Chapter One
It was the beginning of the summer in the year 2000, and inNew York City, where the streets seemed to sparkle with thegold dust filtered down from a billion trades in a boomtowneconomy, it was business as usual. The world had passed intothe new millennium peacefully, the president had again avoidedimpeachment, and Y2K had fizzled like an ancient bottle ofFrench champagne. The city shone in all its magnificent,vulgar, and ruthless glory.
At that particular moment, the talk of the town was PeterCannon, an entertainment lawyer who had bilked severalcelebrity clients out of an estimated $35 million. In themonths and years that would follow, there would be morescandals, billions of dollars lost, and the general rippingoff of the American public. But in the meantime, "the PeterCannon affair" had involved enough bold-faced names to atleast temporarily satisfy gossip-hungry New Yorkers. Everyonewho was anyone either knew Peter or knew someone he hadthrillingly cheated - and after all, they asked themselves,shouldn't his clients have known better?
One of the victims was a thirty-one-year-old rock musiciannamed Digger. Digger was one of those one-name wonders who,like so many great artists, had modest beginnings coupled withslightly freakish looks. He hailed from Des Moines, Iowa, haddirty blond hair and frighteningly white translucent skinthrough which one could see blue veins, and was given towearing porkpie hats, which were his trademark.
On the Friday afternoon of Memorial Day weekend, he was calmlysitting by the pool at his $100,000 summer rental inSagaponack in the Hamptons, smoking a filterless cigarette andwatching his wife, Patty, who was heatedly talking on thephone.
Digger stubbed out his cigarette in a pot of chrysanthemums(there was a small pile of cigarette butts in the pot thatwould later be removed by the gardener), and leaned back on ateak chaise lounge. It was quite a beautiful day and he reallycouldn't understand what all the fuss over Peter Cannon wasabout. Being the sort of person who considered his purpose inlife to be that of a higher nature than the grubby pursuit offilthy lucre, Digger had no real concept of the value ofmoney. His manager estimated he had lost close to a milliondollars, but to Digger, a million dollars was a shadowyabstract concept that could only be understood in terms ofmusic. He figured he could earn back the million dollars bywriting one hit song, but on that pleasant afternoon,ensconced in the lazy luxury of a Hamptons day, he seemed tobe alone in his laissez-faire attitude.
His beloved wife, Patty, was in a stew, and for the past halfhour had been blathering away on the phone to her sister,Janey Wilcox, a famous Victoria's Secret model.
As he gazed across the gunite pool to the gazebo where Pattysat hunched over the telephone, taking in her pleasing,slightly zaftig figure clad in a white one-piece bathing suit,she glanced up and their eyes met in mutual understanding.Patty stood up and began walking toward him, and as usual hewas struck by the simplicity of her all-American beauty: thereddish blond hair that hung halfway down her back, the cutesnub nose smattered with freckles, and her round blue eyes.Her older sister, Janey, was considered "a great beauty," butDigger had never seen it that way. Although Janey and Pattyshared the same snub nose, Janey's face was too crafty andferal to attract him - and besides, he thought that Janey,with her screwed-up values about status and money, herflippant, arrogant airs, and her obsession with herself was,quite simply, a narcissistic asshole.
And now Patty stood before him, holding out the phone. "Janeywants to talk to you," she said. He pulled back his lips in agrimace, revealing small, unevenly spaced yellow teeth, andtook the phone from Patty's hand.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Oh Digger." Janey's musical, slightly accented voice thatalways put him on edge came tinkling down the line. "I'm sosorry. I always knew Peter was going to do something really,really stupid. I should have warned you."
"How would you know?" Digger asked, picking a piece of tobaccoout of his teeth.
"Well I dated him a few years ago," she said. "But only for acouple of weeks. He called everyone a fucking Polack ..."
Digger said nothing. His real last name was Wachanski, and hewondered if Janey had intended the insult. "So ...?" heasked.
"So I always knew he was a creep. Darling, I'm so upset. Whatare you going to do?"
Digger looked at Patty and grinned. "Well, I figure if heneeds my money that badly he can keep it."
There was a gasp on the other end of the line and then a smallsilence, followed by Janey's melodic laugh. "How terribly,terribly ... Buddhist of you," she said, unable to keep aslight sneering tone out of her voice. And then, not knowingwhat else to say, she added, "I suppose I'll be seeing you atMimi Kilroy's tonight."
"Mimi who?" Digger asked, adopting the same bored tone ofvoice he employed when someone asked him about Britney Spears.He knew exactly who Mimi Kilroy was, but, as she came fromthat segment of society that, like so many of his generation,he reviled - i.e., WASP Republican - he had no intention ofgiving Janey this satisfaction.
"Mimi Kilroy," Janey said, with mock patience. "SenatorKilroy's daughter..."
"Oh, right," Digger said. But he was no longer payingattention. Patty had sat down next to him and, shifting hisweight, he wrapped a skinny leg around her waist. She turnedher face toward his and touched his shoulder, and as usual hefelt an overwhelming desire for her. "Gotta go," he said,clicking the OFF button on the phone. He pulled Patty on topof him and began kissing her face. He was deeply andromantically in love with his wife in a completely uncynicalmanner, and as far as he was concerned, that was all thatmattered. Peter and Janey could go fuck themselves, hethought; and they probably would.
Well, really, Janey Wilcox thought. If Digger cared so littleabout money, why shouldn't he give some to her?
She peered through the windshield of her silver PorscheBoxster convertible at the endless stream of cars jammed up infront of her on the Long Island Expressway. It was so passi tobe stuck in traffic on the way out to the Hamptons, especiallyif you were a supermodel. If she had an extra million, shethought, the first thing she'd do would be to take theseaplane out to the Hamptons, and then she'd get an assistantwho would drive her car out for her, just like all of the richmen she knew. But that was the problem with New York: Nomatter how successful you thought you were, there was alwayssomeone who was richer, more successful, more famous ... theidea of it was sometimes enough to make you want to give up.But the sight of the gleaming silver hood of her car revivedher a little, and she reminded herself that at this point inher life there was no reason to give up - and every reason topress on. With a little self-control and discipline, she mightfinally get everything she'd always wanted.
Her pink Chanel sunglasses had slipped down her nose and shepushed them up, feeling a little thrill of satisfaction atowning the must-have accessory of the summer. Janey was one ofthose people for whom the superficial comfortingly masks aninner void, and yet if anyone had called her shallow she wouldhave been genuinely shocked. Janey Wilcox was a particulartype of beautiful woman, who, acknowledged only for her looks,is convinced that she has great reserves of untapped talents.Hidden under her glossy, nearly perfect exterior was, shebelieved, some sort of genius who would someday make asignificant contribution to the world, most likely artistic asopposed to commercial. The fact that there was no evidence tosupport this hope didn't dissuade her, and, indeed, shebelieved herself equal to anyone. If she were to meet Tolstoy,for instance, she was quite sure that he would immediatelyembrace her as a kindred spirit.
The traffic had slowed to twenty miles an hour, and Janeydrummed her left hand on the steering wheel, hereighteen-karat-gold Bulgari watch flashing in the sun. Herfingers were long and slender - a fortune teller had oncesaid that her hands were "artistic: - marred only by stubbyfingertips with nails bitten to the quick. In the past ninemonths, ever since she'd been picked, Cinderella-like, to starin the new Victoria's Secret campaign, every makeup artist intown had pleaded with her to stop biting her nails, but it wasan old childhood habit she couldn't break. The physical painshe inflicted on herself was a perverse way of controlling theemotional pain the world had inflicted on her.
And now, the frustration of sitting in traffic while imaginingthe seaplane flying overhead bearing the smarter members ofthe New York social set nearly drew her fingers to her mouth,but for once, she hesitated. She didn't really need to biteher nails - after all, she was finally on top of the worldherself. Just a year ago, at thirty-two, she'd beenpractically washed up - her acting and modeling career hadground to a halt and she was so broke she'd had to borrowmoney from her rich lovers to pay her rent. And then there hadbeen those shameful three weeks when she was so desperateshe'd actually considered becoming a real estate agent and hadeven taken four classes. But hadn't fate stepped in and savedher, and hadn't she known it would all along? And glancing atherself in the rearview mirror, she reminded herself that shewas far too beautiful to fail.
Her car phone rang and she pressed the green button, thinkingthat it must be her agent, Tommy. A year ago, Tommy wouldn'teven return her calls, but ever since she'd landed theVictoria's Secret campaign and had her face plastered onbillboards and featured in every magazine in America, Tommywas her new best friend, checking in with her several times aday and keeping her apprised of the latest gossip. Indeed, ithad been Tommy who had informed her that morning that PeterCannon had been arrested in his office yesterday, and they'dhad a delicious chat dissecting Peter's character flaws, themain one being that Peter had lost his head working withcelebrities and had somehow fancied that he'd become acelebrity himself New York might have been the land ofreinventions but everybody knew there was an unbreachable linebetween "celebrities" and "service people," and lawyers, forall their education and expertise, are still "service people."Peter's story was now circulating as a cautionary tale: Whenone tried to circumvent the natural laws of celebrity andfame, the result was likely to be arrest and a possible jailsentence.
But instead of Tommy's sycophantic "Hi gorgeous," a woman'svoice with a clipped English accent inquired, "Janey Wilcox,please."
"This is Janey," Janey said, knowing immediately that theperson calling was the assistant to someone in theentertainment industry, as it had recently become de rigueurin that field to employ an English assistant.
"I have Mr. Comstock Dibble on the phone. Can you take thecall?" And before Janey could respond, Comstock himself cameon the line.
"Janey," he said gruffly, as if he intended to get right tothe point. Janey hadn't seen or heard from Comstock Dibble fornearly a year, and the sound of his voice brought back a hostof unpleasant associations. Comstock Dibble had been her loverthe summer before, and Janey had actually fancied herself inlove with him - until he suddenly became engaged to MauveBinchely, a tall, reedy socialite. His rejection of her infavor of another woman (and one who wasn't, Janey thought,even remotely pretty) had been made all the more bitter by thefact that this was a scenario that had repeated itself manytimes in the past. While men were perfectly happy to date her,when it came to the ultimate union of marriage, they alwaysseemed to spurn her in favor of a more "suitable" candidate.
On the other hand, Comstock Dibble, the head of ParadorPictures, was one of the most powerful men in the moviebusiness, and it was entirely possible that he was calling tooffer her a part in his next film. So, although she longed toteach him a lesson - even if that lesson was simply that shewasn't impressed by him anymore - she knew it would be wiserto tread lightly. That was what surviving in New York was allabout putting aside your personal feelings in favor of thepossibility of advancing your position. And so, in a voicethat was cold (but not nearly as cold as she would haveliked), Janey said, "Yes, Comstock?"
His next words, however, sent a jolt of fear through her body."Janey," he said. "You know that you and I have always beenfriends."
Continues...
Excerpted from Trading Upby Candace Bushnell Copyright © 2003 by Candace Bushnell. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Best-sellers | New | Upcoming | Calendars 2009 | 10% off Amazon Books Pricing on over 900,000 Titles
Audio Cassette Abridged
