Читать книгу The Pact - Jennifer Sturman - Страница 9

The dining room was emptying out, and only a few swinging diehards remained on the dance floor. Judging by the unenthusiastic way the band was plodding through an old Sinatra tune, they seemed ready to call it a night. I spied Richard near the wood-paneled door that led out to the foyer, bidding the departing guests farewell. His double-breasted suit still looked as crisply pressed as if he’d just left the tailor, and a silk handkerchief peeked neatly from his breast pocket. I’ve never understood American men who insisted on dressing like Eurotrash.

A moment later, Emma joined him, her lips tightly set in a strained smile. I guessed that she’d walked around the outside of the club and reentered through the front. Richard slung his arm across her thin shoulders in a proprietary manner that made me want to slug him. It was all I could do not to rush to her side, pull her free from his slimy grasp, drag her into a corner and find out what was really going on. I couldn’t recognize my best friend in the woman I’d overheard arguing with her father just a few minutes before, and I was even more concerned and confused now than I’d been all through dinner.

But she and Richard were surrounded; the odds of getting a word with her in private were slim. I would have to wait until the party was over.

Peter and I headed back to our table, picking our way through the maze of abandoned tables and scattered chairs. The gentle pressure of his hand on the small of my back ignited a minor fire that radiated from the base of my spine up my vertebrae, around my neck and up to my cheeks, which felt distinctly flushed. At least the pleasant warmth managed almost completely to eclipse the pain in my foot, if not the uncomfortable thoughts in my head.

Thankfully, the bland cousin and Richard’s dreary colleague had disappeared, leaving only my friends, who seemed ready for the evening to be over. They had pulled their chairs away from the table and into a small circle. Jane had kicked off her shoes and was resting her feet in Sean’s lap. He rubbed her toes with the practiced expertise and serene composure of a happily married man. Matthew was ribbing Hilary about something or other while Luisa looked on, her eyelids drooping with the late hour. She’d arrived just that morning on an overnight flight from South America.

As we approached, they looked the two of us over with uniformly bemused expressions. My rather long and distinguished trail of romantic disasters was common fodder for group conversations, and I could tell they were looking forward to having some new material with which to enjoy themselves at my expense.

Peter made his introductions while I sank into an empty chair. If he noticed the way that Jane elbowed Matthew or how Hilary raised one inquisitive eyebrow he didn’t show it. He bore up well under Luisa’s coolly assessing gaze and acted like he didn’t see the exaggerated wink Sean gave me or the finger I flipped back at him.

Jane and Luisa bent forward to examine the stain on my dress. “It doesn’t look good, Rach.” Jane’s voice was somber. When it came to weighty matters of what could and could not be removed from fabric, Jane was an expert. I gazed down at the brown splotches despondently. The soda water treatment may have lent some romantic intrigue to the evening, but it hadn’t done much to undo the damage wrought by Emma’s great-aunt.

“However,” said Luisa in a stage whisper, “something else looks quite good.” She shot me a knowing glance. I tried to muster up a haughty look, but instead the flush in my cheeks deepened even further.

“Well, I think the time has come,” Matthew announced. “If we don’t get out of here soon they’ll be kicking us out. Peter, you’re staying at the Furlongs’ house, aren’t you? Do you need a ride there?”

“That would be great,” said Peter. A lock of hair had fallen across his forehead, making him look even more adorably boyish than he had before. “I took a taxi straight here from the station so I don’t have a car. Let me just go get my bag—I left it in the cloakroom.”

“I’ll go with you,” Matthew volunteered, putting a hand on Peter’s unsuspecting shoulder and guiding him toward the exit. Sean gently removed Jane’s feet from his lap and rose from his seat to follow them.

“We’ll see you all back at the house,” he called over his shoulder with a barely disguised grin. This was more of a commandment than a suggestion. I watched their blue-blazered backs head toward the door, with Peter caught innocently in the middle, and inwardly groaned. The two of them could never resist the chance to play big brother, even though I had two of my own who were required by blood to play the role and did so exceedingly well. Peter would be thoroughly interrogated by the time they got back to the house, at which point Matthew and Sean would let me know in no uncertain terms if they found him a suitable candidate for me.

I sighed and turned my head to meet the unabashedly curious looks of my old roommates.

“Well?” asked Hilary.

“Well what?” I retorted with, I hoped, dignity. She stretched out one long bronzed leg and kicked me. Fortunately, she’d removed her high-heeled sandals. I tried to stare her down, but after a couple of seconds gazing at her jade green eyes I began to giggle.

“He’s cute,” said Jane. “I mean, I know old married women aren’t supposed to notice these things, but he really is very cute. And you certainly seem to think so. I haven’t seen you blush like this in years. He seems nice and normal, too.” In direct contrast to the sort of guy I usually went for, she was no doubt thinking but was too kind to say. She ran a hand through her bobbed brown hair, which gleamed in the dim light. Her arms were tanned against the simple blue sheath she wore.

“Quite handsome,” agreed Luisa, her faint South American accent elongating her words. She pulled a cigarette from a silver case and lit it with an engraved lighter before returning the case to an embroidered black evening bag. She inhaled luxuriously, exhaling a stream of smoke from her full lips. For what must have been the millionth time I wondered how she managed to keep her lipstick on for an entire evening.

“But why is he friends with Richard?” demanded Hilary. “I mean, do we know if he’s worthy? Can he possibly be worthy?” Ah. The question on all of our minds. Trust Hilary to be the first to pose it aloud.

“Oh, do be quiet, Hilary,” said Luisa. “Rachel’s a grown-up. She can take care of herself.” These were disingenuous words from the woman who’d taken it upon herself to cancel a date she deemed “inappropriate” for me our senior year.

“I’m sure the Inquisition will have that all figured out in no time,” I said, referring to Matthew and Sean. I paused then continued in a more serious tone. “I have to admit, I have the same concern. I mean, Peter seems smart and nice, and he’s a really good dancer and he smells incredible, and he’s got the most wonderful eyes and he has a great sense of humor—and did I mention how good he smells? But he’s a friend of Richard’s.” The way I said Richard’s name could leave no doubt as to how I felt about him. “Peter said that the two of them grew up together and that they haven’t really been in touch for years. And he seemed pretty surprised that Richard wanted him to be his best man. That’s a good sign, but is it enough to outweigh being friends with Richard in the first place?” I looked around for affirmation. I’d learned long ago that, when it came to men, my judgment left much to be desired and it was wise to seek a second opinion.

“Speak of the devil,” muttered Hilary. I followed her gaze and saw Richard nearing the table with Emma trailing alongside. She looked exhausted; even her long, golden hair seemed to droop with fatigue.

“Girls, how are you?” asked Richard in that fake hearty way I hated so much, acting as if we were all the best of friends. Girls, indeed. Normally I wouldn’t get too worked up about politically incorrect terminology, but coming from Richard this was particularly irksome. I bit my tongue to keep from pointing out that we’d just attended our ten-year college reunion.

“We’re just fine, Dick,” answered Hilary, giving him a big smile. He didn’t even flinch.

“Emma,” I called. “Come sit with us. We haven’t gotten to spend a minute with you all night.”

“I’d love to,” she said, her quiet voice hoarse from all of the talking she’d had to do that evening. “But I have to get back to the house. My mother’s completely stressed out about tomorrow and all of the logistics, and she wants to go through the master plan one more time. If she’s calm enough, maybe we can all have a nightcap by the pool?” Richard didn’t wait for us to respond before he started shunting her toward the door. “I’ll see you at the house,” she called, casting a wistful look over her shoulder.

“God, I hate that man,” said Hilary, not waiting for them to be out of earshot. She angrily brushed a strand of platinum hair back from her face.

“Of course you do,” said Luisa. “He’s appalling.”

“That’s one word for it,” I said.

“What is Emma thinking?” asked Jane.

“We could sit here all night without answering that,” said Hilary, sounding uncharacteristically dejected. She stood up abruptly, smoothing her short skirt over her thighs. “Let’s go.”

The club’s valet was nowhere to be seen and the parking lot was nearly deserted as we made our way out to the car I’d borrowed from a colleague for the weekend. It was a huge black Suburban that made me feel as if I were driving a tank on the way up from New York.

“Does anybody else feel like driving?” I asked. “I probably shouldn’t.”

“Why—too much to drink or too dazzled by love?”

“Shut up, Hil.”

Jane took the keys and we piled into the car, lapsing into silence as she swung onto the narrow country road that led from the club to the Furlongs’ house. An air of sadness settled over us; doubtless, each of us was thinking about Emma and Richard and the ceremony that would take place the next day. On top of that, I still had the exchange I’d overheard between Emma and her father spinning in my head.

If anyone had asked us to take bets years ago as to which one of us was most likely to make a disastrous matrimonial mistake, the odds would have been on me as the winner, hands down. Yet here we were, on the eve of Emma’s wedding, and I desperately wished that I could find even one thing I liked about the bridegroom, or at least a sign that maybe things would work out for the best.

Unfortunately, when it came to Richard, there just wasn’t much to like. Even I had to admit he was handsome, although that fluke of biology was completely offset by the disproportionate level of interest he took in his clothes. He was also clever and knowledgeable, able to hold his own on topics ranging from high finance to obscure Scandinavian writers.

When Emma first showed up with Richard on her arm, I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, I never knew for sure what exactly had happened between him and Luisa all those years ago. But during the months that Emma and Richard dated and then the months during which they’d been engaged, I hadn’t discovered even one mildly redeeming quality.

That Richard had fouled a deal I was involved in soon after he and Emma started dating was just the tip of the iceberg. I’d been representing a major publishing house in the acquisition of a boutique literary press. Richard, an agent for a number of well-known writers, had quietly lured away the boutique firm’s bestselling author, a loss that reduced the value of the acquisition tremendously. My client was too far down the acquisition path to retreat without losing face in the industry; the letters of intent had already been signed. The acquisition went through, although the price my client paid was widely criticized by Wall Street. The company’s stock price had languished since.

The client blamed the mishap on Winslow, Brown, and the Winslow, Brown partner who’d insisted on taking the lead on the deal, enjoying all the hobnobbing it entailed with the literary world, did his best to deflect the blame onto me once things went sour. This was an easy task in the firm’s testosterone-heavy environment, where a woman’s competence was always in question. I calculated that Richard’s coup had added at least six months and probably a year to the already onerous path to partnership at my white-shoe firm.

To a certain extent, the sequence of events was business as usual. As “expert” advisors, we should have negotiated contingencies into the original agreement that protected our client in the event that a significant change in the target company’s author list occurred. For that oversight we could only blame ourselves. You could also argue that Richard was only doing his job—the author he’d stolen away signed a much more lucrative deal with another publishing house.

What bothered me was that Richard knew that I was involved in the deal, or I assumed he did, because I’d found him in my study during a cocktail party at my apartment, leafing casually through my notes on the preliminary negotiations. He didn’t even have the grace to look flustered at being caught, but just glibly explained that he was looking for a piece of paper to write down a phone number. I wordlessly pointed to the blank legal pad that sat front and center on my desk, returned the file to the drawer in which it had been stowed, watched while Richard pretended to jot something down, and escorted him out of the room.

While this was enough to earn Richard a place of honor on my blacklist, it was far more than a professional grudge that fueled my dislike. Quite simply, I was convinced that his interest in Emma had everything to do with gold digging and social climbing and nothing to do with love and respect.

Emma was one of the most compassionate, well-intentioned people I knew. However, growing up in the shadow of two exceedingly good-looking, glamorous parents hadn’t done much for her self-esteem. She’d had a few boyfriends, but even she had seemed to recognize that they tended to be more interested in the vast wealth she’d inherited from her mother’s blue-blooded family, the fame of her artist father or even in her nascent reputation as an artist in her own right than in her as a person. Overall, she was woefully inexperienced with men and doubtful that anyone would ever love her for the right reasons, no matter how frequently I listed her many virtues in an effort to bolster her confidence.

Yet all her insecurities seemed to melt away under the sheer force of Richard’s initial onslaught. In the early days of their relationship he romanced her aggressively. He deluged her with flowers and chocolates, intimate dinners, weekends in the country and extravagant gifts, and Emma was overwhelmed. For several months she was glowingly happy, and I was eager to believe that he was on the up and up, at least as far as Emma was concerned. I even tried to be nice to him when I saw him, which wasn’t easy.

Even before they were engaged, however, he rapidly downshifted into taking her for granted. He’d cancel arrangements with her at the last minute or arrive late without an apology, let alone an excuse. There were no more flowers or chocolates, although he did seem to take a fastidious interest in the gifts they registered for at Tiffany’s. Instead of intimate dinners, or weekends in the country, Richard turned his attention to the types of events covered by the society pages, displaying Emma on his arm like a trophy. It was around then that I started to avoid making plans to see them together and would instead arrange to have lunch or dinner with Emma alone. But when I did see Emma, she seemed despondent, and the radiant excitement she’d once shown when she spoke of him had dulled.

I’d tentatively tried to broach the subject with her a few months after they announced their engagement. We’d met for a late dinner at a quiet restaurant near her loft, and after I’d had a glass of wine I worked up the courage to ask her if everything was all right between Richard and her. Up until that point our conversation had skipped easily from a movie that we’d both seen to a discussion of my work and then of her work. Emma had her first gallery show when she was only twenty-one, and although there were more than a few disgruntled followers of the New York art scene who complained that Emma’s father had smoothed her way, few could dispute her artistic talent. Whereas her father’s work was still entirely abstract, Emma focused on landscapes and portraits that inspired comparisons to Edward Hopper and John Singer Sargent. The first show as well as the ones that followed in the ensuing years met with great critical acclaim. Now, however, she seemed worried. “I think I have the artist’s equivalent of writer’s block,” she confided. “I can’t get anything done.”

It was then that I asked her about Richard, thinking that the question would seem like a natural part of the discussion. I had hoped that she would open up a bit and allow me the opportunity to voice my concerns. Instead, it seemed as if an invisible wall suddenly went up around her. “Oh, Richard’s just fine,” she answered quickly, and then she abruptly changed the subject.

The rest of our conversation that night was stilted, and I went home wondering if I should have forced the issue but hesitant lest I should alienate her. Her response had felt like a warning to me, a clear sign that she did not want to talk about her relationship with Richard. And, except for the occasional glancing reference, we didn’t talk about him in the months that followed. It was awkward maintaining a friendship when there was such a large and obvious topic that we danced around without discussing.

This wasn’t the first time that I’d been upset by how Emma let herself be treated like a doormat by a boyfriend. But this time was serious; it was marriage.

I hoped she knew what she was doing. I sure didn’t.