Four Blondes

I

This is a story about two people with jobs. Two people with very, very important jobs. Two very, very important people with two very, very important jobs who are married to each other and have one child. Meet James and Winnie Dieke (pronounced "deek," not "dyke")- The perfect couple. (Or, in their minds anyway, the perfect couple.) They live in a five-room apartment on the Upper West Side. They graduated from Ivy League colleges (he Harvard and she Smith). Winnie is thirty-seven. James is forty-two (in their minds, the perfect age difference for a man and a woman). They've been married nearly seven years. Their lives revolve around their work (and their child). They love to work. Their work keeps them busy and neurotic. Their work separates them from other people. Their work (in their minds anyway) actually makes them superior to other people.

They are journalists. Serious journalists.

Winnie writes a political/style column ("Is that an oxymoron?" James asked her when she first told him about the job) for a major news magazine. James is a well-known and highly respected journalist—he writes five-to-ten-thousand-word pieces for publications like the Sunday Times Magazine, The New Republic, and The New Yorker.

James and Winnie agree on just about everything. They have definite opinions. "There is something wrong with people who don't have intelligent, informed opinions about things/' Winnie said to James when they met for the first time, at a party in an apartment on the Upper West Side. Everyone at the party was "in publishing" and under thirty-five. Most of the women (like Winnie) were working at women's magazines (something Winnie never talks about now). James had just won an ASME award for a story on fly-fishing. Everyone knew who he was.

He was tall and skinny, with floppy, curly blond hair and glasses (he's still tall and skinny, but he's lost most of his hair). There were girls all around him. Here are a few of the things they agree on: They hate anyone who isn't like them. They hate anyone who is wealthy and successful and gets press (especially Donald Trump). They hate trendy people and things (although James did just buy a pair of Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses). They hate TV; big-budget movies; all commercial, poorly written books on The New York Times best-seller list (and the people who read them); fast-food restaurants; guns; Republicans; neoNazi youth groups; the religious right-wing antiabortion groups; fashion models (fashion editors); fat on red meat; small, yappy dogs and the people who own them.

They hate people who do drugs. They hate people who drink too much (unless it's one of their friends, and then they complain bitterly about the person afterward). They hate the Hamptons (but rent a house there anyway, on Shelter Island, which, they remind themselves, isn't really the Hamptons). They believe in the poor (they do not know anyone who is poor, except their Jamaican nanny, who is not exactly poor). They believe in black writers (they know two, and Winnie is working on becoming friends with a third, whom she met at a convention). They hate music and especially MTV (but Winnie sometimes watches "Where Are They Now?" on VH1, especially if the artist in question is now a drug addict or alcoholic). They think fashion is silly (but secretly identify with the people in Dewar's ads). They think the stock market is a scam (but James invests ten thousand dollars a year anyway, and checks his stocks every morning on the Internet). They hate Internet entrepreneurs who are suddenly worth hundreds of millions of dollars (but Winnie secretly wishes James would go on the Internet and somehow make hundreds of millions of dollars. She wishes he were more successful. Much more successful). They hate what is happening to the world. They don't believe in a free lunch.

They do believe in women writers (as long as the women do not become too successful or get too much attention or write about things the Diekes don't approve of—like sex—unless if s lesbian sex). James, who is secretly afraid of homosexuals (he's afraid he might be one, because he's secretly fascinated with both his and Winnie's assholes), says he is a feminist, but always puts down women who are not like Winnie (including her sister). Who are not serious. Who do not have children. Who are not married. Winnie gets physically ill at the sight of a woman she considers a slut. Or worse, a whore.

The Diekes don't know people who go to clubs or stay out late, or have sex (except Winnie's sister). People who stay up late can't, by their definition, be "serious." It takes the Diekes all day (and often well into the evenings) to get their jobs done. By then, they are so exhausted, they can only go home and eat dinner (prepared by the Jamaican nanny) and go to sleep. (Winnie has to get up at six to be with her child and go running. The child is four. Winnie hopes that the child will soon be able to run with her.) At home, they are cozy and superior, and sometimes (when they're not working) sit around in fuzzy flannel pajamas with their child. Winnie and the child wear slippers in the shape of stuffed animals, and Winnie makes their slippered, stuffed-animal feet talk to one another. The child is a sweet and happy and beautiful child who never complains. (He crawls into bed with Winnie as often as he can. He says, "Mommy, I love you.") He is learning to read. (Winnie and James know he is a genius.) "But he's a real boy," Winnie always says to her friends, who, like her, are well adjusted and earning incomes over a hundred and fifty thousand a year, who also have one or two children. It always shocks Winnie when she says this. It makes her a little afraid, because she does not like to admit that men and women are different. (If men and women are different, where does that leave her?) Winnie believes (no, knows) that she is as smart as James (even though she's not sure that he will ever admit it) and as good a journalist as he is and as good a writer. She often thinks that she is actually better than he (in every way, not just journalism), but he (being a man) has gotten more breaks. James's style of writing and her style of writing (which she picked up from James, who picked it up from other writers of his ilk) was not hard to figure out how to do, once she understood the motivation. Ditto for their conversational style: pseudo-intellectual and desperately clever at the same time—"cl-intellectual." (Tell me I'm smart—or I'll wound you.) Winnie is deeply bitter and James is deeply bitter but they never talk about it.

James is scared about his work. Every time he finishes a piece, he's scared he won't get another one. When he gets another assignment (he always does, but it doesn't make any difference), he's scared he won't make the deadline. When he makes the deadline, he's scared his editor (or editors—there are always faceless editors lurking around in dark little offices at magazines) won't like the piece. When they like the piece, he's scared that it won't get published. When it does get published, he's scared that no one will read it or talk about it and all his hard work will have been for nothing. If people do talk about it (and they don't always, in which case he's scared that he's not a great journalist), he's scared that he won't be able to pull it off again.

James is scared of the Internet. (He secretly wishes it had never been invented. It scares him that it wasn't, ten years ago.) Every time he sends an e-mail (and he seems to be spending more and more time sending e-mails these days, and less time doing actual work, but isn't everybody?), he's frightened it will go to the wrong people. When the right people get it, he's frightened they'll send it to the wrong people. James knows he should send short, to the point e-mails, but something happens when he logs on. He feels angry and superior (he feels frustrated.

He knows he's smarter than most people on the Internet. He wants them to know it, and is afraid they don't). He's convinced that Internet spies are watching him. He knows his credit card number is going to be stolen. (He knows that someday, probably soon, all real books and magazines will be replaced with Internet books and magazines. He pretends, along with his friends, that this won't happen. That Internet books and magazines will only add to what already exists. He knows they will not. He knows that will probably mean that he'll be out of a job.) But most of all, James is scared of his wife. Winnie. Winnie doesn't seem to be scared of anything, and that scares him. When Winnie should be scared when she has an impossible deadline, or can't get people to cooperate on interviews, or doesn't think she's getting the assignments she wants—she gets angry. She calls people and screams. She sends e-mails. (She spends most of her time on her computer. She prides herself on her e-mails. They are pithy and clever, unlike James's, which are rambling, vicious, and too introspective. Winnie sometimes accuses him now of overwriting.) She marches into her editors' offices and has hissy fits. "I hope you're not implying that my work isn't good enough," she says threateningly. "Because I've already done a kazillion" (That’s one of her favorite words, kazillion) "pieces for you, and they were good enough. So if you don't want to give me the assignment...." She lets her voice trail off. She never says the words: "sexual discrimination.'' Everyone is just a tiny bit scared of Winnie, and James is scared that one of these days she won't get the assignment, or she'll get fired.

But she always does get the assignment. Then, at the potluck suppers ("our salon," they call it) Winnie and James host at their apartment every other Tuesday night (they invite other serious journalists and discuss the political implications of everything from cell-phone shields to celebrities with bodyguards to what’s happened to the journalists who have left real magazines and gone to the Internet—"Anybody can be a writer now. That's the problem. What’s the point of being a writer if everybody can be one?" James says), Winnie will usually bring up whatever new story she is working on. Everyone will be sitting around the living room, with Limoges plates (Winnie believes in serving guests on only the best china) on their laps, and they will be eating iceberg lettuce with fat-free salad dressing and skinless chicken breasts, and maybe some rice (none of the women in this group are good cooks or care much about food). They will drink a little bit of wine. No one they know drinks hard alcohol anymore.

And then Winnie will say something like "I want to know what everyone thinks about youth violence. I'm writing about it this week." When she started doing this a couple of years ago, James thought it was sort of cute. But now he gets annoyed (although he never shows it). Why is she always asking everyone else what they think? Doesn't she have her own thoughts? And he looks around the room to see if any of the other men (husbands) are sharing the same sentiment.

He can't tell. He can never tell. He often wants to ask these other husbands what they think of their wives. Are they scared of them too? Do they hate them? Do they ever have fantasies of pushing their wives down on the bed and ripping off their underpants and giving it to them in the butt? (James sort of tried something like that at the beginning with Winnie, but she slapped him and wouldn't talk to him for three days afterward.) Sometimes James thinks Winnie is scared that he's going to leave her. But she never says she's scared. Instead, she says something like "We've been married for seven years and have a child. I'd get half of everything, you know, if we ever got divorced. If d be awfully hard for you to live on half of what we own and only your income minus child support." (What Winnie doesn't know is that James is more afraid that she'll leave him, because she's right: It would be impossible for him to live without her income. And he wouldn't want to leave his boy.) James tries not to think about this too much, because when he does think about it, he doesn't feel like the man in the relationship. When he doesn't feel like the man, he asks himself what Winnie would ask him if she knew he were feeling that way. Specifically: What does it mean to "feel like a man,” anyway? What does "a man" feel like? And since he never can answer those questions, he has to agree with Winnie—even thinking that way is passe. Winnie told James this story on their second date: In the seventies, she smoked marijuana (age fourteen), let boys feel her up (and down) at sixteen, and lost her virginity the summer she was seventeen, to a neighborhood boy who was eighteen and very goodlooking (she'd had a crush on him for years, but he never paid any attention to her until the night he sensed she would let him have sex with her. Winnie didn't tell James that part). After he came, he drove her the half mile to her house (they did it in the basement of his parents' house, where he had a cot set up).

He wasn't impressed that she was going to Smith in the fall, and he didn't care that she was number three in her high school class (tolerable only because the two students above her were boys). She learned that in certain situations, achievement and intelligence were not a guarantee against being treated badly, and she vowed never to be in that situation again. Winnie's birthday is coming, and James is scared.

Winnie has a sister and a brother. Everybody loves Winnie's brother. He graduated (from?) UCLA film school and just finished an important documentary about adolescent sex slaves in China. (He sold it to The Learning Channel. Nobody is worried about him.) Everybody is worried about Winnie's sister, Evie ("Evil" Winnie calls her sometimes), who is two years younger than Winnie. Eight summers ago, Evie had to go to rehab. Hazelden. Since then, she changes her mind about what she wants to do every six months. Actress. Landscape architect. Singer. Real estate agent. Novelist. Movie director. Fashion designer. Now she wants to be a journalist. Like Winnie.

The week before, Evie showed up at a very important, very serious party for a journalist who had just written a book about a right-wing politician. (He was a New York Times journalist who wrote a book about every five years. His books are always favorably reviewed in The New York Times Book Review. This is what Winnie wants for James.) Evie's blouse was un buttoned too low «ind she was showing off her breasts. (She used to be fairly flat-chested, like Winnie, but a couple of years ago, her breasts mysteriously grew. Winnie thinks she had breast implants, but they never talk about it.) Evie walked right up to the important journalist and kept him engaged in conversation so no one else could talk to him. The other women were fuming. They stood around the crudités platter chomping on carrot sticks. They rolled their eyes and gave Evie dirty looks. But they couldn't "take care of Evie the way they normally would have, because Evie was Winnie's sister.

The next day, Winnie got a phone call from a female colleague who found out that Evie had gone to the important journalist's hotel room and spent the night with him. "Winnie, I just want you to know that I'm not going to judge you by your sister's behavior," she said. Then Evie herself called. "I think I'm going to get an assignment from The New York Times, " she squealed.

"Stay out of my life," Winnie warned her (quietly). Then she added (cleverly), "Why don't you get a job at a fashion magazine, if you want to be a journalist so much?”

"Oh no," Evie said. She swallowed loudly. She was drinking a Diet Coke. She drank five Diet Cokes a day. (Just another thing to be addicted to, Winnie thought.) "I'm going to change my life. I'm going to be really successful. Just like my big sis.”

Evie is a mess, and sometimes James wonders if he should have married her instead.

James sees Evie as little as possible, but every year he asks her to help him pick out Winnie's birthday present. At first he did it "as a treat for Evie" (it was good for Evie to spend time around a man who wasn't a user, an asshole, or a scumbag—and Winnie agreed). But then he realized that she was attracted to him.

He calls her up. "Evie," he says.

"Hey, bro," Evie says. "Did you hear about my night with ... ," she says, naming the serious important journalist. "And I might get my first assignment.

With The New York Times. I think That’s pretty great, don't you?" Evie is always chipper, and always acts as though her behavior is that of a normal, decent person. (She is in denial, James thinks.) "Ifs Winnie's birthday," James says (staying in control by getting right to the point).

"I know," she says.

"Any suggestions?" he asks. "I think I want to get her something from Barneys. Jewelry.”

"No, Jimmy," Evie says. "You can't afford jewelry worth giving anyone.”

(This is why everyone hates you, he thinks.) "So what, then?" he says.

"Shoes," she says. "Winnie needs a great pair of high-heeled sexy shoes.”

"Okay," he says, knowing that high-heeled sexy shoes are the last thing that Winnie would want (or need). He agrees to meet Evie in the shoe department at Bloomingdale's. He hangs up the phone and feels scared.

Then he realizes he has a hard-on.

On the day of Winnie Dieke's thirty-eighth birthday, James Dieke wakes up and is scared. Winnie Dieke wakes up and is depressed. Not that she has anything to be depressed about. She has, after all, hit all her life landmarks in style: first job at twenty-two, first major assignment for a prestigious magazine at twenty-seven, met future husband at twenty-eight, married at thirty, established herself as a "serious journalist" at thirty-one, co-op apartment at thirty one, pregnant at thirty-two, own column at thirty four.

For the past few weeks, Winnie has been spending a lot of time (too much time, which she knows should be spent thinking about other things, like ideas) reminding herself of everything she's achieved. Reminding herself how clever she is not to be one of those desperate single women (like Evie). But something is wrong.

Winnie doesn't want to admit it (she never wants to admit that there possibly could be anything wrong with her life), but that something might be James.

Lately, she's been worried about James. (Irritated, actually, but worried is such a better way to look at it.) James hasn't been holding up his end of the bargain. He should have written a major, important work by now (preferably about politics: so easy, considering the political climate), which would have elevated her status in the journalistic world as his wife (she didn't take his last name for no reason). If James had written an important, influential book by now, they would have access to more important, influential people. They would be more important, influential people. But instead, James keeps writing the same kind of pieces. And agonizing over them. Half the time now, James calls her up during the day and says, "I can't write. I'm stuck. I'm blocked.”

"Oh please, James," she'll say. "I've got a kazillion things going on. I've got the CEO of a major corporation on the other line. If you're blocked, go to the supermarket and pick up something for dinner. And make sure it doesn't have any fat in it." Then she'll hang up. She wishes he would just get on with it. James is frustrated and Winnie is frustrated but they can't talk about it.

When Winnie tries, when she gently suggests (the way shrinks are always telling you to do it, picking the "right" moment, when you're both relaxed) that maybe he should really get to work on a book proposal, he sulks. He turns on the TV and watches some idiotic, mindless show like Hercules. Sometimes Winnie freaks out and unplugs the TV. Sometimes she just screams. But the argument always ends with Winnie shouting, "Do I have to do everything? Do I have to work and take care of our child" (even though she doesn't really take care of the child—the nanny does most of the caretaking, and Winnie only spends an hour with him in the morning and two hours in the evening) "and keep our careers on track? Do I have to make us famous?”

"We're already famous," James shouts back (thinking, You make me sick and why did I marry you?

but never having the nerve to say it, because Winnie would probably leave and people would find out). "We're as famous as we're going to get, Winnie. What else do you want me to do?”

"I'm doing more," Winnie says, calmer now, because she doesn't have the stamina to go on screaming forever (but she does, James thinks, have the stamina to do enough screaming). "Why don't we move to Washington?”

"I don't want to rrove to Washington. All my editors are here," James says. And then he plugs in the TV or retrieves the remote control from where it has been flung under a chair, and goes back to watching Hercules.

Winnie and James never tell their friends about these arguments. On the weekends, when they're hiking or gardening or antiquing with their friends (everybody piles into somebody's car and they go to a nursery and buy plants or go "poking around" in western Connecticut), they present a united front: They respect and admire each other and each other's work and they are best friends. Even when they had that horrendous discussion with their friends one Saturday evening (they all agreed the next morning that maybe a little too much red wine had been consumed four bottles between the eight of them—and vowed never to let it happen again) about what social class they were from and what social class they now belonged to, they all remained good friends.

And they might not have. While Winnie's class background was established beyond a doubt ("textbook, practically," James had said)—she came from a well-to-do Irish family and grew up in a ten-room colonial house on twenty acres in Pennsylvania, where her father was a judge—James's was not. His father owned three dry-cleaning stores on Long Island. Dry cleaning was definitely blue-collar, but no one could agree on whether or not the fact that he "owned three stores" elevated him to white-collar.

James knows what is wrong with his life. With his writing. He's been losing his drive at about the same rate that he's been losing his hard-on.

On the morning of Winnie's birthday, James Dieke wakes up and is afraid. He's going to do something to Winnie. Something she won't like. And he's excited.

At noon, James goes to Bloomingdale's to meet Winnie's sister. As he walks toward the shoe department, he realizes his worst fear has taken place Evie is not there.

He stands in the middle of the shoe department, not knowing what to do. Everybody is watching him.

He is on display (like a shoe). He picks up a shoe and puts it down. A salesman comes over. What kind of a man is a salesman in a women's shoe department? The man asks if he can help him. James says, "No, I'm waiting for someone. My wife. It's her birthday." Why has he lied to the salesman? Why has he told him anything? What if the man (a stranger) finds out that Evie is not his wife? He will think Evie is his mistress. What if Evie were his mistress? What if he were secretly fucking his wife's sister? (It could happen. Evie fucks everyone, has a new boyfriend every two weeks, sleeps with married men, sleeps with men she meets in classes at the Learning Annex, at AA, at the snack bar in the Met.) When Winnie is feeling charitable, she says that they shouldn't judge Evie, that Evie can't help herself because she's a sex addict.

James walks around the shoe department. He thinks about leaving, about teaching Evie a lesson. (He can think of lots of lessons he'd like to teach Evie.) But she might show up any minute. He sits down.

He tries to look comfortable. (He's getting angry.) When he was four, he once got separated from his mother while she was shopping at Bloomingdale's. He had wandered into the lingerie department. It was full of pointy bras and girdles hanging from racks above his head. It was like a forest, and he had circled around and around, thinking he was going to see his mother around the next clump of Lycra (was it Lycra they used then, or something else?). He didn't. He sat down. He cried. (He wanted to scream.) He was scared, more scared than he'd ever been in his life, before or since. And angry. He thought his mother had abandoned him. On purpose. He didn't know what to do. (He was just a little boy.) "Hello, Jimmy." Evie comes up behind him and puts her hands over his eyes. He doesn't move. (He must not reward her inappropriate behavior. But he feels silly sitting in the shoe department at Bloom ingdale's with a sexy woman's hands over his eyes.) "Dammit, Evie," he says. "I don't have much time." (Reminding her of whom she is dealing with.) "Deadline?" Evie says (smartly, he thinks).

"I'm always on deadline," he says. "Ifs about responsibility. Something you're not familiar with.”

"Gee, thanks," Evie says. She is a little bit crushed, he can tell. But he has to crush her. (He can't let her flirt with him. Evie must learn about boundaries. Then maybe she'll be able to find a man, keep him, and get married. Become a healthy member of society.) "Let’s make this quick, then," Evie says. She turns and smiles. "I've got a deadline too. I wanted it to be a surprise, a wonderful surprise for you and Winnie. I got that assignment from The New York Times!

Oh Jimmy," she says. "You're going to have to help me. I'm going to be calling you every day, asking for advice. You don't mind, do you?”

"How'd you do that?" James asks. He wants to be happy for her, but he can't. Evie doesn't deserve to get an assignment from The New York Times. She's never written a piece before in her life. He wants to scream (as he so often wants to scream these days), What is the world coming to? "Well, good for you," he says.

Evie picks out some shoes. All high-heeled sandals. Fuck-me shoes, Winnie would call them. He watches as Evie's foot slides into the sandal. She has good legs. Great legs, actually. She models the shoes, turning this way and that. "Jimmy," she says, "I really want you to be happy for me. I'm trying. Trying to make something out of my life. Why can't you and Winnie be supportive? For a change.”

"We are," James says.

Evie puts her hand on his shoulder for balance as she leans down to take off the shoe. He doesn't brush her hand away. She looks at him suggestively, and for once, he looks at her suggestively back. If she can break the rules, he thinks, maybe he can too.

He spends four hours shoe-shopping with Evie.

They go to Barneys. Bergdorfs. Saks. They go to lunch (Gino's). Evie drinks wine and he does too (he objects at first, ordering bottled mineral water, but then, after Evie has nearly consumed her first glass, he quietly orders a glass for himself, over his shoulder, as if she might not notice). Finally, they decide on the perfect pair of shoes for Winnie. Manolo Blahniks. Sandals. The shoes cost five hundred dollars.

He pays gleefully. He and Evie part on the street corner. "I'm going to call you tomorrow," she says. "So we can discuss my article.”

"It's a piece, Evie, a piece. Not an article," he says. He walks away. The little bit of alcohol (and it really was only a little bit, one glass only) is wearing off and he feels slightly queasy, like a thing that's been left out in the elements for too long. What has he done (has he done anything)? He hails a cab. For the first time in his marriage, he wishes he didn't have to go home. (But he can't think of where he'd like to go instead.)

Winnie still considers it her job to be the goodlooking one in the relationship. Being good-looking is part of mastering the world. It is part of being perfect. (It is not about being beautiful. Beautiful women are self-indulgent. Beautiful women are stupid because they don't have to try.) She is five-seven and weighs 125 pounds. If she let herself go, let her body reach its natural weight, she'd probably weigh between 130 and 135 pounds. But she won't let herself go. (Ifs about control.) Winnie thinks about weight a lot (probably too much. She should be thinking about more important things, like ideas. But who can help it?). She is very, very against women's magazines using skinny young models. It's one of her pet peeves. (She wrote a two part series about the topic, called "Skin and Bones is Not Sexy," and afterward, she went on two newsmagazine programs on TV, where she destroyed her opponent, a fashion editor from a women's magazine.) But she would never want to be "fat" herself.

(She feels bad when she sees friends who have gained weight. She feels superior. But only because she knows they are unhappy.) She keeps her weight under control by running around the reservoir in Central Park every weekday morning at seven a.m. (she knows it could be dangerous, but it would be more dangerous to gain weight). She weighs herself afterward. Examines her naked body in the mirror.

Turns sideways to make sure her stomach isn't bulging and her breasts aren't sagging. But they both are. A little bit. (Ifs frustrating. It makes her hate herself. She reminds herself that she's had a child, which doesn't help much.) If she is two pounds overweight, she takes care of it. Taking care of herself is part of being a nice girl.

Sometimes, when Winnie looks around (meaning her office or the sites she goes to on the Internet), she feels like she's the only nice girl left in the world. (Sometimes she feels like ifs a crime.) When Winnie was growing up, everyone was from a "nice" family. (They might not have been that nice behind closed doors, but no one talked about it.) Winnie's mother was always perfectly dressed. Her house was beautifully decorated (with antiques and silk draperies).

She cooked and cleaned. Winnie didn't. And her mother didn't make her. They both knew that Winnie would have "a career" and "a cleaning lady." (They would never call anyone "a maid" or "a servant.") Her father was remote but not unpleasant. He was just a father, like everybody else's father. He wasn't that important. He paid the bills. Her parents are still married.

Sometimes, when Winnie looks around, at the young women who now work in her office, she wonders what happened to the nice girl. (She knows what her assistant would say: "The nice girl is s-o-o-o-o-o over." Then she would look at Winnie. She wouldn't say anything. She wouldn't have to. Winnie would know what she was thinking: that Winnie was over.) None of the young women are nice girls anymore (and they don't care). They wear black and flaunt their (ample, sometimes already sagging) bosoms. They wear short skirts. Dresses that look like lingerie. They have tattoos. And piercings.

They live downtown in dirty little apartments and have sex a lot and talk to one another about it the next day. No one can say anything to them. Everyone is afraid of sexual harassment.

Sometimes (and Winnie can't believe this) Winnie is afraid of them. She can't believe she is already ten years older than they are. She has nothing in common with them. Even when she was ten years younger, she wasn't like them. She was more ambitious. And more focused. She didn't use sex to get ahead. (Although she did marry James, which, she has to admit, didn't exactly hurt her career.) She didn't come to the office hungover, and she didn't take drugs. (Last year, one of these young women was caught shooting up heroin in the ladies' room. She was found nodding out in a stall. By a cleaning lady. The girl was sent to rehab. She wasn't fired. She couldn't be. She came back two months later. Eventually, she was gently moved to another magazine.) These young women aren't scared of anything. (They're hungry. And arrogant. They'll do anything to get ahead.) Last year, two young women were caught plagiarizing. One of them plagiarized two paragraphs from a piece Winnie had written three years before. When Winnie read it, she felt sick. (She felt violated. By another woman. She couldn't believe another woman would do this to her. She thought women were supposed to stick together.) Nothing happened. (Winnie complained. The management said she should be flattered the young woman plagiarized her. It was a compliment.) Eventually the young woman was promoted.

Winnie would like to try to be friends with these young women. But she's afraid the gulf is too wide. She would like to say, "Hey, when I was young, I was a rebel too." But she knows they would look at her blankly. (That’s what they always do. To gain control. Stare blankly.) She would like to tell them that when she was a teenager, wanting to move to New York City and do "great things" was considered daring. As was having seven lovers before she met James. (One was a one-night stand. And one was an affair with a professor. Who was twenty years older. He was the first man to perform oral sex on her.) But she won't tell them. She knows they would laugh. She knows that, by the time they've gotten to twenty-five, these young girls have already had a hundred lovers. (And probably a venereal disease. Or an infection. From a piercing or a tattoo.) On the day of Winnie Dieke's thirty-eighth birthday, she wakes up and feels depressed.

That afternoon, Winnie does what she has been doing on the afternoon of her birthday for the past ten years: She goes to Elizabeth Arden.

She pampers.

She has her hair highlighted and blown dry. She has a manicure and a facial. She has a bikini wax. (She would never shave down there. Shaving reminds her of what happened when she had the baby.

She's not sure she wants to do that again.) The bikini wax hurts. She hates it, but she has one every two months. It gives her ingrown hairs, which she sometimes picks at absently with a pair of old tweezers before she gets into bed. (James ignores this. He has gross habits too, like picking his nose while he's reading and rolling the snot into a little ball and examining it before he flicks it away onto the carpet.) During the bikini wax, Winnie wears paper panties. She has to spread her legs a little (but only a little, she tells herself), and the woman (the facialist) has to touch her a little down there. They both pretend that she isn't, just as Winnie desperately tries to pretend that she isn't thinking about sex. But she always does. She tries not to. She tries not to think about the young women in her office and how they've probably had sex with other women as well as men. Tries not to imagine that women know what other women want. They want someone to spread their legs. Instead, Winnie wonders what will happen when she gets gray hairs. Down there. It's going to happen someday. What will James think?

Does she care?

She and James don't have sex much anymore. When they do, if s always the same. He performs oral sex on her. She has an orgasm. They have intercourse. He comes. Winnie has never had an orgasm from "just fucking." (She doesn't believe ifs possible. She secretly thinks that women who say they can are faking it.) After the bikini wax, when the woman leaves the room and Winnie puts on her own underpants (practical black cotton bikinis), she always wants to touch herself down there, but she doesn't. There are limits to how far she will go. Especially when it comes to being "sexy." She will not wear lingerie. Overly short skirts. See-through blouses. Or ridiculous shoes. "What are these, James?" she asks later, standing in the bedroom. The strappy sandal, so delicate it looks like it might break from simply walking across a room, dangles from her finger.

"If s your birthday present," James says.

"Why?" Winnie asks.

"You don't like them," James says in a hurt voice (knowing if s the only way he might possibly get out of this horrendous situation he's created, which he is beginning to enjoy).

"You know I don't wear shoes like this. I don't approve of shoes like this," Winnie says. "Evie got that assignment from The New York Times, " he says.

"Did Evie pick out these shoes?" Winnie asks.

"If s disgusting. She got it by sleeping with ...," he says, naming the famous journalist Evie picked up at the book party a couple of weeks before. "She says she's still seeing him.”

Winnie looks at James. When she first met him, she wanted to be him. (Everybody wanted to be James then. He was going to have a big career. The kind of career that Winnie wanted. James was the next best thing.) "Do you think people still want to be you, James?”

she asks. Casually. (He knows that when Winnie asks these questions out of left field she is laying a trap for him. But he's too weary, and a little hungover, to figure this one out.) "Why would anybody want to be me?" James asks.

"That’s just what I was wondering," Winnie says. She carefully packs the sandals back into their box. "This is really a pain, you know," she says. "I want to return these, but I don't know when I'm going to have the time.”

"Do it on your lunch hour.”

"I don't have a lunch hour," Winnie says. "Not anymore. The magazine is expanding my column. To two pages. So I'm going to be twice as busy.”

"Well, good for you.”

"Can't you sound a little more excited? I'm a big deal now.”

"I am excited," James says. "Can't you tell?”

“Why don't you get dressed now, James," Winnie says.

He and Winnie are going out. He changes his shirt and puts on a tie. He feels angry. (He can never do anything right.) He taught Winnie everything she knows (or thinks he did). When they first met, Winnie would sit for hours, listening to him and asking him questions about his work. When she got drunk (they used to get drunk quite a bit at the beginning and have easy, passionate sex), she would sometimes say that she wanted to be a serious journalist too.

That she had ambitions and aspirations. That she was smart. James never really paid attention. He wouldn't have cared if she was dumb. (And now he sometimes wishes that she were. Dumb.) At first, James saw Winnie as one-dimensional. And only in relation to him. She was the high school girl he could never get in high school. Then he saw that she had other qualities. With Winnie, situations that felt awkward before (parties, socializing) felt natural. After a year, everyone started asking when they were going to get married. Suddenly, he found himself asking the same question. (He wasn't sure where it came from. Inside? Or was he just repeating what everyone else was saying?) She wasn't perfect (he couldn't put his finger on why), but he didn't think he'd meet anyone better. Plus, all his friends were getting married. Buying co-ops. Having kids (or talking about it). He would be the odd man out again, like in high school.

And he's still the odd man out. (He wishes he were still with Evie. He wishes he were getting a blow job from her right now.) "Come on, James," Winnie says.

They go to Bouley for Winnie's birthday, where, as usual, they pretend (and it really is just pretending now, James thinks) to get along. When the bill comes, they each put down their credit cards and take their receipts, which they will turn in to their magazines as a business expense.

"Have you read it?" James asks. If s a few days later. Sunday morning. Early. The Sunday morning Evie's piece is scheduled to appear in The New York Times. "Read what?" Winnie asks. She's in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. If s really the only time she cooks (if you can call it that, James thinks), cutting grapefruit and putting out slices of smoked salmon and smearing cream cheese on bagels. "Evie's piece," James says.

"Oh. Is it in this weekend?”

“She says it is.”

"Really?" Winnie says. "I haven't talked to her.”

“She calls me," James says.

"I hope you don't talk to her either.”

"She's still seeing ... , " he says, naming the famous important journalist.

"That's nice," Winnie says. She puts the platters out on the dining room table. She unfolds a paper napkin. She begins eating.

"Aren't you curious?" James asks.

"I'll get to it later," Winnie says. "In the meantime, I'm thinking that maybe we should run our salon more efficiently. Maybe we should e-mail people a question the day before, so everyone has time to think about their answers. I think we'll get better responses that way.”

"I thought we were" (you were, James thinks) "getting good responses.”

"We can always do better, can't we, James?”

Winnie eats two bagels stuffed with cream cheese and salmon. "Be right back," she says. "Have to brush my teeth. Onions.”

She goes into the bathroom, and, as she has been doing after almost every meal lately, sticks her ringer down her throat and throws up.

When she returns, James is reading the paper. "You're disgusting,'' she says.

"What? I'm not supposed to read the Times just because Evie has a piece in it?”

"Oh come on, James," Winnie says. She snatches up half of the paper. She begins turning the pages (she can't help herself, James thinks, she can never help herself). Finally, she gets to the Styles section. There, under the heading "Thing" is a tiny box with a story on meat loaf. At the bottom is Evie's byline. "Did you know about this?" Winnie asks.

"What?”

"Evie's 'piece.'" Winnie tosses the paper to him. She stands up. "Are there any more bagels left? I'm still hungry.”

In the afternoon, Winnie calls Evie. "Congratulations," she says.

"Hey!" Evie says. "Thanks.”

"So how does it feel to be a journalist?”

"Great," Evie says. "I'm working on another piece for them next week. See? I got the lingo right. I said 'piece/ not 'article.' " There is the sound of shuffling in the background. Evie laughs. "Can you hold on?”

“Is someone there?" Winnie asks. (God, Evie is so rude, she thinks.) "Mmmm, yeah ...," Evie says, naming the famous important journalist.

"That’s perfect/' Winnie says. "Because James and I wanted to know if you and ...," she says, naming the serious important journalist, "wanted to come to dinner next week. Our treat. We'll work it around his schedule. Oh, and Evie?”

"Yes?" Evie says, somewhat suspiciously.

"Just remember one thing," Winnie says. "What’s that?" Evie says.

"You're one of us now," Winnie says (smoothly, so that Evie won't suspect how difficult it is for her to choke out those words). "And we are the media.”

II

Winnie has developed a bad habit and she can't help herself.

Every morning now, when she enters her office a large black building on Sixth Avenue that screams "I'm important"—she hurries through the lobby and into the elevator (she once calculated that she spends an hour a day waiting for elevators and riding in them, and wishes someone would invent a faster one), walks quickly along the beige-carpeted hallway and enters her office—a small, bland white room with a window, three sickly spider plants, and a small blue couch—and flips on her computer.

She types in her password. Takes off her coat. Types in "www.ama" and hits enter, at which point the computer goes immediately to Amazon.com. And then (she can't help herself, she can never help herself) she types in the name of the serious, important journalist.

She has been doing this every morning for the past two weeks.

She checks his book's sales ranking, then she scrolls down over the reader reviews.

Her favorite one is this: Boring and Utterly Pointless "Imagine if your most boring poly-sci professor wrote a book and forced everyone in the class to read it? You (sic) want to kill the guy, right? Read the ingredients on your cereal box instead. It's more interesting.”

As always, Winnie feels thrilled and terrified at the same time.

Ever since she discovered the site (she'd known about it before but didn't acknowledge it, as people like her still bought their books from actual bookstores), she hasn't known what to think. Part of her is outraged. These people shouldn't be buying books. They're too stupid to read. They have no imagination. No ability to read and comprehend. If a book doesn't conform to what they believe about the world in their own narrow, unsophisticated minds, they pan it. They're like the dumb kids in class who never understood what the teacher was talking about and got angry instead of understanding what everyone else in the class understood—that they were too dumb to understand. But part of her is (not even secretly) afraid that they might be right. The book is a little boring. Winnie read two chapters and skipped to the end and didn't pick it up again. But if s an important book. Why does some git in Seattle who's probably never written more than an e-mail have the right to pan it? To tell other people not to buy it?

The world is not right. (Or is it right, and she's not? Maybe she's like the dumb kid in the class. But she knows she isn't. Dumb. Sometimes she thinks there should be a test for dumbness while a baby is still in the womb, and all the dumb fetuses should be aborted. She knows what the argument against it would be: "Who will decide what dumb is?" She has the answer: She would. She'd be happy to decide.) Then she checks the sites of the ten or so other writers she and James know who have published books in the last year. She checks their sales ratings. If the ratings are very bad, like around 286,000, she can't help it. She feels good.

She has to stop doing this. But she can't. If s research. What will happen if James writes a book? She wants to be prepared. She will have to numb herself against the inevitable bad reader reviews. She knows she can't take them personally, but she will. She takes everything personally. Especially herself.

Maybe it would be better if James didn't write a book. (Maybe it would be better if they moved to Vermont and worked for a small local newspaper. After two months, it would be like they were dead everyone they knew would forget about them, and Winnie isn't ready to do that. Yet.) The phone rings. She picks it up. "Yes/' she says.

"If s me." (If s James.) "Hi," she says. She suddenly remembers that she has all these things to do. Like work.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm stressed. I've got a kazillion things to do." You've always got a kazillion things to do, and I wish you'd shut up about it, James thinks. Wondering: Why don't you pay attention to me? Why don't you make me feel good? Why is it always about you?

Aloud, he says, "I got a call this morning. From Clay. Tanner's coming to town.”

"Is he?" Winnie says. She isn't sure how she feels about this information yet.

"He has a movie premiere. On Thursday.”

"Ugh," Winnie says. For the first time in days, she knows that James is thinking the same thing she is. "Another—”

"Yup. Bang-'em-up, shoot-'em-up, big-budget movie, courtesy of Paramount Pictures.”

"I suppose we have to go," Winnie says, emitting a long sigh.

"You don't have to," James says. "But I'm going to.”

"If you're going, I'm going," Winnie says. "Fine," James says in a small voice. "Don't you want me to go?" Winnie says. Threatening.

(Why does she always become immediately threatening? James thinks. Even wasps let you swat them away before they sting you.) "I do want you to go," James says. "But you hate things like that.”

"I don't.”

“You do.”

"I don't hate them. I think they're boring. You know how I feel about celebrity worship.”

“Tanner wants me to be there," James says. "I'm sure he wants us both to be there. But that doesn't mean we have to do whatever Tanner wants.”

"He's only in town twice a year," James says. "I want to go.”

(I'm sure you do, Winnie thinks. So you can ogle dumb blondes.) "Fine," she says. She hangs up the phone.

Now she has to be "concerned" (a much better word, more accurate than "worried") about James for a week. Specifically about what he's going to do (how he's going to behave) when Tanner is in town. She will spend hours (time that should be spent doing something important, like thinking of ideas) reacting to James's as yet unenacted behavior. She will obsess over if/then scenarios. Such as: If James stays out all night with Tanner (again), then she will divorce him. If James flirts (pitifully, desperately) with the actresses in the film (again), then she will lock him out of the house. If James drinks too much and throws up out the cab window (again), then she will throw all his clothes out the window. (James does not understand that he is skating on thin ice. Very thin ice.) His black marks are mounting: She's known him for ten years and still can't trust him. He doesn't do exactly what he's supposed to do. He can't be relied upon (even to get the right groceries at the supermarket). He acts like a baby (he is a big grown-up baby).

He's turning out not to be important. (And he doesn't pay the bills.) She might (actually) be better off without him: It would mean one less person to take care of. Winnie hits a button on her computer and goes to her e-mails.

Her assistant comes into her office. Winnie looks up. The assistant's dark hair is messy. She is wearing sloppily applied red lipstick; a short black skirt with no stockings; a rumpled black V-neck sweater (at least she is wearing a bra); clunky black shoes. She looks like (pardon the expression) someone rode her hard and put her away wet.

The assistant flops down on the couch. "What’s up?" she says. (What's up? Like Winnie is the assistant and has just plopped into her office.) Winnie is never sure how to respond to this greeting.

"How are you?" she says. Briskly. Reminding the assistant that this is an office. And she is her boss.

The assistant picks at her manicure. Fingernails painted a mud brown. "I've got a urinary tract infection. I'm wondering if I can take the rest of the day off.”

Someone did ride her hard and put her away wet.

"No," Winnie says. "I've got that big Internet conference this afternoon and I need you here. To cover the office." (The magazine is expanding their Web site, and they want Winnie to be involved. Very involved. It could mean more money.) "It hurts," the assistant says.

(Winnie wants to tell her—scream at her—to stop having so much sex, but she can't.) "Buy some cranberry juice. And take five thousand milligrams of vitamin C”

The assistant just sits there. "Is that it?" she asks.

"Is what it?" Winnie says. "What you just said.”

“About what?”

"About you know.”

(No, I don't know, Winnie wants to scream.) "I don't understand.”

“Neither do I.”

“About what?”

"Whatever," the assistant says. She stands up. She goes back to her cubicle. (Like a dog.) Winnie tries to concentrate on her e-mails. Her shrink tells her not to envision if/then scenarios. What if Tanner kept James out for two nights and James slept with prostitutes? What then?

She can't help herself. She can never help herself.

In the week before Tanner comes, Winnie is concerned and James is excited. They both know something bad could happen, and they're going to have to talk about it.

James and Winnie know when Tanner comes to town, James can get away with doing bad things. Tanner is bad. (He's a bad influence.) Tanner is so bad, in fact, that when James does bad things with him, Winnie always blames Tanner. Winnie thinks (knows?) that James would never do these bad things if it weren't for Tanner. And she's right. James wouldn't. He doesn't have the guts to defy Winnie. But Tanner does. Tanner doesn't care what Winnie thinks. (He probably thinks she's boring. Which James is beginning to think himself. He wishes Winnie would do something interesting, like go away.

Then maybe he could fall in love with her again.

Or find somebody else. Like a six-foot-tall Swedish woman with large breasts.) Winnie would like to control Tanner (the way she controls James), but she can't. Winnie can't do anything to Tanner.

Tanner is a big movie star and Winnie is not.

Tanner is a celebrity. Compared to Tanner, Winnie is an insignificant journalist. Compared to Tanner, Winnie is a woman. Women don't mean anything to Tanner, except as something to have sex with. (James wishes he could feel the same way. If he did, maybe then he would feel like a man. But he can't. Winnie is the mother of his child. She grew their son inside her body. Green stuff came out right after his son emerged, and he wished someone had warned him it was coming. It was like the green stuff in the body of a lobster. Sometimes, when he is performing oral sex on Winnie, he thinks about the green stuff. He can't help it. He feels guilty. And sometimes he thinks about that time he had sex in college. With the crazy girl. Who asked him to fuck her up the butt and then gave him a blow job afterward. He felt guilty about that too.) But more than anything, Tanner is a man. When James and Tanner were roommates at Harvard, Tanner had one or two different women every weekend.

(And once five. He fucked every one of them, too.) Women chased him. They sent him notes. They called. They threatened suicide and Tanner had no respect for them. He didn't have to. "Let the bitch kill herself," he once said. James laughed, but later, he couldn't help himself, he called the girl and took her out for a coffee. He listened to her talk about Tanner for three hours, and then he tried to fuck her. (She would only let him put his fingers in her vagina. "I want Tanner," she sobbed through the whole pitiful, aborted encounter.) James thinks (and Winnie thinks too) that someday, something bad is going to happen to Tanner. It has to. He'll get arrested or (Winnie hopes) he'll fall in love and the woman won't fall in love back, or (James hopes) he'll do three bad movies in a row and his career will be over. But it never does happen. Instead, Tanner keeps getting richer and more successful. He makes bad blockbuster movies, and the critics are beginning to take him seriously. He dates female movie stars and has affairs on the side. He plays golf and skis. He smokes cigars (and does drugs whenever he wants). He supports the Democratic Party. He makes at least twenty million dollars a year (and maybe more). For doing (James thinks) nothing.

James would like to hate Tanner, but he can't. He would, however, hate him if he were not his friend. He would probably agree with Winnie—that Tanner is the product of a misguided, badly educated, shallow society that elevates people solely on the basis of their looks, and if the public really knew what Tanner Hart was like, they wouldn't shell out seven or eight or nine dollars to see him in a movie.

On the other hand, they probably would.

And if they didn't, they would probably want Tanner to do something worse. Much worse. Like lead an army and rape and pillage.

This is, James thinks, the thing that Winnie doesn't understand about men. And never will understand.

It is, James thinks happily, the thing that will prevent Winnie from ever really becoming a threat to his masculinity. It is what allows him to stay home and visit porn sites on the Internet or play chess against his computer, or even hang around with his boy, playing violent computer games (James does feel a little guilty about this, but he tells himself he's preparing his boy for the real world, and besides, the boy is so good at them, quick and clever) while Winnie goes to work in a high-rise office building. (She thinks she's a man, but she's not, James thinks, even if she does wear suits, and, when he met her, shirts with straps that tied around the neck like a bow tie.) This is the thing that James knows and Winnie doesn't: Men can't be tamed.

Men are by nature violent.

Men always want to have sex with lots of different females.

James has always known this (don't all men know this, and haven't they been telling women for the past thirty years, but the women haven't been listening?). But now, he thinks, he knows it in a different way.

James has been reading up on chimpanzees. He's been studying everything he can about chimps.

Chimps are violent. They sneak off in the middle of the night and raid other chimp tribes. The big chimps (the alpha males) pick out a small chimp (a beta male) and kill him mercilessly while the small chimp screams in pain and terror. Then the alpha chimps steal a few female chimps and have sex with them.

At first, James began looking into this chimp business (as he's begun to think of it) to get even with Winnie. (He can't remember what he was planning to get even with her for.) But then he got into it. Lately, he's been looking up scientific articles on the Internet. E-mailing researchers. He isn't sure how all this information adds up, but he knows there's a piece in there somewhere. An important piece. James has a theory: Tanner is an alpha male.

This is why Tanner can get away with whatever he wants, and James can applaud him. (Hell, James can be bad with him and get away with it.) "Winnie," James says, when she gets home from work and has taken off her shoes (she always takes off her shoes as soon as she gets home. She says they hurt, even though her shoes tend to be sensible one inch loafers). "I think I've got an idea for a new piece.”

"Hold on," Winnie says.

"Winnie," James says. He follows her. She has gone into their son's tiny bedroom, where he is trying to read a book about dinosaurs to the Jamaican nanny.

"Pur ... pur ...," the boy says.

"Purple," Winnie says. (Impatiently, James thinks. Winnie has no patience for their son, has no patience for children in general.) "You should let him figure it out for himself,”

James says. Knowing by the expression on Winnie's face that he has said the wrong thing. Again. "James," Winnie says. "If I waited for everyone around me to figure it out on their own, I'd be waiting for the rest of my life.”

"I suppose you're talking about me," James says.

"I don't know what I'm talking about anymore," Winnie says. Lying. She just wants to avoid a fight. James follows Winnie into the kitchen. Winnie takes off her earrings and puts them on the kitchen counter. She opens the refrigerator door and takes out three carrot sticks.

"I think I'm going to do a piece on chimpanzees/' James says.

Winnie says nothing. She raises her eyebrows and bites a carrot stick in half.

"There are all these new theories," James says. "Theories that can apply to humans. For instance, Tanner is an alpha male.”

"Did you talk to Tanner?" Winnie says.

"No," James says. "But I'm going to talk to him. About this theory. I could even write about him. Use him as an example.”

Winnie gives a short, mean laugh. "You know his publicists would never let you do that.”

"I could change his name.”

"Did you talk to Clay?" Winnie says. (Ignoring him again. She used to suck up to him when he talked to her about his work.) "I told you I did. How else would I know Tanner was coming to town?”

"How are .. . Clay and Veronica?”

"I don't know," James says. Helplessly. Once again, he's losing control of the conversation. "Is Veronica still threatening to divorce Clay?”

“Was she threatening to divorce him?”

"That’s what she said. The last time we saw her. When Tanner was in town.”

"Oh yeah. I remember," James says. He has to be conciliatory. If s his only chance now. Somehow Winnie has managed to turn the conversation around to a slippery, potentially unpleasant, topic. In which he is about to lose.

"I wish Clay would wise up," Winnie says. "She's going to walk if Clay behaves the way he did the last time Tanner was in town.”

"Have you talked to Veronica?" James asks.

"I only talk to her when Tanner is in town. Really, James, I don't have time.”

"I know.”

"And she's not that interesting. At the end of the day, she's just a housewife.”

"You're right.”

"Do you mind?" Winnie says. "I've still got some calls to make. We had that big Internet meeting today, and they might want me to run it.”

"That’s great," James says. He goes back to the tiny room he calls his office. He feels relieved. Like he has barely escaped something bad. He sits down in front of his computer.

No matter what happens, he reminds himself that he and Winnie have a better marriage than Clay and Veronica. Veronica is Tanner's sister, and she's an even worse bitch than Winnie. (She was once beautiful, but she let herself get fat.) Clay and Veronica have two children. Clay is a sculptor. He's becoming famous now. He has affairs. (Veronica must be like a millstone around his neck. She doesn't work and never has. At least if something happened between him and Winnie, Winnie would be able to take care of herself.) An hour later, Winnie comes into his office. "I've been thinking," she says. "About that idea of yours.”

"Yes?" James says.

"It has an inherent flaw. If Tanner is an alpha male, what are you, James?”

She smiles and leaves the room.

III

Tanner Hart is on. Sitting in the back corner of the VIP room at Chaos (a room that can only be reached by private elevator, which can only be accessed by a separate entrance, guarded by two bouncers and a young lady with a list), Tanner Hart is chain-smoking Marlboro reds and drinking martinis. Tanner Hart is laughing. Tanner Hart is frowning. Tanner Hart is nodding, his eyes wide with surprise, mouth open. "Uh-huh, uh-huh, yes I do remember meeting you on the set of Switchblade how have you been since then? You had a dog right and something happened to the dog, something with an elephant? Oh, a cat, a cat." And then to somebody else: "Hey that night that was pretty hot, huh, stick around you going someplace let’s talk later after all this but you're doing well, right? You look great." Tanner Hart looks at his watch. Soon he'll be bored. (If s just another movie premiere.) In an hour, he'll be able to pick up a chick and go back to his hotel room. Then he'll be bored again. (And he'll have to do it all over again, which in itself will be boring.) "Jimmy!" Tanner shouts. James and Winnie Dieke are squeezing through the crowd. They're still wearing their coats. James looks pained. Winnie looks annoyed. (James has been going downhill, Tanner thinks, ever since he married Winnie and had a child. He looks like a prisoner. Tanner has to free him. Winnie looks like she needs a good fuck. Tanner has to free her too.) Winnie spots Tanner. She waves.

"We're going to say hi and then we're going home," she says to James.

James says nothing. He's waiting for a moment when he can escape.

"Jimmy my boy. Jimmy baby." Tanner grabs James around the neck, swaying him from side to side. Then he pushes James away and puts his hands on either side of Winnie's face. He pulls her toward him and kisses her on the Jips. "I love you guys," he says. "Everybody loves us," Winnie says.

"Yeah, but I especially love you," Tanner says. "Did you have any trouble getting in? Those people at the door are such assholes. I keep telling the publicity people, but it doesn't make any difference.

Jimmy, where's your drink? Somebody get this man a cocktail," Tanner screams. He sits down and leans back. He pulls Winnie onto his lap. "Watch out, Jimmy boy," he says. "I'm going to steal her from you one of these days.”

I wish you would, James thinks.

Winnie giggles, plucks the martini glass out of Tanner's hand, and takes a large gulp. (Winnie is a different person in front of Tanner. She flirts. Disgustingly, James thinks. Does she think Tanner would ever be interested in her?) "Whoa. Go easy, baby, easy," Tanner says, taking his glass back and patting her on the butt. He slides his hand underneath the back of her coat. Winnie doesn't object. (She hates Tanner until she sees him.

And then she can't help herself. She loves him.) "How are you?" Winnie asks. "I mean, really?”

“I'll be right back," James says.

"Hold on, bro," Tanner says. He passes James a vial of cocaine. Turns back to Winnie. "So where's my future wife?" he asks.

James is elated. He feels like a naughty schoolboy who has just run off with the teacher's chalk. (He did run off once with the teacher's chalk, when he was very young. It felt good for three minutes, until he got caught. Then he was sent home from school. It was embarrassing. It was unfair. It was only a tiny piece of chalk.) James runs into Clay Ryan in the bathroom. "Christ," Clay says. "I'm trying to get away from my wife.”

"So am I," James says. He hands Clay the vial of cocaine. Clay sticks in the tip of a key and holds it up to his nose. "So what about Winnie's sister, Evie?" he asks.

"She's hot," James says.

Evie wants to fuck Tanner and she's excited about it. She's met Tanner three times before, and every time, he made a point of putting his hands on her.

If s his way of saying that if she wanted to fuck him, he would.

She tells herself that nothing will come of it (she tells herself that something might come of it, that she might, through some fluke of nature, be "the one"), but she doesn't care. She just wants to fuck him once. To see what it would be like. (She wants to fuck a movie star. She'd like to fuck lots of movie stars. Who wouldn't?) Evie runs into James and Clay outside the bathroom.

They look like they've been up to something. James is wiping his nose. (He is so uncool, Evie thinks. Pathetic, really. How can Winnie sleep with him? He has no hair.) "Have you seen Winnie?" she asks.

James and Clay take Evie into the bathroom. "I never do this," James says.

Evie says, "Oh James, shut up.”

“Don't tell Winnie," James says.

"I'm going to tell Winnie," Clay says. "I'm going to tell the whole fucking world. Including my wife. Fuck her.”

They run into Tanner outside the bathroom. Tanner, Clay, and Evie go into the bathroom. James goes to the bar to get a drink. In the stall, Tanner presses up against Evie. Like Clay isn't even there. Evie minks she might swoon. Tanner is better in person than he is on the screen.

"How come you weren't at the wedding?" he asks. "Which one?" Evie says.

"James and Winnie.”

“Rehab," Evie says.

Veronica and Winnie are sitting at a table. "I'd just like some appreciation sometimes," Veronica says. "When I met Clay, he was living in an apartment with no bathroom.”

"James is either working or on the Internet or watching TV," Winnie says. Why does she always get stuck with Veronica?

"I mean, could he listen? To me? His latest thing is bad investments.”

"They have time for everything except you," Winnie says. "Well, now I don't have time for him.”

"And does he even notice? And now they're all on coke," Veronica says. "Look at them all jabbering away like monkeys. If s disgusting.”

James and Evie and Clay sit down with Veronica and Winnie.

"James is doing a piece on chimpanzees," Evie says.

"Oh James, don't talk about it. If s so dull," Winnie says.

"I just found out that the government is illegally importing chimpanzees for secret medical research. They're stashing them in a warehouse in lower Manhattan," James says.

"Why would anybody bring monkeys into Manhattan," Winnie says.

"Did you know that in some chimp tribes, the females are lesbians? And they let the male chimps watch?" Clay asks, leaning over to Evie. "Clay, we're going," Veronica says.

"Hold on," Clay says. "I haven't finished my drink.”

"Who wants another drink?" James says. "That’s enough," Winnie says.

"Tanner's ordering another drink," James says. "Tanner's leaving," Veronica says. And, in fact, Tanner is leaving, moving toward the elevator, kissing and squeezing people along the way.

"We'll give you a ride uptown, Evie," Winnie says, standing up.

"That’s okay. I don't have to be up in the morning," Evie says. She has one eye on Tanner. She can't let him get away. "I'll be back," she says.

"Sure," Clay says.

Veronica gives him a dirty look.

Evie hurries after Tanner. Winnie and James and Veronica and Clay are so boring. Why is Winnie always trying to control her? Doesn't she understand that Evie and Tanner are one kind of person and Winnie and James are another? (They are partiers. Fun people.) She manages to squeeze herself into the elevator with Tanner just before the doors shut.

"Good girl," Tanner says. He looks at Evie appraisingly and thinks, She'll do. (He's had hundreds of girls like Evie. Sexy and available. Too available. After a certain age they can't find husbands. Or even boyfriends. He'd rather fuck Winnie. At least she isn't available.) "Just promise me one thing," Tanner whispers. "Don't give me any of that marriage shit." He starts singing, "It ain't me, babe. It ain't me you're looking for. Babe.”

"Don't be so sure." Evie giggles.

The elevator doors open on the ground floor. Tanner grabs Evie's hand. They hurry out to the street.

The limo driver is holding open the door. There's a crowd, held back by police barricades. "Maestro!" Tanner screams.

He pulls Evie into the limo.

Clay and Veronica and Winnie and James are standing on the street corner. Trying to get a cab. (Or trying not to get a cab, James thinks.) "If you want to kill yourself, go right ahead," Veronica says to Clay. "I really don't give a flying fuck anymore.”

"What are you talking about?" Clay asks.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Clay. How stupid do you think I am?”

"Let’s get a drink," James says.

"You've both been doing coke," Winnie says. "I haven't been doing coke," James says.

"Can you believe this, man?" Clay says to James. "I mean, how much more of this do we have to take?”

"You are such a loser, James," Winnie says. "Let’s get in a cab and go home.”

"I'm not getting in a cab," James says. "I'm getting a drink.”

"James!”

"No!" James says. "Tanner sits there snorting up a gram of coke and no one gets on his case.”

“Tanner is a famous movie star who makes fifteen million dollars a picture," Winnie says.

"Tanner is an alcoholic, a drug addict, and a sex addict. He's a complete sicko degenerate," Veronica says.

"So if s all about money," Clay says.

"What are you talking about?" Veronica says. "She," Clay says, pointing at Winnie, "just said that Tanner makes fifteen million a year. So that makes it okay.”

"Picture. Fifteen million a picture. And no, ifs not okay.”

"I've had enough," Clay says to James. "What about you?”

"I just want a drink," James says.

Tanner's limo pulls up to the corner. Tanner rolls down the window. "Anybody need a lift?”

"I'm with you, Tanner," Clay says.

"Me too," James says. He doesn't look at Winnie. "Don't you get in that limo, Clay.”

"Hey sis, lighten up," Tanner says. "Me and the boys are going to have a few pops.”

Clay and James get into the limo, climbing over Evie, who's lying on the floor, laughing. "Hello, boys," she says. As the limo pulls away, James sneaks a look back at Winnie. Her mouth is open, but for once, nothing is coming out.

Four a.m.

James doesn't feel so good. He stole the chalk. He's being punished. He thinks (but he's not sure) he hears voices. "What have you done now, James?" his mother says. "At the rate you're going, we'll have to send you to reform school. Do you want to be a failure? Like your father?”

Was his father a failure? His suits were always rumpled. He owned three dry-cleaning stores. Was he having an affair with Betty, the woman who did his books? "Pull down your pants, James," his father says, taking off his belt.

It was only a tiny piece of chalk. A sliver, really. "Hey, let me in," James says. His voice is a croak. It seems to be coming from somewhere to his left. (Somehow he's at his building. Somehow he got into a cab and obviously gave the cab driver his address. But it seems like ages ago. Maybe yesterday.) "Yes?" the doorman says. James has never seen him before.

"I'm James Dieke. I live here," he says, holding up his keys.

The doorman lets him in. "Are you new?" James says. It feels better to talk. If he can just keep talking, maybe he can get through this. "Are you married?

I'm married. I'm not sure if I like being married, but what can you do?”

"Good night," the doorman says.

James rides the elevator to his floor. Does it take a minute or forever? He grew up on Long Island in a row house. Every house was the same. His had rattan furniture from Sears.

(His grandmother ate red-and-white-striped candies. Peppermints, she said. She wore flowered housedresses.) Winnie's house had a pool and a tennis court. Her father was a judge. Winnie had a black Prince tennis racket.

This is very, very important.

Someone brought a monkey to school once. Its tail was worn.

Birds are chirping. If s a terrible noise. Who knew New York City had so many birds? He enters his apartment. He's going to show them all. He's going to write this book. If s earth-shattering. People have to know about this.

"Winnie," he says.

She's lying in bed. She opens her eyes and glares at him. Turns over.

Someone's got to know about this.

James shakes her. "If s this giant government plot, Winnie. Winnie, are you awake? If s the overcrowding of the niche structures but instead of using rats they're using monkeys and they're finding that the same behavior occurs in primates, which means that it goes all the way to the heart of the inner-city housing crisis. Of course, Stephen Jay Gould discovered the same construct in his snail studies ...”

"Go ... to ... the ... couch.”

" ... which he then applied to primates, and Darwin never read Mendel. Do you know what that means? Darwin never read Mendel?”

"What the hell are you talking about, James?" She looks at him. Then she must really look at him because she says, "Holy shit. You're a mess. You look like a bum. And you smell.”

"I'm sorry I woke you up," James says. He isn't sorry. Suddenly, he feels an overwhelming (and inexplicable) affection for her. He wants to make love.

He wants to have sex. He's got to have sex.

He sits on the edge of the bed. "You're so wonderful. You're such a wonderful wife. I always want to tell you how much I love you, but you never give me a chance.”

"You're disgusting," Winnie says. "I'd ask you to move out right now, but if s too late. You can go to a hotel in the morning." She pulls the covers over her head.

"Everybody admires you so much. Tanner is crazy about you.”

"I can't have this," Winnie says. She's going to explode. She has work in the morning. (Why is it that everybody else thinks that their shit is so much more important than her shit? She'd like someone else to acknowledge the importance of her shit. For once.) James puts his arms around her. He tries to kiss her.

"James," she says.

"You're so ... pretty," James says, trying to stroke her hair.

"James, go to sleep.... James, stop it.... I'm going to have you arrested for conjugal rape....

James, get off me.”

Winnie screams. James rolls to the side. He moans. "Go to the couch!" Winnie says.

"I can't.”

Winnie throws off the covers. "We're going to have a long talk tomorrow. About your behavior. We're going to start making some big changes around here.”

"Winnie ...”

"I mean it, James. We have a child. You have responsibilities. Where the hell, and I really want to know this, where the hell do you and Clay get the idea that you can run around and act like six-year olds? Do you see Veronica and me going out and drinking and doing drugs and staying up until four in the morning? How would you like it? How would you like it if I went out and stuck my hand down guys' pants and did drugs with them in the bathroom and God knows what else? Maybe I'm going to do that some night. Because you know what, James, I don't care anymore. I've had it.”

"Winnie?”

"And this business about chimpanzees and alpha males. I'm beginning to think you've lost it. Wake up, James. If s the millennium. Men and women are equal. Get it? So why don't you think about how I feel? Do you think I like taking care of you all the time? What about me? I'd like to be taken care of. I'd like to have a husband who could at least pay ... all the rent. You're a burden, James. I'm tired of doing eighty percent of the work and reaping twenty percent of the profits. I'm tired of—”

"Winnie?”

"Shut up, James. If s my turn. I've had to listen to your bullshit all evening. I've been sitting here for the last five hours wondering where you were and what you were up to. I'm so sick of you, James. You're no better man Evie. Does she think we didn't see her hiding in the limo? Hiding! She's thirty-five! She's obviously trying to sleep with Clay. And God knows what she's trying to do with Tanner.”

“Clay?" James says.

"Yes. Clay. A married man.”

“Winnie, I…”

"What?”

"I ... I ...”

“Spit it out.”

"Winnie, I think I'm having a heart attack. I'm going to die. Winnie. I think I'm dying.”

"Oh James. You're such a loser." Winnie puts her head in her hands. "You can't even do coke right.”

IV

James wants to be nursed and coddled. (Like when he was a little boy. Like when he was sick. His mother would make a bed for him on the couch and let him watch TV all day. His father would call him on the phone. "Hey sport," he'd say. "How's the sport?") He wants Winnie to say, "Oh James, you poor sweet baby." (He wants Winnie to be like his mother. Or at least mother/y.) Instead she says, "They said you're fine.”

I'm not fine, he wants to scream. He wishes Winnie would go away. He wishes he could tell her to go away. He can't now. He can't ever. "I know," he says.

"You can leave now.”

"I know," he says. He pushes the buttons on the remote control, changing the channels on the TV above his head.

"So. Can we go?" she says. "James. I've got to get back to my office.”

"I need my clothes.”

"They're right here," Winnie says. She picks up his clothes from the chair and dumps them on the hospital bed.

James looks at his shirt, his sweatshirt (with the logo of Winnie's magazine on it), his jeans, socks, and white briefs. His clothes look tainted. "I need clean clothes," he says.

"Haven't you embarrassed yourself enough?" Winnie says in a stage whisper. (She doesn't want to be overheard by the old man in the next bed, who is practically dead. Who has a scab-covered leg sticking out from under the covers.) "I'm not going home," James says. "I'm going to a press conference." He paws through his clothes. He still doesn't feel quite ... normal. (He feels high. Probably from all the cocaine he consumed the night before, combined with the shot of Demerol they gave him in the hospital last night. Or rather, early this morning. When he thought he was having the heart attack. From cocaine. Other people have done worse. They've shot up heroin. But they aren't married to Winnie.) "Do you have a notebook I can borrow?" he says. "I want you to go home.”

"No," he says. If he gives in now, he's finished. "What do you mean, 'No'?”

"No," he says. "What do you think it means?”

"You must still be high," she says.

"Probably," he said. He looks up at the TV. He doesn't feel unpleasant. The world has an interesting intensity that is, for once in his life, non-anxiety producing.

"Where are you going?”

"To a press conference." (He has something important to do, too.) "A press conference!”

"Monkeys," he says. "Chimpanzees.”

"Which, James?" Winnie says (cleverly, he thinks. If she is back to her old tricks of trying to trick him, maybe she's not that angry).

"I need a pen, too," he says. "I can't find my watch. I can't leave without my watch.”

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" she says. She marches (and she's the only person he knows who does march) the few feet to the head of the bed and presses the buzzer with her thumb. "I am praying that none of our friends get wind of this incident. This could ruin your career.”

"Could," he says. "Do you even care''“

“No," he says.

A nurse comes into the room. "Yes?" she says. "My husband can't find his watch," Winnie says. "Can you find it for him, please?”

"If s on his wrist.”

"Well, how about that," James says. He leans back on the pillows and looks at his silver Rolex with fresh appreciation. "Ifs ten-thirty.”

"I know what time it is. I had to leave my office. Now get up and put your clothes on.”

The doctor walks in. "How are we doing this morning, Mr. Dieke?" he says.

"Richard?" Winnie says. "Winnie?”

"How are you?" Winnie says, smiling pleasantly, as if James weren't lying in a hospital bed, high, smelly, and partly naked. "I didn't know you worked at Lenox Hill.”

"Why should you?" Richard says. "We haven't seen each other since college.”

"We went to college together," Winnie says. "What a coincidence. Richard Feble, my husband, James Dieke.”

"Well, I'm happy to say that your husband is doing just fine," Richard says. "His EKG and his chest X rays came back normal, so all I can say is since you never know what’s in this stuff, stay away. If you have to indulge in illegal substances, smoke a joint. Okay? I don't want to see you guys in here again.”

"Believe me, Richard, this was a complete fluke," Winnie says. "James and I never—”

"I'm not your mother," Richard says. "By the way, we found this in Mr. Dieke's pocket. You might want to keep this." He hands Winnie a small brown vial. If s half full of white powder. He winks.

"Oh," Winnie says. "Thank you." She puts it in her purse. Glares at James. Now she's a drug addict too. What if she gets caught with this stuff?

Richard pats James on the leg. "I've read your stuff in Esquire. You must lead a wild life.”

"Untamed," James says. He doesn't look at Winnie.

"I've got a column in X," Winnie says, naming the magazine she works for.

"Oh, we always knew you would succeed," Richard says.

"Let’s get together sometime," Winnie says, cocking her head to the side and smiling. "Are you married?”

"Me? Nah. Listen guys, I've got rounds. Nice to see you, Winnie," Richard says. He points at James. "Can't wait to read your next piece. Stay alive, huh, big guy?”

Richard walks out of the room. Winnie turns to James. "Untamed?" she says. "Oh James, now I've heard everything.”

James looks at her. He feels like sticking his tongue out. But he doesn't. Instead, he smiles.

James slips into the back of the grand ballroom in the Hilton Hotel just in time for the commotion in the front of the room.

An attractive (on second thought, make that very attractive) dark-haired girl in a tight-fitting purple top (her breasts look like they could spill out at any second) is waving her arm frantically. "Hey, Danny.

Danny!" she says in a raspy voice. "Where were the customs agents in all this?”

Danny Pico, the head of customs, a greasy-haired balding guy in a cheap navy blazer, glares at her. "Not today, Amber," he says. "Not today. “

Amber! James can imagine what her breasts would look like. Full and soft. And quivering. He hasn't had breasts like that in a long time.

"Please, Danny," Amber says. "Why are taxpayer dollars being wasted on completely irrelevant scientific experiments?”

"Next," Danny says.

"Hello. The fourth amendment," Amber says, waving a hand with blue fingernail polish.

(The fourth amendment?) "This press conference is over!" Danny Pico says. The room erupts. Amber turns and clomps toward the door on a pair of four-inch platform sandals. She's wearing a short skirt. Leather. White. She's headed straight for James.

"Excuse me," he says, touching her arm as she passes.

She stops and turns. "Huh?" she says. "Do I know you?”

"I'm James Dieke.”

Her face lights up. "James Dieke. Ohmigod," she says. "You're one of my heroes.”

"I am?" (He is?) "Sure. I loved your piece on satellites. You're the only writer who could make magnesium sulfide interesting. Important. You know?”

"Really," James says. (Magnesium sulfide?) She switches some papers from one arm to another. She holds out her hand. "Amber Anders.”

"Wow," James says. "Wow?" she says.

"Your name. It's great." (It sounds like a porno star's.) "You think so? I always thought it was a good name for a byline. I write for X, " she says, naming the same magazine Winnie works for. "I'm a staffer. But I hope not a lifer." She leans closer. "Some people never get out of there, you know? I swear, there are dead editors in obscure offices hidden behind piles of back issues.”

"I'll tell you something," James says. "There are always dead editors. Lurking in obscure little offices. Torturing writers.”

"Hey, you're funny, you know that. Nobody ever said you were funny.”

"Maybe they don't know me," James says. He wonders if she knows Winnie. (He wonders if she knows he has a hard-on.) "Who are you covering this for?" she asks.

"The Sunday Times Magazine, " he says.

"Cool," she says. She sticks her finger in her mouth and nibbles at her nail. She looks up at him. Her eyes are large and brown. Uncreased. "These guys aren't talking. But it doesn't matter. I've got the address of the warehouse in Brooklyn where they're hiding these monkey fuckers.”

"Monkey fuckers?" James says.

"The monkeys. The chimps. The chimps they're doing the secret government experiments on. Get it?”

James can't help it (how could he help it?), he follows her right out of the hotel and onto Fifty-sixth Street. "And you'll never believe where I got the address," she says. "Danny Pico's driver. Can you believe that?" They're on the sidewalk, walking toward Fifth. "Got a cigarette? No? Well, never mind. I didn't figure you for a smoker. Hey, why don't you come with me?”

"Come with you?" James says.

"To the warehouse, dummy. The warehouse in Brooklyn. I've got the address, remember?”

“Oh, right. The address," James says. "But how are we going to get to Brooklyn?”

Amber stops and looks at him. "Company car service. How else?”

"Car service?" James says.

"Well, I'm not taking the IRT in this outfit.”

Fifteen minutes later, she says, "Hey, James. I have an idea. Why don't we cover the story together? Like Woodward and Bernstein. Only I don't want to be the short one. What’s his name again?”

"Who?" James says, looking at her breasts. "Woodward? Bernstein?”

"Yeah," Amber says. "That's the one." They're sitting in the back of a Big Apple town car. Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. Amber leans across the seat and puts her hand over his. "Isn't this a blast?”

"Have I told you my theory about alpha males?" James asks.

WINNIE MAKES A DECISION

Winnie wants to be loved.

She wants to be cherished. She wants to be valued. (She doesn't really know what "cherished" means. Does anyone?) She wants a man to say, "I love you, Winnie. You're so beautiful.”

She wants him to give her a nice piece of jewelry. Is that asking too much?

Was she ever really loved? Her mother loved her. (She would rush home from school to see her mother. They would go to the supermarket together. And to Ann Taylor. Her mother bought her sweaters and skirts in bright colors. Kneesocks. She wore kneesocks even in college. Headbands too.) Her father criticized her. A lot. About everything she did. (If she got straight A's, and she did get straight A's most of the time, he said, "That's what I expect. That's what I expect from a child of mine.") Her father made her feel like she wasn't good enough. Like she was missing something (maybe some brain cells). That was his favorite trick. "Winnie," he would say. "What’s your address?”

“One, one, one ...”

"You're so stupid.”

She was three and a half. And she could read. How can you be stupid when you're three and a half?

"Winnie? Which is bigger? The sun or the moon?" It was a trick question, and she had known it was a trick question. (She knew that she wasn't good at trick questions. She always overtricked herself). "The moon?”

"You're so stupid." (She was four.) Her father didn't understand her. (Neither does James.) She couldn't understand him (her father. And James). Couldn't understand why everything she did was wrong. (What did he want? What did men want? Nothing. Maybe to be left alone.) Couldn't understand why whatever her father said was law, even if he was wrong. (Why did she have to listen to him? Why couldn't he listen to her?) And he often was wrong. He let their French poodle run without a leash, and he got attacked by a German shepherd. ("I knew he would," Winnie sobbed. "Shut up," he said.) "I'm tough on you, Winnie," he said. "I have to be. You're lazy. If I'm not hard on you, I don't know how you'll turn out.”

She certainly is smart enough (she's achieved a lot). Why does she have to fight for every ounce of respect? James doesn't.

Why does everyone make her feel like a bitch? For standing up for herself. "You've got to learn to stand up for yourself, Winnie," her father said. "Because nobody else will.”

He was right. Nobody else has ever stood up for her. Especially men.

What a useless gender. Ever since she was four and had to go to school with them and then her mother actually had one, she's believed they should just be eliminated. Aborted. Okay, a few could be allowed to live. But only for their sperm. And they'd have to be excellent specimens.

What was all that crap about men that she grew up with? That one day, one of these (pitiful) specimens was going to fall in love with her (and actually love her—hah—whoever dreamed that one up should be worth a kazillion dollars), and make her whole. Give her something she couldn't live without. (She can live without most of the penises she's met so far, so if s all a lie.) Take James.

She had to get him. (It was supposed to be the other way around. But if she had waited, let him "make all the moves" the way men are always telling you to let them, she'd still be waiting.) She had to pursue James the way she's had to pursue everything else in her life. With straightforward determination. (She didn't know how to play the boy-girl game. No one ever taught her. And besides, it seemed disgusting and dishonest.) "Listen, James," she said at the beginning, after she and James had had six dates (and slept together on the fourth). "Listen, James. I'm not going to play games." This was one week after their sixth date, and James suddenly wasn't calling. She had to call him. (How dare he? And why? Why was he treating her this way?) "I've been on deadline," he said.

"You could have called me," she said. (No one is too busy to pick up the phone, to make a one-minute phone call. No matter how busy they say they are. Sorry.) "I forgot," James said.

"You ... forgot?" Winnie said. (Was it possible for a human being to be so stupid?) "I've been on deadline/' James said. (As if this were an excuse. She should have known then. She should have run in the other direction.) She didn't know how to play games.

"You forgot," she said. Again. (And he was an award-winning journalist.) "How dare you forget," she said. "I slept with you, James. I had sex with you. We have a relationship. How dare you?" She hung up the phone. (She was shaking.) She called back.

"And you're fucking lucky to be going out with me.

Ten minutes later, he called. "Do you want to go to a book party with me on Monday?”

She accepted.

She should have run in the other direction. She didn't.

(A man once described his love for a former girlfriend to her: "She was like my lover, my mother, my sister, and my child," he said. To James, she is only his mother.) James needed her. (He still does nothing.) When she met him, he was living in a tiny studio apartment with a loft bed. He had a bureau and a desk under the loft. He had one old couch and bookshelves made of cinder blocks and two-by fours. He was thirty-two and his sink was full of dirty dishes.

Winnie washed his dishes.

"Listen, James," she said. "You're fucking lucky to be going out with me." (She was an editor at a women's magazine. A full editor. She got a free ride home in the company car if she worked past seven. She assigned pieces and had lunches with writers; sometimes she had to kill pieces too.

Then she'd call the writer and say, "I'm sorry, this piece just isn't working for us. Maybe you can try to sell it someplace else." Sometimes the writers would cry. Everyone said that Winnie was going to go far.) "Listen, James," Winnie said. "I think you have a fear of success. You have a fear of change. You're afraid that if you commit to me, you'll have to change. You'll have to acknowledge your success.”

"Do you think so?" James said. "I never thought about it that way. You could be right.”

All James does is agree. He agrees and then he does nothing.

"If s too much, James," she says now. "If s too much for me.”

"I know," he says. (He can't even plan a vacation. She plans it, and then he goes along for the ride.) He does nothing.

Winnie knows what she has to do. She has to stop taking care of James. And start taking care of herself. Isn't that what all the shrinks tell you to do in relationships? Stop focusing on the man? And focus on yourself? (Of course, if you stop focusing on the man, he'll probably leave. That’s what they forget to tell you.) She has to focus on her needs.

Winnie is going to sleep with Tanner and she's excited.

She calls her office. Speaks to her assistant. "What’s up?" the assistant says.

"I'm still in this emergency situation. I won't be back this afternoon. I'll call at the end of the day.”

"Someone named Jess Fukees called," her assistant says.

"He's not important. He's only the CEO of the company.”

"Okay," the assistant says. (Sarcasm is beyond her.) "It's not okay," Winnie says. "Call his secretary and tell her that I'm out of the office ... no, out of town, and I'll call him first thing tomorrow.”

"You go girl," the assistant says, and hangs up. Winnie goes home. "Hello," she says to the Jamaican nanny, who jumps up and quickly turns off the TV. Winnie ignores this.

"Mrs. Dieke. You're home early.”

"I'm not home at all," Winnie says. "I'm just stopping by. On my way to a meeting.”

She goes into the bedroom and opens her closet. Rifles through her shoes. Unopened, and still in their box, are the strappy sandals James gave her for her birthday.

She puts them on.

"Good-bye," she says to the Jamaican nanny.

She hails a cab. "Morgans Hotel on Madison Avenue," she says. At the desk, she says, "I'd like you to ring Mr. Paul Bunyan, please.”

“Is he expecting you?”

"Yes," Winnie says. She looks around the lobby.

If s so small, if s claustrophobic. She drums her nails on the white linoleum.

The desk clerk turns away and whispers into the phone. "Mr. Hart? There's a woman here to see you?”

"Winnie," Winnie says.

"Winnie," the clerk says. He puts down the phone. "You can go up. It's Suite A. Top floor.”

"Thank you," Winnie says.

She takes the elevator. Gets out in a narrow, gray carpeted hallway. She presses the buzzer for Suite A.

"Just a minute ... coming," Tanner says.

"Coming... u h ... uh ... ohmigod ... co-o-o-o-ming." He flings open the door.

"Hello," Winnie says.

"This is an unexpected surprise.”

"I hope I'm not ... interrupting anything.”

“If you were, I would throw her out.”

The bedroom is on the first floor. Winnie passes the open door. The sheets are rumpled. The suite is a duplex, two floors with terraces. She goes up the steps. Tanner follows her. He's freshly showered. She can smell his cologne. (Cologne! The last time she was with a man who wore cologne was probably fifteen years ago. She can still remember it. Paco Rabanne. It was that one-night stand, and she probably wouldn't have had sex with him if it hadn't been for the cologne.) "I'm just having tea," Tanner says. "Want some?”

“Sure," Winnie says. She sits down in front of a glass coffee table containing a tray with two teacups, a pot of tea, and lemon slices. "Were you expecting someone?”

"No. Someone just left. Unexpectedly," Tanner says.

They both laugh. "Evie?" Winnie says.

"I don't kiss and tell," he says. He pours the tea. "I've got something of yours," she says.

"I like your shoes.”

"James gave them to me for my birthday.”

"Old Jimmy's got better taste than I expected." He pauses. Takes a sip of tea. Looks at her over his teacup. "How is old Jimmy, anyway? He wasn't in very good shape when he left here last night.”

"I think he's going to live. Unfortunately," Winnie says.

"Have you come here to force me to make amends?”

"You could say that," Winnie says.

"I think I know what you've come here for, Winnie.”

"I think you do," Winnie says. (She isn't sure what to say next. She's never been good at flirting. Even with James, at the beginning, she flirted by being interested in his work. Her loss of interest in him sexually has decreased at the same rate as her loss of interest in his work.) "I think this belongs to you/' she says. She opens her purse and hands him the small vial of cocaine. "Aha," he says. "What would I do without this?”

“I thought you might need it," Winnie says. "Thank you very much," he says.

He stands up. He comes around behind her. Winnie doesn't breathe.

"Winnie," he says. "How long have we known each other.”

"Fifteen years.”

"I always said James was a lucky bastard.”

The Big Apple town car pulls up in front of a corrugated metal warehouse. Amber and James get out of the car.

"What if we get caught?" James says. (God, Winnie's right. He sounds like a girl. He should be in charge here. But he isn't.) "So? They'll arrest us. I've got a great lawyer. We'll be out in twenty-four hours," Amber says.

"I don't think my wife is going to like it if I end up in jail," James says.

"Who gives a fuck about your wife?" she says.

Do you know her? James wants to say. Instead, he says, "If s just that the last twenty-four hours have been a bit ... trying for her.”

"By the way, exactly what has happened to you in the last twenty-four hours? You haven't explained this to me yet," Amber says.

"I've already been in the hospital," James says, picking his way over the broken sidewalk. "Ambulatory surgery? Liposuction? That stuff?”

“No, not exactly.”

Amber pulls open the door to the warehouse.

"Are you just going to walk right in?" James asks. Amber turns. "Excuse me, James, but I think that's what doors are for?”

The warehouse is empty.

Was he really expecting anything else? (Why is he here? He hopes he knows.) "Christ. We're too late," Amber says. She lights up a cigarette. "They moved the fuckers. I should have known I couldn't trust Danny Pico's driver.”

She throws down the cigarette and stomps out. "What do we do now?" James says.

"We go back. To Manhattan. What else?" she says over her shoulder.

They get back into the town car. "My house, please," Amber says. She looks out the window. Bites her lower lip. "Fuck it," she says. "Now I'm just going to have to make it up. Pretend I saw monkeys.”

"Make it up?" James says.

"Everybody makes shit up. Who's going to know?" Her expression changes. She looks like a scared little girl. "James," she says. "You don't think ... I'm a liar, do you? I'm the most honest person you'll ever meet in your life. This was the address Danny Pico's driver gave me. If s not my fault they moved the monkeys.”

"No, of course not," James says.

"People always think I'm lying. If s because I'm beautiful and smart. And I actually go out and get these stories. They sit around in their offices, you know. They're jealous. I can't help it if they're jealous. If s not my fault.”

Holy shit, James thinks. She's going to cry. "Hey," he says. "It's not that bad.”

"I know you can understand, because I'm sure people are jealous of you, too." She moves closer. "You're just like me, James," she says, in that sexy, raspy voice. (Is he just ike her? Who cares.) "I'm just like you, James," she says. "We're like twins." Suddenly she's kissing him. She's so easy. She's so great. (Of course she's not a liar. How could a girl like this be a liar?) Does she know he wants her as much as she wants him? He puts his hand down the front of her shirt, squeezing great soft handfuls of breast. He wants to pull down his pants and give it to her right then (the way he did once when he was seventeen with the ugly, fat girl who would do it with anyone, only he couldn't get it in and came between the wet, moist crack in her ass). Amber puts her hand on his penis. She moans.

The car pulls up to a shabby walk-up building on the Lower East Side. He follows her up two flights of steps. Is it his imagination, or is she pushing her ass out at him? Or is it the shoes, the clunky platform sandals? He pushes her up against the wall of the landing. Puts his hand under her skirt. (She's not wearing any underwear, and she's hairy.) She pulls his hand away and puts her ringers in his mouth.

"I'm a really good fuck," she says. "You're not going to be disappointed.”

"I know I'm not," he says.

If s like a porno movie. Since when did girls become this easy? Why didn't anyone tell him? (Why is she so easy?) They go into her apartment. If s dark and dingy. Small. Messy. (Horribly messy.) There's a mattress on the floor. She lies down and puts her legs up. "Fuck me, big boy," she says. He unzips his pants and pulls them down. He crawls toward her. There's a faint odor of garbage. He can't tell if it's coming from her apartment or the street below. He puts two fingers inside her. Then he puts himself inside her. She's wet, but big. Enormous. If s like an empty space in there. She's bigger than Winnie, and Winnie's had a baby.

What is he doing? What if Winnie finds out? He comes.

He falls on top of her.

After a minute, he looks at her face. She isn't looking at him. She's looking up at the ceiling. Her face is blank. What is she thinking? Did she come? "I should call my office," she says.

James sits. He pulls up his pants. "That was great," he says.

"Yeah. I know," she says. She crawls off the bed and opens the tiny refrigerator. "I hope you don't mind. I need a drink." She pours herself half a glass of straight vodka. "Don't look so shocked, James. I never judge anyone. Because if s your problem, not mine. Right? If you have a problem with this, don't give me a hard time about it. I don't deserve it.”

"I know," James says. Suddenly he feels horrible. The drugs have worn off. He's exhausted. He feels dirty. (He is dirty.) He wishes he were back in his apartment, in his own bed, sleeping. If he could just go to sleep, maybe when he woke up it would be like none of this ever happened.

"If you're worried about my telling your wife, don't," Amber says. "I'm not that kind of girl. I don't ever want you to think that I'm that kind of girl, because I'm not.”

"Okay," James says cautiously.

She moves toward him and puts her hands on either side of his face. She kisses him on the lips.

"You've never met anyone like me before in your life. You don't have to worry about me. I'm your best friend.”

"I feel a little ... anxious," he says.

"Why didn't you say so? I've got tons of pills. Xanax? Clonopin? Dexedrine?”

Dexedrine?

"Do you really know Winnie?" he says. Trying to sound casual.

"What do you think, James?" she says. "Duh.”

Winnie and Tanner are lying naked in his bed in his suite at Morgans Hotel. Winnie has her eyes closed. She's smiling.

Tanner leans over and brushes her hair away from her face. He kisses her cheek. "Did you like that?" he asks softly.

"Oh yes," she says.

(What she really wants to say is, That was the most mind-blowing fuck I've ever had in my life thank you very much and now I finally understand what a mind-blowing fuck is, but she isn't that kind of girl.) He cups her bottom and pulls her closer. She runs her hand over his back. (She wants to remember his body for the rest of her life. She will remember his body for the rest of her life. If s perfect. Slightly tanned and hairless. Muscular but not overly built. Whoever said that men's bodies don't matter to women was wrong. She never knew that sex could be so clean. And beautiful. Tanner is so clean. She's never seen such a clean man in her life. James has white skin and nobbly moles. And black pores where the blond hair springs out. Sometimes he has blackheads on his back.) "Wanna do it again?" Tanner says. "Can you?”

"What do you think?”

She can already feel his erection. "Just a minute," she says.

She leans over and picks up the phone. He strokes her bottom. So gently, she feels excited again. She opens her legs just a little bit. "Hello," she says. "What’s up," her assistant says.

"Just checking in. Tell Amber I need her copy first thing tomorrow morning.”

"I can't," her assistant says. "She's still at that press conference.”

"Just tell her, okay?" Winnie says. Thinking, Typical. Amber Anders was the girl who plagiarized her piece.

She hangs up the phone. "Everything okay?" Tanner asks. "Perfect," she says.

James can't get home fast enough. For once. If he can get home before Winnie, he can take a shower. He can pretend everything is normal.

From now on, everything is going to be normal. He's going to concentrate. He's going to write that book. (He feels like shit. He can't take it, this feeling like shit anymore. Is this how Tanner feels after he takes drugs and fucks some random chick he doesn't care about? Mixed up and confused?) He opens the door to his apartment. Closes it. "James?" Winnie calls out. "I'm glad you're home." Winnie is in their boy's room. Playing with their child. Helping him string beads on a cord. She's sitting on the floor with her shoes off. She looks happy. "Look, Daddy," has boy says.

"Hello, Sport," James says. "Daddy. Bang bang," the boy says.

"No," Winnie says. "Don't shoot Daddy." She smiles. "Isn't he such a boy?" she says.

"Bang bang," James says to his boy. "Bang bang back.”

"Clay's here," Winnie says in a stage whisper.

"Veronica kicked him out of the house. I'm thinking I should kick both of you out and let you go to a hotel. But on second thought, maybe I should go to a hotel and let you pay for it.”

"Do you want to go to a hotel?" James asks. "What do you think?" Winnie says.

"How was your day?”

"Great," Winnie says, looking up. "I fucked Tanner all afternoon in his hotel room.”

I wish you had, James thinks. Then they'd be even. Then he wouldn't have to worry about anything. (But he would have to worry about Tanner. He wouldn't be able to be friends with him anymore. And every time he looked at Winnie, he'd have to think about Tanner fucking her. And all the other girls Tanner had fucked. Maybe he'd have to divorce Winnie.) "Uncle Clay threw up in the sink," his boy says. "Sssssh," Winnie says. "How was your day?”

"I went to that press-conference. It was useless.”

“I told you," Winnie says.

(Should he tell her? Should he tell her he met Amber Anders at the press conference? If he's going to tell her, now is the time. What if Amber tells Winnie she met James? What if she tells her she fucked James? If she tells Winnie she met James, Winnie will wonder why James didn't tell her first.) "I met someone who works in your office," he says.

"Who?”

"Andy ... Amber something ... ?”

“Amber Anders," Winnie says.

"I think That’s it.”

"What did she say?”

"Nothing," James says. "She said she read my piece on satellites.”

"She'll probably plagiarize it. She was the one who plagiarized my piece. I'm trying to get rid of her, but I can't.”

"You should," James says. "She seems kind of crazy.”

"She's worse than Evie.”

"Do you think Evie slept with Tanner?”

"I have no idea," Winnie says. She picks up a few beads and threads them onto the cord. (She thinks about Tanner. How he was so strong; he kept gently picking her up and moving her into different positions. He knelt over her like a god. He overwhelmed her. He kissed her neck until she thought she was going to swoon. She did swoon. She slid off the chair onto the floor, and that’s when he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom. She was incapable of protest.) "I bet he didn't," James says. "Evie's a little too close to home. Even for Tanner. She's your sister.”

“You think so?" Winnie says.

(She's not even yelling, he thinks. Maybe he is going to get away with this after all.) "I'm going to take a shower," he says. "I think that's a good idea.”

He passes the living room. Clay is sleeping on the couch. Did he fuck Evie? When James had left Tanner's hotel room last night, Clay and Evie were still there. Would they (Clay and Evie) really do that?

Christ. He'd wanted to fuck Evie. For about two seconds. But then he'd started talking to Tanner about that monkey shit. And alpha males. What the hell was he talking about?

(What if he had slept with Evie? Winnie's sister. It would be like Tanner sleeping with Winnie.) He goes into the bedroom. It's clean. And neat. His glasses are on the night table next to the bed, along with his black Braun traveling alarm clock and three old business magazines he keeps meaning to get through. Winnie's shoes are on the floor. The strappy sandals he gave her for her birthday.

Suddenly he feels okay. Maybe he didn't fuck up after all.

When he comes out of the bathroom, he can hear Winnie on the phone. "I'll send him home as soon as he wakes up," she's saying. "Oh God, Veronica. I don't know. I don't give a shit anymore.... I know, but maybe you should try to have the same attitude. Maybe you should go out and fuck someone else.”

“Veronica," Winnie says as James passes by on his way to his little office. He nods. "I don't think we should get involved.”

"Neither do I," Winnie says. "I don't give a shit." James sits down at his desk. He turns on his computer. The phone rings again. Shit, he thinks. What if it's Amber? He didn't give her his number. But she might have Winnie's number.

They work in the same office.

He's just being paranoid. Amber isn't going to say anything. She's not that kind of girl.

He can hear Winnie giggling softly into the kitchen phone. "We definitely have to do it again," she says seductively. He's never heard her use that tone of voice before. "The next time you're in town.

"It's Tanner!" she shouts. Oh.

He picks up the phone. "Hey, man.”

“Hey, man. How you feeling?”

"Rough." (He wants to tell Tanner he got laid. Because he did. He did get laid. But he definitely wouldn't tell Tanner about the girl's vagina. It was enormous. And a little stinky.

He definitely can't do that again.) "I hear you, man," Tanner says.

"Gay's here," James says. "Veronica kicked him out of the house.”

"She'll be begging him to come back in about two hours.”

"She already has," James says. They laugh.

"You heading back to L.A.?" James asks. "Tomorrow morning. I'll see you next time I'm in town.”

James hangs up.

He checks his e-mails. The top one, sent at 5:03 p.m., says, "From Amber 69696969. Re: Alpha Males.”

This can't be happening. Should he delete it or read it?

He'd better read it. Find out how bad the damage is.

Dear James, It was great to meet you. It's so hard to find decent guys. (Don't worry about your wife. I told you, I'm not that kind of girl, and I NEVER go back on my promises. Unlike other people we know.) I really want to talk to you about this idea I have about alpha males. (I think there are alpha females, too, and I'm one of them.) This would be a terrific piece for the magazine. And, I think you should know this, I'm going to proceed with it. Let's meet on Monday at six at the Cafe Grill. My friend Jerry is the bartender and he always gives me free drinks. Big Kiss.

Oh fuck.

Should he respond? What if he does respond and his e-mail goes to the wrong address? What if, somehow, Winnie sees it? (Amber and Winnie work in the same office. E-mails are always getting passed around in offices.) What if he doesn't respond? She might keep sending him e-mails. She might get mad. She might tell Winnie.

He has to be very, very careful here. He has to cover his tracks. (She's crazy, this girl. She's trying to steal his idea. And he's going to have to let her.) "Dear Amber, " he writes. (No, he can't write "Dear Amber. " It sounds too intimate.) Amber: It was nice to meet you today. However, I believe I led you astray. There is no such thing as an alpha male. At least not in human beings. Good luck with your story on monkeys.

He hits the send button.

The phone rings. Again. "Jess!" Winnie says. "What a privilege." (She's such a suck-up, James thinks.) "It was an emergency situation, but I can promise you, it won't happen again.... Oh yes. I love the project.... With the right management, it can be a huge success.... Thank you. Thank you so much, Jess.... My goodness. I promise you, I'll be worth every penny." She hangs up. "James," Winnie says.

He jumps. (Is this how he's going to be from now on? Jumping in terror every time Winnie comes into his office? In terror of what she might find out?) "That was Jess Fakes. The CEO. He's just offered me the job as head of their new Internet site. It pays five hundred thousand a year. With stock options." James says nothing. He's shocked.

"Can't you sound a little more excited? I'm a really big deal now.”

"I am excited," James says. "Can't you tell?" And then Winnie does something she's never done before. She walks over. Puts her hand on his hair. Ruffles it.

"I'm proud of you, too," she says. "You've been working really hard. I'm sure this piece on monkeys is going to be great. Maybe you're right. Maybe it could be a book.”

Winnie yawns. "I'm kind of tired. I'm ordering sushi and then I'm going to bed. Should I order you the usual? California roll?”

"Sure," James says.