, then thirty, then thirty-three. She wrote m the morning, and in the afternoon, around one o'clock, she would hop on her bicycle and pedal to the beach. She knew she made a pretty picture cycling down the tree-lined streets with her blond hair flying out behind her and her bicycle basket filled with books and suntan lotion. One afternoon she ran into Bill Westacott. He was standing in the middle of the beach, looking troubled, but then again, that was probably his normal state. Janey tried to avoid him, but he spotted her anyway.

"Janey!" he called. She stopped and turned. Christ, he was good-looking. He was wearing a wet suit, tied around his waist; he certainly kept his body in good shape. He'd behaved stupidly the summer before, but on the other hand, he was a screenwriter. A successful one. He might be useful down the road.

"Hello," Janey said.

He marched over, looking sheepish. "I should have called you. After last summer. But I didn't have your number, and I didn't want to ask Redmon for it—I called information and you weren't listed—”

"How is Redmon?" Janey asked.

"He hardly talks to me, but that's okay. We've had these things before. Over women. He'll get over it." He moved closer and Janey felt the heat between them.

"How's your wife?" she asked, swinging her hair over her shoulder. "Will she get over it?”

"She hasn't gotten over it for fifteen fucking years. And I suspect she won't get over it anytime in the future. I could be a fucking monk and she wouldn't get over it.”

"That’s too bad," she said. "Janey," he said.

"Yes?”

"I ... I haven't stopped thinking about you, you know?”

"Oh Bill." Janey laughed. "I've definitely stopped thinking about you." She began to turn away, but he grabbed her arm.

"Janey, don't. Don't do this, okay? I'm pouring my heart out to you and you're stomping all over it. What is it with you women? You want us to fall in love with you and then we do and then you kick us in the teeth and won't stop kicking.”

"Bill," Janey said patiently. "I am not kicking you in the teeth. You're married. Remember? Your wife is insane?”

"Don't torture me," he growled. "Where are you staying?”

"I have my own house. In Bridgehampton.”

“I have to see you. In your house.”

"Don't be ridiculous," Janey said, laughing and pulling away. "You can't come over. I have a boyfriend.”

"Who?”

"Someone famous.”

"I hate you, Janey," he said.

She finally agreed to meet him later, at the bar in Bridgehampton. When she turned up, he was there, waiting. He was freshly showered, wearing a worn yellow oxford-cloth shirt and khakis. Damn, he looked good. He was talking to the bartender. Janey slipped onto the barstool next to him.

"Hiya." He kissed her quickly on the mouth. He lit up a cigar and introduced her to the bartender. "So. What do you do?" the bartender asked.

"I'm a writer," she said.

"Puh! A writer," Bill said, choking on his drink.

"I am," Janey said, turning to him accusingly. "I'm writing a screenplay.”

"For whom?”

Janey smiled. She'd been waiting for this moment. "Oh, just for Comstock Dibble.”

Bill looked relieved. "Comstock Dibble? He'll hire anyone to write a screenplay.”

"Will not," Janey said playfully.

"Will too," he said. "I heard he once hired his doorman. It didn't work out, though. It never does with amateurs.”

"You're jealous," Janey squealed. She loved the way Bill made her feel like a little girl. "You probably thought I was just a dumb model. I've written thirty three pages!”

"Is he paying you?”

"What do you think?" Janey said.

"I'll bet he's your lover too," Bill said slyly, poking her in the ribs.

"He is not my lover.”

“He isn't?”

"Well ... ," Janey said. "Let me put it this way. If he were my lover, he'd be my boyfriend.”

“No, he wouldn't," Bill said.

"Why not?" Janey said. "Because he's married," Bill said.

"Is not!”

“Is so!”

"He is not married/' Janey said. "I would know.”

"Hey, Jake," Bill said to the bartender. "Isn't Cornstock Dibble married?”

"I dunno.”

"You ever see him in here with anyone?”

"Only that socialite. Whasername. The one with the face like a horse.”

"See?" Janey said.

"He is married," Bill said. "To the horsey socialite. He keeps her in a barn and only lets her out on special occasions when she has to race other horsey socialites. And the grand prize is ... one million dollars for charity! Whe-e-e-e "Oh Bill," she said.

She let him walk her home, and she let him kiss her on the stoop. She hoped that Comstock wouldn't drive up at that moment, but it was unlikely, as he only came to the Hamptons on weekends. "Go away," she said after a while.

"Janey," he said, smearing kisses over her face. "Why can't I be your lover again? If you can sleep with Comstock Dibble, surely you can sleep with me.

"Who said I'm sleeping with Comstock Dibble?”

“He's so ugly.”

"As a matter of fact, he's the sexiest man I've ever met in my life, but you don't need to know that.”

“I'll never understand you women," Bill said. "Good-bye, Bill," Janey said.

"I want to see you again," he whined.

She poked him in the chest with her index finger. "Only if you help me with my screenplay.”

“What’s it about?”

She turned to go back into the house. "What do you think it's about?" she called over her shoulder. "I don't know.”

"Me!”

She closed the screen door and flopped onto the couch. She laughed. She picked up the phone and left Comstock a sexy message.

This was going to be the best summer ever.

VII

On July Fourth weekend, Patty announced that she and Digger were getting married. The papers were full of the news. Over on Parsonage Lane, where Patty's house was, Janey sat in Patty's antique-style kitchen, poring over the clippings and trying not to be jealous. Patty and Digger had immediately been proclaimed "The New New Couple" of the Millennium. They were good-looking (that was really pushing it on Digger's part, Janey thought), creative, successful and rich. They weren't from conventional "society" backgrounds. And they were under thirty.

"Look at this," Janey said, turning over the pages of The New York Times Styles section, which featured a two-page story (with color pictures) about Patty and Digger, their careers, lifestyle, and who they hung out with and where. "You'd think they'd never heard of anyone getting married before.”

"It's crazy, isn't it," Patty said. "Especially considering that Digger's such a goof." She looked out the window affectionately at Digger, who was pacing around the pool, wearing black sunglasses and what appeared to be a dish towel wrapped around his waist. As usual, he was talking on his cell phone and smoking unfiltered cigarettes. He looked, Janey thought, like he had cold sores, although she had never actually seen one. He usually had bits of tobacco in his teeth, however. "I mean," Patty said, "he can't even swim.”

"He can't?" Janey said, thinking, What a waste. In fact, she couldn't help thinking the whole house was wasted on Digger, who, she'd found out, had grown up in a tiny ranch house in Des Moines, Iowa. Every time she pedaled up to the house, she felt nearly dizzy with envy. How had Patty managed to get it right, while she was still struggling? Patty's house was one of the nicest in Sagaponack—a big, lazy shingled farmhouse with charming outbuildings, a long gunnite pool, and a huge green lawn that opened out into a field of wildflowers.

"Oh yes," Patty said. "You know his best friend drowned in a quarry when he was a kid. He named his first album after him. You remember? Dead Blue Best Friend?”

"Hey!" Digger said, coming into the kitchen. He leaned over and wrapped his skinny arms around Patty; he stuck his tongue in her ear. "Don't I have the most beautiful chick in the world?" he asked Janey, and Patty giggled and pushed him away. He pointed a long, bony index finger at her. "Just wait till our wedding night, ba-a-a-a-by," he said.

"Haven't you had sex yet?" Janey asked primly. This prompted Digger to make a humping motion with his hips, which was disgusting since he had one of those stomachs that looks like it contains a small melon, like a starving child's in Africa. Then he got a beer out of the fridge.

"Don't you think if s kind of ... weird ... the way you and Digger come from such different backgrounds?" Janey asked after he'd left.

"No," Patty said. "We don't, anyway. We're both middle-class.”

"Patty," Janey said patiently. "Digger is white trash. I mean, just that name: Digger. “

"He made it up," Patty said.

"Why would anyone make up a name like Digger?" Patty looked up from her list-making. "He used to dig a lot in the dirt when he was a kid." She chewed on the end of her pen. "Anyway, who cares? He's a genius and the voice of his generation.”

"Patty," Janey asked. "Has anything bad ever happened to you?”

"Well," she said, "there was that time you went to the Mick Jagger concert when you were sixteen and didn't come home all night and Mom and Dad interrogated me for three hours, but other than that, no.”

"That’s what I thought," Janey said.

"I thought you were so cool back then," Patty said. "I wanted to be just like you.”

Janey had taken up with Bill Westacott again. She had promised herself she wouldn't, but it was a meaningless protest. She wondered how she could be with Bill when she was in love with Comstock, and justified it by telling herself that both men flattered her in different ways. Comstock believed that she could do anything, while Bill seemed surprised that she could do anything at all—which was, in itself, a sort of triumph. Comstock would ask her how many pages she had written and encourage her to write more; with Bill, she would tell him how many pages she'd written to rub it in. He had been so lofty when she'd met him, she loved pulling him down and pointing out that really, he was no better (if not worse) than she was.

"You see, Bill," she said. "I'm just like you. I'm going to make a million dollars and buy a big house.”

"You damn women!" Bill said grumpily, sitting on her couch in his boxer shorts, smoking a joint, and leaning back to display his still nearly washboard stomach. "You all think you're just as good as men. You think you deserve everything that men have but that you should get it without working for it. Christ, Janey. Do you know how long I've been writing?”

"Twenty years?”

"That’s fucking right. Twenty years of hard fucking labor. And after fifteen years they maybe stop jerking you around and start taking you seriously.”

"You're saying that I shouldn't even try just because I haven't been doing it for fifteen years.”

"No. I'm not saying that. Why don't you fucking listen? I'm saying that if you think you're going to do this and you think if s going to be a success, you're out of your fucking mind.”

"You're jealous," she said. "You can't stand the fact that I could do this and it could be a success, because then where does that leave you, Bill?" They would banter like this almost every time they saw each other, but one day it got out of hand. "Janey," Bill said. "Why the fuck do you want to write a screenplay? If s an impossible business, and even if you do succeed, you'll end up making a lot less money than you thought you would, because if 11 be spread out over five years.”

"I don't need to hear this," Janey said.

"Yeah? Well, you do. Because you've been hearing a lot of drivel from Comstock Dibble. Jesus, Janey. The guy wants to fuck you. You're a smart girl, or at least you pretend you are. You know men will say anything to get laid.”

"He doesn't need to.”

"Oh. So you'd just fuck him anyway? Who are you kidding, Janey? We both know how you are. Did he pay for this house?”

"He's in love with me.”

Bill pulled deeply on the joint. "Janey," he said, holding the smoke in his lungs and then exhaling. "Comstock Dibble is one of the most ruthless men in the movie business. He's incredibly charming until he gets what he wants. When he's finished with you, he'll drop you so fast you won't know what hit you. You'll turn around and every door will be locked and bolted behind you. Get it?”

"I don't believe you," Janey said. "I'm so sick of hearing this kind of shit from people. You're just jealous because he's more successful than you are—”

"I know actresses who have slept with him. Beautiful actresses. Do you think you're the only one who wants to sleep with him? Do you think you're doing him a favor because he's ugly? Get a clue. Does he fuck you up the butt? And only fuck you up the butt? Because That’s what he does. So there's no risk of anyone getting pregnant.”

Janey was silent.

"Considerate, ain't he?" Bill said. "If there's one thing an old Hollywood hand knows, it's how to avoid those messy situations called life.”

"Get out," Janey said quietly.

"I'm going," he said, standing up and pulling on his shirt. "I've said my piece.”

"I knew I shouldn't have talked to you on the beach that day.”

"That’s right. You probably shouldn't have.”

“You want to destroy everyone else's dreams just because your own have been destroyed.”

"Oh Janey," he said sadly. "Where do you pick up that kind of sentimental crap?”

"I'm just trying to do something with my life!”

“So do something with it. But at least be honest about it. Put in an honest day's work and take your lumps like everybody else." He went out and banged the screen door behind him. Then he came back.

"You're right about one thing," he shouted through the screen. "We are alike. We're both pathetic!" They didn't speak for a week, but then they ran into each other on the beach again. They pretended that nothing had happened, but it seemed like a pall had been cast over the summer. Every day was ninety degrees. The little cottage was stifling, and the attic bedrooms were unbearable at night, so Janey had taken to sleeping fitfully on the couch. She tried to write in the mornings, but found, after thirty-eight pages, she couldn't go on. She had gotten to the part where "the girl" (as Janey had come to think of the main character) is on the movie set for the first day, and the director comes into her trailer and guilts her into giving him a blow job. The story was supposed to be about her life as a model and actress and the struggles she'd gone through to be taken seriously as a person, but it seemed to have no point. Where would it end? Everybody said you had to have sex in Hollywood to get ahead. Why had she believed it? It hadn't helped her. But once you did it a couple of times, it got you over the shame of having to do it again.

Or so you thought.

A strange incident happened. She was in the King Kullen supermarket when she spotted Helen Westacott in the condiment aisle. Janey hurried past with her head down, hoping that Helen wouldn't see her, but when she looked back, Helen was staring at her with a strange, conniving expression on her little face. Janey kept thinking that she saw Helen out of the corner of her eye—in front of the soft drinks, by the meat counter, near the toothpaste; but every time she looked up, Helen wasn't there. Janey did her shopping quickly, picking up the few items she'd come in for, and when she was checking out, her cart was bumped softly from behind.

Janey looked up. Helen was behind her, her hands on a cart, her two sons next to her. Helen said nothing, just stared. The two boys, who were beautiful and dark-haired with large brown eyes, gazed at her curiously. Janey gave Helen a half smile and noticed with horror that her cart was empty.

Helen followed her out through the parking lot. Janey wanted to run, but realized this would give Helen too much satisfaction. Then Helen veered off and got into her car.

Janey went to parries, but the people at the parties were always the same, and everybody had run out of things to say to one another. They asked her about her screenplay. "I wrote five more pages," she'd lie. She got drunk a lot.

Comstock left to stay on some movie star's yacht in the Greek islands. Janey was hoping he'd ask her to go with him, but when she mentioned it, all he said was "I already got you a house." This was not a good sign. Then she asked him if they could have sex the regular way, and he said he wouldn't be able to get a hard-on. This was not a good sign, either. He promised he'd be back in three weeks, in time for Patty's wedding on Labor Day weekend. "I'm just trying to be your friend," Bill said. "Do you know what a big deal that is for me?”

It seemed like the summer would never end.

VIII

"A^kay, everybody! Remember, at the end of the day, it's just another party." The wedding planner, a slim young man with floppy dark hair, clapped his hands. "Do we all know our places? Patty, I know you know what to do. Any other questions?”

Janey's mother, Monique, raised her hand. "Yes, Mrs. Wilcox?" the young man said faux patiently.

"I do not weesh to walk barefoot. I weesh to wear my shoes.”

"Mrs. Wilcox," the young man said, as if he were explaining to a small child, "we all decided that no one is going to wear shoes. Ifs a barefoot wedding. It said so on the invitation.”

"But the feet. They are so ugly.”

"I'm sure your feet are very beautiful, Mrs. Wilcox, just like the rest of you." The young man paused for a moment, looking around the room. "This is the social event of the season, folks. So let’s make it dazzle!”

There was a round of applause. Janey looked over at her mother. She was just as bossy and self-centered as ever. Almost since the moment Monique had arrived for the wedding two days ago, she'd been nothing but trouble, questioning the caterers, flirting with the cameraman (someone was making a documentary of the wedding for Lifetime), and terrorizing Digger's mother, Pammy, to the point where Pammy, a small gray-haired woman with a perm, a flat midwestern accent, and a Samsonite suitcase full of Keds sneakers, now refused to come out of her room.

"Janey," her mother had said within an hour of her arrival, "what is this nonsense I hear about you writing something? Petty is the smart one. You must work on your modeling and on finding a husband.

In two years it will be too late for the children and then you will not be able to find a man. A man does not want a wife who cannot bear his children.”

“Maman, I don't want a husband," Janey said between clenched teeth.

"You girls are so foolish," her mother said, lighting up a cigarette (she chain-smoked Virginia Slims). "This business of living without a man is nonsense. In five years you will be very, very sorry. Look at Patty. She is the smart one to marry this Deegar. He is young and he is reech. You don't even have a boyfriend.”

"Well, Patty always was the perfect one, Maman," Janey said bitterly.

"No, she is not perfect. But she is smart. She knows she has to work at life. You are very beautiful, Janey. But even if you are very beautiful, you must work at life.”

"Maman, I do work at life," Janey said. "That's why I'm writing.”

Her mother rolled her eyes and blew smoke out her nostrils. Her hair was perfectly coiffed into a blond helmet, and she still wore frosted pink lipstick.

It was so typical of her, Janey thought. She was always right and always dismissive of how she, Janey, might really feel; Janey's feelings were completely irrelevant unless they dovetailed perfectly with hers. "Your mother is soooo fantastic!" Swish Daily kept saying. He'd designed Patty's and Janey's dresses (Janey was the only bridesmaid), and had cut short his vacation on the Italian Riviera to be there.

"My mother is very old-fashioned," Janey said dryly.

"Oh no. Quite the opposite. She's absolutely modern," Swish said. "So chic. And soooo seventies.

Every time I look at her I want to start singing 'Mrs. Robinson.'“

The wedding planner held up his arm and tapped his wristwatch. "Fifteen minutes until the guests start arriving," he said. "Places, everyone.”

It seemed like everyone had been waiting weeks for Patty's wedding. The guest list included four hundred people and was A-list, meaning the people on it were either famous, or had a recognizable tag line after their name, such as "editor in chief of fashion magazine" or "architect to the famous." Janey didn't know whether to laugh or cry. For the past ten years she'd been climbing the Hamptons' social ladder, trying to stay in the best houses and going to the best parties, and in one season Patty had arrived on the scene and floated effortlessly to the highest rung. She and Digger had a genuine nonchalance about it, as though they really hadn't noticed, which was coupled with an attitude of careless entitlement, as if it were completely natural—even inevitable that they should find themselves in this position. And meanwhile, Janey felt like she was begging for scraps: allowing herself to become the secret lover of a powerful man who fucked her up the ass so she couldn't get pregnant, and attempting to enter a new career in which even she, despite her arrogance, could see that she had no aptitude for.

How had this happened, she wondered, as she smiled and greeted the guests, delicately holding a glass of champagne between her thumb and forefinger. She had obviously made a wrong turn somewhere, but where? Why hadn't anyone ever told her?

"Janey!" Peter called, sweeping her into his arms and lifting her off her feet. "I haven't seen you all summer. You look fantastic, as always." Peter! Well, of course he was invited, he was Digger's lawyer. "I've been thinking about you. We should get together.”

"We should," Janey said, noncommitally. "Hey, you know Gumdrop died.”

"Oh Peter. I'm so sorry," she said.

"Yeah, well, dogs are like women. They can always be replaced." He moved on with a half smile. How sad he was. In ten years, he'd be fifty-five. What would happen to him then?

"Hello, Janey," Redmon said.

"Oh Redmon," Janey said. She kissed him on both cheeks. "I'm sorry about... about last summer ...”

“What about last summer?" Redmon said. "All I remember is that / had a great time.”

"Well, then. So did I," Janey said.

"Well, well, sister of the bride. I hope if s not always a bridesmaid, never a bride.”

"Zack!”

"Had your good summer, luv?”

"Oh yes. And I didn't even have to spank anyone.”

“Harold my darling." She bent over and gave him a hug.

"I so wish this was your day, crazy kid. Maybe next year, huh?”

"Maybe," Janey said. She looked up past the crowd. A large chauffeured Mercedes was pulling into the driveway. The driver hopped out and opened the door. Comstock got out, stretched, and looked around. Then the driver went around to the other side. He must have brought the movie star with him, Janey thought, but instead, a tall, dark-haired woman got out. She came happily around the back of the car. Comstock took her hand.

"Janey! You look so pretty!" Allison said. She leaned in. "Did you see Zack Manners? He looks terrible. You must be so happy you're not with him.

I heard he was pulled over for drunk driving and got caught stuffing a vial of cocaine into his sock. Socks! In the summer! When is your house over?”

“Tomorrow," Janey said. "But my landlord said I could have it for an extra day.”

"Goodie. I'll come and visit you," Allison said.

"Sure," Janey said. She watched Comstock approaching out of the corner of her eye. She knew that woman he was with ... why was he holding her hand and whispering in her ear ... he looked so pleased with himself, and so did she ... oh God ... she was that socialite—the one who'd been married to that Hollywood guy and then that guy who ran for president—but she was so ugly! She had a face like a horse, you could tell even though she was wearing huge black sunglasses like she was afraid of being recognized.... She was supposed to be really scary and really rich: What was he doing with her? "Hello, Janey," he said.

"Comstock," she faltered.

"I'd like to present my fiancée. Morgan Binchely.”

“Hello," Janey said. She couldn't take her eyes off his face. She hadn't seen him for three weeks, and for the first time she saw that beneath the ugliness was cruelty. His eyes were cruel. Without those cruel eyes, he could have never overcome his ugliness. People would have dismissed him or taken advantage. He smiled, his pink lips parting slightly to reveal the gap in his teeth. His expression seemed to sneer Show me.

She'd show him, all right.

"This is happy news," she said. "When did you get engaged?”

"In Greece," Morgan said. The accent in her voice hinted at finishing schools and horseback riding in Connecticut. "It was quite a surprise, I must say." She tightened her hold on his arm. "We'd only been seeing each other for—what?—six months?”

“That’s right," Comstock said.

"Mon dievX Mr. Comstock Dibble?" Janey's mother said, suddenly appearing at her side. "But I should curtsy. You are a king. A king of the movies!”

“This is my mother, Monique," Janey said.

"I know all your films," her mother said, dramatically placing her hand on her heart.

"You're very kind," Comstock said.

"You are a friend of Janey's?" her mother inquired, linking her arm through hers.

"Janey is writing something for me.”

“I see," her mother said curiously. "Excuse me," Janey said.

"Janey!" Comstock said.

Janey turned. She looked at Comstock and shook her head.

"Yeh! Let her go," her mother said. "She is always show you call it—martyr. “

They all laughed.

IX

"A that I'd like to do now is to go around the V V room and have everybody introduce themselves. And please say a few words about why you're here." The instructor, a fifty-year-old man with a mustache and an ill-fitting suit that looked like it had been dry-cleaned too many times, nodded at a woman in the front row. "Why don't we start with you," he said.

"Well," the woman said. "I'm Susan Fazzino and I'm forty-three .. .”

"We don't need ages," the instructor said.

"Okay ... I'm married and I've got two kids, a boy and a girl, and I was a teacher and I'm looking for a way to make more money. With flexible hours.”

"Very good," the instructor said. "But if your career in real estate takes off, you'll be working twelve hours a day.”

"Oh! I didn't know that." Janey sat back in her chair and tapped her pencil on her notebook. God, this was boring. She'd only been in the course for ten minutes, but already her mind was wandering.

"I'm Nelson Pavlak ...”

Well, she supposed she was lucky to have gotten off as easily as she did. "Janey," Comstock had said. He actually had the nerve to stop by her house the next afternoon on his way back to the city as she was packing up her things. "Nothing has to change just because I'm getting married. We can continue. Morgan knows me. She knows that I'm not going to be faithful to her. She just doesn't want it in her face.”

“Why would anyone marry a man who they knew was going to cheat?" Janey said viciously. "She must be pretty desperate.”

"She's European," he said, unwrapping a cigar. And then: "Christ, Janey. Don't be so conventional. It's such a bore.”

"Do you fuck her up the butt too?" Janey asked, folding towels.

"Actually, I don't. We're trying to get pregnant...”

“ ... I'm Nancy McKnight. And I've always wanted to be a real estate agent ... !”

"... Everybody knows why he's marrying her,”

Allison had said. "And if s not love. She's got money. And status. I'll give her that. But doesn't she understand that he's using her? Someone should warn her.

Christ on a cross. She must be forty-five. She's already been married twice. You'd think by now she'd know better.”

"She's what he wants," Janey had said. She was surprised at how little she felt, considering she'd thought she was madly in love with him.

"Of course," Allison said, pouring herself the last of Janey's wine. "Think about it. No matter how much money he has, or success, or power—I mean, who cares if he is the head of a movie company and hangs out with actors—the one thing he couldn't get was Fifth Avenue. What co-op board," she asked, "would let him in?”

"Now they all will," Janey said. She imagined Comstock in the lobby of a glossy Fifth Avenue apartment building. His suit would be wrinkled and he'd be sweating, handing out twenty-dollar tips to the doormen....

"... And what about you?" the instructor said, nodding at Janey.

Janey jumped.

"I'm ... Janey Wilcox. The model," she said. "Or anyway, I used to be a model. I'm ... trying to change my life. So I thought I should probably change my career as well ...”

"We have lots of people who change from another career into real estate. But how much education do you have? There's a lot of math involved in real estate.”

"Well," Janey said. "I have a year and a half of college ... and I think I used to be good at math when I was a kid.”

Everyone laughed.

"Very good, Janey," the instructor said, pulling at his mustache. "If you need any extra help, I'm available.”

Oh God.

Janey walked home. It was September, still warm and still light. She swung her books in a Gucci satchel Harold had bought her. He was trying to make it as enticing as possible, but in the end, she knew it wouldn't make any difference. Her days would stretch before her. There would be a certain blandness to them, but after all, wasn't that what most people's lives were like? Most people got up every morning and went to a job. They dated ordinary people and went to the movies. They didn't go to black-tie events. They didn't model in fashion shows. They didn't date best-selling authors or billionaires or movie moguls. They didn't have their names in the gossip columns, good or bad, and they especially didn't have summer houses in the Hamptons. And they survived.

Hell, they were probably happy.

She would never be happy that way. She knew she wouldn't, just as she knew she would never finish the screenplay. She would never turn up in Comstock's office and throw the finished manuscript down on his desk and say, "Read that, you asshole!" Write what you know, everybody said. And maybe it was stupid and maybe she was a loser, but that was what she knew. She could still remember the first time she'd come to New York, when she was sixteen, to become a model. Her mother had actually let her take the Amtrak train from Springfield to New York City with her brother, and had actually paid for them to stay overnight in a hotel. Which was such a weird thing for her mother to do, because she never did anything for Janey. Before or after. But that one time she had said yes, and Janey and her brother, Pete, had taken the train to Penn Station, passing the grungy little towns and cities along the way, the scenery becoming browner and more crowded and more industrial and more frightening (but Janey had loved it), until they passed through a long tunnel and arrived in New York City. It smelled of urine back then. It wasn't safe. They stayed at the Howard Johnson's on Eighth Avenue, and the horns and the clatter and the cars and the shouts kept them up all night, but Janey didn't mind a bit.

The next morning, she had taken her first taxi to the Ford Models Agency. It was on East Sixtieth Street then, in a narrow red town house. She walked up the steps. She pushed open the door. The room had industrial gray carpeting and posters of magazine covers on the wall.

She waited.

Then Eileen Ford herself came out. She was a small woman with curly gray hair, but Janey knew she was Eileen Ford by the commanding way she held herself. She was wearing brown shoes with a one-inch heel.

She scanned the room. There were four other girls. She looked at Janey. "You," she said. "Come with me.”

Janey followed her to her office.

"How tall are you?" Eileen Ford asked. "Five-ten," she said.

"Age?”

"Sixteen," Janey whispered.

"I want you to come back on Monday at noon. Can you do that?”

"Yes," Janey said breathlessly.

"Give me your phone number. I'll need to get your parents' permission.”

"Am I going to be a model?”

"Yes," Eileen Ford nodded. "I think you are.”

Janey walked out of the office. She was shaking.

"I'm going to be a model," she wanted to shout. She wanted to run and skip and jump. "A model! A model! A model!" And then, as she was leaving, a beautiful girl walked in, a girl whose face Janey recognized from the cover of magazines and glossy advertisements. Janey sucked in her breath, watching her. The girl was wearing an ornately beaded jacket with jeans. She had on suede Gucci loafers and was carrying a Louis Vuitton valise. Janey had never seen such a glamorous creature.

"Hello, Bea," the girl said to the receptionist. She had long blond hair that fell in perfect waves down her back. "I've come to pick up my check.”

It was Friday.

"Going away this weekend?" Bea, the receptionist asked, handing her an envelope.

"The Hamptons. I'm catching the eleven-fifteen Jitney.”

"Have a good one," Bea said.

"You too," the girl said. She waved.

The Hamptons! Janey said the words over and over again in her head. She'd never heard of them. But surely, they must be the most magical place in the world.

When she got home from the class, her phone was ringing. It was probably Harold. He'd promised to call, to find out how "school" went. She picked it up.

"Janey!" It was her booker at the modeling agency. "I've been trying to get you all evening. This just came in. Victoria's Secret. They called. Asked specifically for you. They've got a new campaign. They want you to audition to be one of their girls.”

“That’s nice," Janey said.

"Get this. They want women. They said women. No skinny little girls. So act your age. And Janey," he said warningly. "Don't blow it. Blow this, and I promise you, your career is over.”

Janey laughed.

"Janey Wilcox?" the woman asked, holding out her hand. "I'm Mariah. I'm the head of corporate for Victoria's Secret.”

"Nice to meet you," Janey said. They shook hands. Mariah had long dark hair. She was pretty, about thirty-five. Her handshake was firm. There were hundreds of women like this in the industry. They weren't quite attractive enough to be models themselves, but they wanted to do something "glamorous," and they took themselves a little too seriously.

"We all loved your book," Mariah said. "We wanted to meet you.”

"Thank you," Janey said. She followed Mariah into a large, open studio. There were other people there. Desks. Layouts. A man with a video camera. "We're looking for a few special girls," Mariah said, the emphasis on "special.”

“If s not enough to be beautiful. We want girls who have personality. Who have lived a little. We want," she said, taking a breath for emphasis, "girls who can be role models for our customers.”

In other words, Janey thought, smart models. Now there's a new one. She nodded.

The other people came around.

"Do you mind putting on some lingerie?" they whispered. They always treated you with kid gloves at these auditions, so they couldn't be accused of sexual harassment.

"Do you mind lying on that couch?”

“Do you mind if we videotape you?”

"I don't mind," Janey said. "I'll go naked if you want.”

Mariah laughed. "Luckily, this isn't Playboy, " she said.

Oh, but it practically is, Janey thought.

She lay down on the couch. She arranged her magnificent body, resting her head on her hand.

"Tell us a little bit about yourself, Janey.”

“Well," Janey began, in that soft voice that gave no offense, "I'm thirty-two. I've been a model for ... sixteen years now, I guess, and an actress too, although I like to say I've been acting every day of my life. I'm pretty independent. I've never been married. I guess I like to take care of myself. But it's hard, you know? I'm a model, but more than that, I'm a single woman, trying to make my way through life. I have my ups and downs like every other woman." She smiled and turned onto her back.

"I have days when I feel ugly. And days when I feel fat... like right now ... and days when I think, 'Am I ever going to find a guy I really like?' I try pretty hard. Last summer I worked on a screenplay about my life.”

"And what do you want out of life, Janey?”

“I don't know what I want, but I know I want something.”

"And what about your goals?”

Janey smiled and pushed her hair back. She turned onto her stomach, swinging one leg up. She put her head in both hands. Her expression was serious, but not too serious. She looked directly at the camera. "I guess you could say ... I don't know where I'm going." She paused a second for effect. "But I know I'm going somewhere.”

"Brilliant," they said. Eight months later.

Janey pulled into the driveway of the house on Daniel's Lane in Sagaponack in her new Porsche Boxster convertible. The car was pure flash: silver paint with a red leather interior, a special order. It was a bonus from the Victoria's Secret people, not that they had to give her one, since she had a two million dollar contract for four years. It called for a maximum of fifty days of work a year, which meant, as her new agent pointed out, she'd have plenty of time to go on auditions and even do a television series or a movie. She'd already gone on three auditions for an action film with a big movie star, and they were "seriously interested.”

Janey closed the car door carefully. It wouldn't do to scratch the paint. Already her sister had asked if she could drive the car, and Janey had said no. "You've got plenty of money, Patty. Get your own car," she said.

"But I want to drive your car. " Patty whined. She looked so plaintive, they'd both cracked up. Janey walked toward the house, twirling the keys around her finger. It was an unusual house, with the kitchen and living room (with fireplace) on the second floor, with a large deck from which you could see the ocean. There were five big bedrooms downstairs, and outside, a charming antique shack that could be used as a separate guest cottage or an office.

"Do you plan to have lots of company?" the real estate agent had asked.

"No," Janey said. "I'll probably use it to do some writing. I'm working on a screenplay, you know.”

“Really?" the real estate agent said. "I know you're in that Victoria's Secret ad. But I didn't know you were a writer. Beautiful and smart. What a lucky girl.”

"Thank you," Janey said.

"I just love that line you say in the ad .... How does it go again?”

"I don't know where I'm going, but I know I'm going somewhere," Janey said.

"That’s it," the real estate agent said. "Don't we all feel that way, though.”

Janey opened the door to the house. Her house, she thought. Her house alone. It smelled a little musty, but all summer houses smelled musty the first day you opened them up. In an hour, it would pass. In the meantime, she'd take a swim.

She went into the master bedroom and stripped off her clothes. The room was at least six hundred square feet, with a California king bed and a marble bathroom that contained a Jacuzzi and sauna. The house was terribly expensive, but what the hell? She could afford it.

Not bad for a single woman.

She opened the sliding glass door and walked out to the pool. It was unusually long. Sixty feet. She stood at the edge by the deep end. She paused. For a moment, she wished that Bill would show up. Walk up her flagstone path, up the steps and through the white picket gate to the pool. "Janey," he'd say. He'd fold her naked body into his arms, kissing her hair, her face ... "I love you," he'd say. "I'm going to leave my wife and marry you.”

It was never going to happen.

Janey stuck her toe in the water. It was ninety degrees.

Perfect. She dove in.