Chapter Ten

The day after Walter died, Ponce called Annabelle and spoke to her for more than an hour. She described the lunch in detail—omitting the girl with the overblown calves—and told Annabelle repeatedly how much Walter had talked about her before the meal began. That was a lie, she knew, but Annabelle didn’t have to.

Seeing Walter die had shaken Ponce. They had never been close, but he’d been part of her life with Lee from the beginning. She’d lived through Gerta and Annabelle, and through Lee’s crazy obsession that his career was never as important as Walter’s. Witnessing the extent to which such an accomplished man was ignored in his last moments had frightened her. What did it mean? If you weren’t universally beloved, people felt justified in dismissing you?

To be fair, Walter had always been difficult. But still. Such a big career, such a big life. And to watch it sputter, disappear, within seconds. The sight of him lying on that dining room floor haunted her. So out of context. Out of order.

The notice in the Times said that Annabelle would be receiving from six until eight, so on Tuesday night Ponce arrived at seven-fifteen. Time enough. She rang the bell and, hearing the eager trot of high heels across the marble floor, felt immediately queasy. The unmistakable sound of an empty apartment.

“Oh. Hello.” Annabelle gave Ponce the cursory hug of someone forced into a bond she never wanted in the first place.

“Annabelle?”

Shawsie walked into the hallway.

“It’s only Ponce,” Annabelle said, subdued. As Ponce stepped inside and shut the door, she got a face full of the widow’s boozy breath.

Shawsie shot Ponce a look of doom, and they each took an arm and led Annabelle back into the living room, where she tipped toward the couch before they lowered her onto it. Ponce marveled at her outfit, a bright pink linen suit, perfect for Easter lunch. A torn black ribbon, the Jewish sign of mourning, was pinned to the lapel. Did she think it was like a broach, Ponce wondered, a decoration visitors might miss on something darker?

A waiter entered.

“White wine,” Ponce said, and he quickly brought her a too-full glass. She sipped and peered into the dining room. Just what she’d feared. She and Shawsie were the only people there.

“Mike Posner’s coming,” Annabelle slurred, noting Ponce’s survey. “His secretary said he would try to make it.”

“That’s great,” Ponce said, trying to estimate the cost of the myriad platters of thick sandwiches and elaborate pastries set on tables decked with flowers. Annabelle didn’t understand what this event was for, Ponce realized. Even though she still wasn’t sure how to pronounce it, she’d been to enough of these gatherings to know that they were rituals, not feeding frenzies. You say you’re sorry, you sit, reminisce, weep or hug if you’re so inclined, have a drink, maybe a bite. You realize you’re still alive, thank God, and go out to dinner. This wasn’t a bridal shower or a wedding, a celebration based on the gorging of a joyful bounty. It was death, for chrissakes.

Annabelle slumped against the cushions, and Ponce told her again about the network lunch. Shawsie hadn’t heard the story herself, but Ponce could see her sift through to the truth in an instant. She kept close to Annabelle and made all the right noises.

The clock in the front hallway chimed eight times. The waiter returned. “Mrs. Gluckman? Would you like me to clear?”

“What?” She looked at him blearily. “Clear? Why?”

“It’s eight o’clock, ma’am. Receiving ends at eight.”

“It does? Does that mean no one else is coming?” She burst into tears.

Shawsie reached over and took Annabelle’s hand as Ponce stood. “Yes, please do clear,” she told the waiter. “Wrap up everything and put the sandwiches in the refrigerator. Bring Mrs. Gluckman a mug of coffee and leave the percolator behind. It can be picked up in the morning. And for heaven’s sake, put the liquor away.”

He nodded, glad for direction. “Yes, ma’am. And would you happen to know where Mrs. Gluckman wants the boxes that were delivered from the network? They’ve been in the kitchen all day, and there isn’t much room, and every time I ask where to put them, well…”

Ponce thought for a moment. “Bring them in here, if you don’t mind,” she said. “And open them up for her. She shouldn’t be handling sharp objects.”

Two other waiters carried in the large cartons, while a third set the coffee and a plate of sandwiches in front of Annabelle.

“Eat something now,” Ponce suggested. “It’s been a long day for you.”

Annabelle did as she was told, and slowly some of the color returned to her face. Still, Ponce thought, she looked empty, old, the loose skin on her neck collapsed in rings against the collar of her suit.

When the last sandwich was eaten, Ponce stood.

“Annabelle, we will see each other soon. I’m so glad we could visit together tonight.”

Annabelle looked confused. “Why are you going?”

“Well, I’ve got to be in court in the morning, and Shawsie has to be in the office.”

Annabelle quickly grew teary.

“Look over here, Annabelle,” Ponce said cajolingly, “at what the network sent today. “You’ll have hours of pleasure going through Walter’s things. What a comfort that will be.”

Annabelle walked unsteadily toward the boxes. As she did, Shawsie and Ponce skirted around her.

“Look at this one!” Annabelle called loudly.

Shawsie turned. “What’s that?” she asked, forcing an upbeat tone. Ponce could hear how exhausted she was.

Annabelle clutched a videotape. “I don’t have my glasses. What does this one say?” she asked eagerly.

Shawsie held it up to the light. “‘E. R. Murrow, 1952,’” she read.

“How wonderful!” Ponce exclaimed, sidling into the front hallway.

“That was Walter’s very first job in television,” Annabelle said, turning the tape over in her hands. She reached into another box and pulled out a few more. “Would you stay and watch with me?” Her tone was pleading.

Shawsie looked at Ponce and nodded. “Of course we will,” she said kindly. “What a treat.”

Ponce was trapped and she knew it. “Yes, of course,” she said.

They followed Annabelle down the hall to a guest bedroom. It was too bad she and Shawsie were still sort of fighting, Ponce thought. If she reached over and pinched her now, she couldn’t guarantee she’d take it the right way.

“There’s a VCR in here,” Annabelle said. “There’s only a DVD player in our bedroom, and I still don’t know how to work it.” That brought a fresh round of tears, and she went off in search of Kleenex.

“I thought you were doing this last night,” Ponce whispered.

Shawsie sighed. “Robin called right when I left the Yale Club and said he was going, so that was it for me. I went home and fell asleep. The only thing I seem to do well lately is sleep. Which, given the circumstances, is actually incredible.”

“Okay, here we go! I took one of Walter’s handkerchiefs instead.” Annabelle opened it with a flourish. WAG, read the monogram. She settled into a rocking chair; Shawsie lay down on the bed, and Ponce sat beside her. Annabelle switched off the light and there was Edward R. Murrow. No sign of Walter, certainly. He was probably the errand boy at that point, Ponce thought, exasperated.

Honestly! How had she allowed herself to get swept up in this? Guilt, partly. Annabelle was friendless under the best of circumstances, and Ponce had been upset enough herself to empathize. After the lunch—once people heard that Ponce had been there—her phone had rung constantly. She was so rattled, so in need of company, that she gladly told what happened, but no one wanted to hear more than three sentences. Once they discovered that Walter hadn’t had any famous last words—“Just collapsed, was that it?”—they’d churn past her description: “So sad. But what an extraordinary life. Will we see you at the Kofi Annan dinner next week?” Ponce finally turned off the ringer and let the machine pick up.

There were two Murrow shows on the tape. Shawsie slept soundly from the start as Annabelle wept and Ponce shifted her position on the soft bed between them. She had lied about having to be in court the next morning. Still, she couldn’t wait to leave. Her thoughts drifted back to Neil, and she got the same sick feeling in the pit of her stomach she’d been getting for two weeks now. It was over. Hah. It was over if she was lucky. If she wasn’t, it would be cocktail-party chatter until she dropped dead herself. But never at lunch, certainly.

When the tape ended, Ponce stepped into her shoes and nudged Shawsie. “Oh, Annabelle, wasn’t that interesting! But it’s so late now, we really have to go!” Ponce started for the door.

“No! It’s not even eleven yet!”

Shawsie sat up on the bed. Annabelle sounded frightened, she thought drowsily. She didn’t want to be alone.

“One more.” Annabelle was begging now. “Here, look! I brought in a few of them. This is from a different box. Maybe it’s an early Current Events. That would be something special, wouldn’t it? At least it would be in color. Please?”

“Okay, Annabelle,” Shawsie said warmly and Ponce couldn’t believe she was sitting back down, but she was. It occurred to her that Shawsie kept agreeing to stay for the sole purpose of irritating her. Ponce leaned over, pretending to fix her shoe. “Stay awake this time, and right after the first show, we’re gone, okay?”

Shawsie nodded without meeting her eye.

“Let’s see, what does this label say?” Annabelle squinted. “Oh, never mind, we’ll just start it. If anyone is wearing bellbottoms, we’ll know it’s the sixties!”

She switched off the lamp and settled back into her chair. They waited for the lead on the tape to give way to a picture, but it just kept on going.

“Maybe this one is blank,” Ponce said. “Do you want me to—”

Suddenly there was a grainy shot of Walter’s office. Walter sitting at his desk, talking. The camera didn’t move, and it was hard to hear what he was saying. After a few minutes, Ponce stifled a yawn. Probably some bright idea that had never panned out of having him introduce segments on Current Events.

Walter’s phone rang, and he answered it. Ah, the working-journalist pose, Ponce thought. How contrived. Who would want to watch this? She saw Shawsie’s head drop forward. She could just kill her. And Annabelle too. The half-life of Ponce’s empathy had officially expired.

Walter was standing now, gesturing, “Come in.” A young woman appeared and shook his hand awkwardly. He pulled her toward him. She pulled away and laughed. He pushed her down into a chair in front of his desk and stood in front of her, in profile.

“Well, you’re right,” she said, giggling. “One kiss wouldn’t hurt.” She reached toward his fly.

And at the exact same moment that Ponce realized she was watching Babette Steele give Walter Gluckman a blow job, Annabelle screamed.

Babette paced the Fifth Avenue block where Ponce lived. She couldn’t believe it that morning when she’d picked up her phone to find Ponce on the line, dripping honeysuckle.

“I’ve been thinking about this profile you’re writing about me and wondering if I’ve made a mistake not talking to you,” Ponce said. “I mean, I’m sure you’d rather not paint a one-sided portrait of me that would be unfair in any way. Isn’t that right?”

“Well, sure it is, Ponce,” Babette answered. “You and I both know what a keenly developed sense of fairness you have. I can only follow your fine example.”

“I was thinking you might like to come by this evening, for cocktails,” Ponce said smoothly. “Say, six-thirty?”

Babette flushed with satisfaction. “Ah, the long-awaited cocktails,” she gloated. “But you know, to be fair, why don’t I save you some time? I saw you and Neil Grossman kissing in the lobby of the Four Seasons in Chicago, and no matter how much money he’s paying Mort Diamond to say otherwise, I know what I saw. And I know what it meant.”

Ponce’s laugh tinkled. “Now, doesn’t journalism mean that I get to tell my side of this story, too?”

Babette felt a twinge. Sound effects aside, that question bore the stamp of a lawyer.

“Of course,” she amended quickly. “Of course you do. I’ll see you at six-thirty.”

Babette hung up and tried organizing her thoughts. It was Wednesday. She was seeing John Carraro at the Manhattan offices on Monday morning, his first appointment back from Disney World, and she had almost finished a draft. But whatever she would get from Ponce—a boatload of bullshit, no doubt—she’d have to do the whole thing over. And M was coming back from Japan the following night. He called to say he had planned the most wonderful weekend. She sighed. The anxiety she’d felt the last time she saw him, when he was so condescending about her reporting, had completely disappeared. He should stick to his business, whatever the hell it was, she thought smugly. She was doing just fine with her own.

Actually, the more she thought about it, the more she’d decided that M was getting to be a bit of a trial. He did have this insistence whenever he was in town that she drop everything to cater to his every whim. And with his taste for Viagra, his whims were continuous. The only good news there was that they didn’t last more than an hour per pill.

But getting this piece in shape was her first priority. She knew that once it ran, she’d be besieged with other assignments, not to mention booked on television talk shows. She thought disdainfully of her Carmen sidebar running in the new issue of Boothby’s. Such small potatoes. Who cared about fashion writing? She was on the fast track with this story. It actually turned out great that Topher had fired her. Really! She could have spent years there opening the mail, bowing down. And for what? She was rising up, and she couldn’t be more ready.

She walked over to the foot of her bed—her makeshift desk—and reviewed her notes. Good stuff. Sari Grossman was still the best, though in the last few days Jacqueline Posner had also come through. Jacqueline told all sorts of wicked stories about Lee which gave the piece real spice and—to Babette, at least—raised real doubts about the backbone of his fourth bride. A cautionary tale, Babette thought. Marry a rich old man who’s used to having his way, and you don’t stand a chance. Well, she would not be making that mistake. This story came first. Then, if time allowed, the fabulous weekend with M would be the icing on the cake.

Six twenty-five. She’d been out here cooling her heels long enough, Babette thought. Had it been a real drink, a social drink, she’d never think to arrive early. But rudeness is as rudeness does. She went into the lobby and announced herself to the doorman. An elevator attendant took her up, and Babette was surprised when the doors opened directly onto Ponce’s apartment. Talk about money.

Ponce was right there, waiting for her.

“Thank you, Mike,” she said to the elevator man, who tipped his hat. “Babette, so nice to see you. Won’t you come in?”

Babette walked into the tiny foyer and through the doorway. The first thing she noted was the sweep of the front hall. And this place was only the divorcée consolation prize. Well, touché. Maybe Mrs. Morris’s backbone was intact after all.

“I hope white wine will do,” Ponce was saying, leading Babette toward the study. “I don’t keep much of a bar.”

“Oh, sure. Fine.”

Babette walked toward the window and peered out onto the stretch of Fifth Avenue she’d been pacing a few minutes earlier. It sure looked better from here.

“Sit where you like.” Ponce gestured around the room, and Babette chose a leather chair near one end of the couch. Ponce sat in its twin, opposite her. Babette noted the distance and dug around in her bag for her notebook.

“So,” she started, but the elevator scraped to a halt again in the outside hall. “Yes, thank you,” she heard someone say, and she felt a stab of anger. Shawsie.

“What kind of setup is this?” Babette asked, standing as Shawsie entered the room.

“Oh, Babette, please don’t get up on my account,” Shawsie said. “I think I’ve seen enough of you standing for a lifetime. Though I do prefer you with your clothes on.”

Ponce got up and poured orange juice into a wineglass and motioned toward Babette’s seat. “Please sit down,” she said. “We need to talk.”

Babette stayed standing and crossed her arms. “You’re obviously ganging up on me for a reason. So what is it? I don’t have all night.”

“Oh,” Ponce said, “I thought you wanted to ask me some questions for your piece. No? Well, have it your way.” She walked over to the television set and turned it on. Walter and Babette played out their scene.

“Shit!” Babette clasped her throat with both hands. “He taped it?” She bolted toward the set, but Shawsie and Ponce stood in front of it, side by side.

“Even if you want to attack a pregnant woman,” Shawsie said, “there are two copies of this tape sitting in a vault at Corning Hilliard. So do your best.”

“You’re pregnant? Christ.”

“I believe the standard response is ‘Congratulations.’”

Babette waved toward the set. “Where did you get this?”

“It was among Walter’s things,” Ponce said. “And Annabelle’s seen it already, so you can kiss that friendship goodbye.”

Babette tried desperately to think of what to do or say next. This was awful. After everything that had happened these last two weeks, Annabelle was one of the only people in New York still talking to her. She sank down in her leather chair and gulped her wine.

Ponce and Shawsie looked at each other, satisfied, then Shawsie glanced at the screen, where the scene continued to play. She started to giggle. “You know, Babette, I’ve seen your tits twice now in two weeks, and I don’t even know your middle name,” she said. Ponce laughed, too, and Shawsie could hear her relief.

Babette looked down at her hands, knotted together, and said nothing.

“Well, we thought you’d see it our way,” Ponce said with an air of finality.

Babette lifted her head. “What do you mean?” she asked slowly.

“That you agree not to go ahead with the piece.”

“Why would I do that?” Babette looked incredulous.

“Why?” Ponce’s face flooded red. “Because the minute Montrose Merriweather gets to town I will make sure that he views this tape. Do you think he’s going to want to date, much less marry, some cheap tramp who gives out blow jobs for job applications?”

Babette drained her wine.

“I mean, really,” Ponce said. “Did you think giving Walter a blow job meant he’d hire you?”

Babette shrugged. “Yeah, maybe. Old guys are fixated on blow jobs. Though I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”

Ponce flushed redder.

“At that point I hadn’t been hired by Boothby’s yet,” Babette went on. “I was short on cash and had a friend who needed some help, and when I asked Walter for a loan a few weeks later, he just gave me the money and said to call it a gift. I mean, it was a fucking blow job. Is that such a major event in your pathetic little worlds?”

“No,” Ponce said quietly. “The major event in my pathetic little world is that you saw me kissing a friend and are turning that into my beheading.”

Babette walked to the bar and refilled her own glass. “Yes, thanks, I’d love some.” She turned to Ponce. “Don’t pretend you’re not having an affair with Neil Grossman. He’s been seen here regularly, and you’ve been seen going in and out of his office at all hours by people who live in that neighborhood. I have proof. Look at you now, I can see your palms sweating from here.” Ponce clenched her hands and tried not to look guilty. “So the moral of this story, Ponce, is there’s not too much difference between giving a blow job for money and doing what you’ve done your whole life. None, actually.”

Babette drained her wine. “There’s also no reason for me to pull this piece. I’ve done the reporting, I have the scoop, and there’s no way you can stop me.”

“I can show this tape to Gus Fisher,” Ponce said. “And Rachel. And Topher. Let some people in the media see what you’re really about.”

Babette laughed then, a genuinely amused laugh.

“Um, hello? Have you ever heard of Paris Hilton? Do you have any idea how cool it is now to have a sex video out there? I mean, even if it is with an old guy, people still see how hot you are. And this is with a famous old dead guy. Think of the nostalgia factor. Combine that with this incredible article with its incredible scoop for Manhattan magazine, and I am in demand. And what are the two of you? The sob sisters clucking in the corner. One causes the downfall of the hottest doctor in New York City, and the other, so sadly, has no choice but to raise her child alone.”

Babette put down her wineglass and gathered her things to go. “You know, this drink wasn’t half as much fun as I’d hoped,” she said. “Some things are better left to the imagination.”

         

Later that night, Neil phoned Ponce while he was out walking the dog. They had kept in limited touch over the past week in a series of brief calls. Sharing information, they were both cordial and to the point, though Ponce could periodically hear the fear seep into his voice. He was like a child, she thought. He’d done something wrong—that’s all it was to him now—and he was steeling himself against the biblical punishment that awaited. It made her feel alone in a way that was foreign and unwelcome.

“Something bad happened today,” he said without saying hello. “Page Six called Mort.”

“And said what?” She worked to keep her tone steady.

“That Babette Steele has been running all over town telling everyone she’s doing a piece on you for Manhattan magazine because we’re having an affair and I’m leaving Sari. She says it’s running next week.”

“Next week?”

“Yeah. But Mort says that can’t be true. That by this late in the week, someone would have called to check facts. And no one has.”

Ponce told him everything that had happened in the last few days.

“And she doesn’t care that it’s on tape? Good God,” Neil said. “What world are we living in?”

“Don’t I know it. I really thought I had her, too. Shawsie and I were convinced. I thought I could call you and tell you it was behind us, that there was nothing to worry about now.”

It sounded to her like he might be crying.

“It’s not me I care about,” he whimpered. “It’s Sari.”

“Of course you do,” she said. “And I—”

He hung up.

She put down the phone. Something clicked in her brain. Enough. It was time to take care of herself.

         

At noon the next day, Red, Rachel, and Shawsie were gathered in Ponce’s study. Gus, away at a mandatory orientation day with Terry and the twins at Dogwood, where they would enroll in the fall, had spoken with Ponce for an hour that morning. “Walter did the tape thing all the time,” he told her. “After a few drinks, he liked showing them to the guys on staff. I somehow missed the one with Babette.”

“That is despicable,” Ponce protested, but Gus only laughed. “Listen,” he said. “The guy loved television. He just couldn’t stand that he wasn’t on it himself.”

When Ponce had told Gus about the call from Page Six regarding Manhattan magazine, he’d put her on hold and called a friend there. Half a minute later he was back to Ponce. “Not you,” he assured her. “And if it’s any consolation, he’s never even heard of Babette.”

Ponce told the assembled all of this, bringing them up to date.

“Has Page Six called you yet?” Rachel asked, and Ponce shook her head. Rachel shook hers, too. “I can see it now: ‘Top Fertility Doc Bad Seed.’”

Everyone glared.

“Sorry,” she said. “Look, maybe you can call one of them over there and offer to buy him a pony if he’ll look the other way. It’s worked before.”

The house phone rang. Red went into the kitchen to answer it, and when he came back Robin was with him.

Red held up his hand, preempting a response from Ponce or Shawsie. “Robin and I had a long talk last night, and I felt it was important he come here today. He has a lot of information we can stand to hear right now. So start listening.”

Robin pushed at his hair. “Well, first I want to say that, obviously, I’m truly sorry about helping Babette. I guess I thought it was harmless, and like so much else in my life, I seem to have guessed wrong.”

No one spoke.

“Um, and since that thing at the Acorn”—he winced—“I haven’t taken any of her calls. I counted on the fact that she would go ahead and call John Carraro to sell him the piece, and that’s exactly what she’s done. So he and I worked out a plan. He told her he was going to Disney World with his kids, but he wasn’t. He’s been here the whole time. So she lost this whole week and doesn’t realize it. I don’t know how to prevent this piece from happening, but I did buy some time to strategize.”

Ponce lit a Parliament. “It’s Friday,” she said curtly. “Time’s up.”

Robin dug out his Dunhills. “When they met, Carraro gave Babette a list of people to call,” he said. “That list came from me, and I called everyone on it first to tell them Babette was up to no good. I said they could either stonewall her and not call back, or talk only about Ponce’s past. I also told them all to tell at least two lies, so when the fact checkers started calling and discovering discrepancies, the magazine might either delay the piece or consider it a big enough mess to kill it. Of course, there was always the chance that Babette would call people who were not on that list. But my hunch was that she wouldn’t bother.

“You all know that Carraro’s boss, the editor in chief of Manhattan, is Victoria Stone,” Robin went on. “I’m sure you’ve read that she’s had one baby courtesy of Neil Grossman and has spent the last two years trying to have another. Carraro’s not sure if she hates Neil’s guts or she’s convinced herself he’s the only doctor in America who can ever get her pregnant again, because he says Victoria is so crazy on the subject that her opinion of him changes by the day. So until John sees a more finished version of the piece, he won’t even mention it to her. She could either refuse to run a word remotely critical of Neil or be so incensed with him that she’d run Babette’s first draft. He said the hormone thing has driven everyone there nuts for years.”

Shawsie flushed and said nothing.

“Great work, Robin,” Red said heartily. “Really first-rate. The only thing we can get at this point is time, until we figure out what else to do.”

“Yes,” Ponce said to Robin, forcing a smile. “Thank you for helping me. You certainly have no reason to, but I do appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, then looked at Shawsie. “But I have every reason to.”

Shawsie reached for her tissues.

Red patted his pockets as he watched Ponce stub out her cigarette. He looked frustrated. “I just wish I could see the story myself,” he said. “I’d know in a second if it has a chance to be published or not. Robin, you’ve seen some of it, haven’t you?”

He sighed. “I’m sorry to say it was actually pretty good.”

Rachel frowned. “It was? Had someone edited it already?”

Robin shook his head. “No, I was the only one she showed it to.”

Rachel reached into her bag and pulled out the new issue of Boothby’s. She put on her glasses and thumbed through the pages. “Okay, listen to this. New Faces: Carmen by Babette Steele.

“‘It takes a real talent to make you forget how the cold wind of a Chicago winter can cut you like a knife, but Carmen, the twenty-eight-year-old design sensation, might be the one to do it,’” she read. “‘Ever since she fled her native Cuba when she was only eleven, her flair for color has brightened her world.’”

Shawsie groaned. “How the hell did that happen?” she said. “Camille has got to go.”

“She does indeed,” Rachel said, turning to Robin. “But my point is, that is an edited paragraph. Which means it was even worse before someone else got their hands on it. Was the writing you saw like this?”

Robin poked at his hair. “No. It wasn’t. It was good. Different.”

“I don’t suppose you kept any of it,” Rachel said. “Scrap paper? Sentiment?” She glanced at Shawsie. “Sorry.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t.”

“Oh!” Ponce hit her head with both hands. “I am such an asshole,” she proclaimed and ran out of the room, returning with her purse. She opened her wallet and started emptying it, dumping credit cards and business cards onto the coffee table. An old fortune from a cookie fluttered down. “Don’t even think about it,” she said to Red, who had reached his hand out.

She unfolded a small square of white paper. “I took this from Babette’s drawer at Boothby’s the day I confronted her there and completely forgot about it.” She picked it up and read: “‘The Spare Wife.’”

Rachel turned red and reached for one of Ponce’s Parliaments. Ponce lit another cigarette herself and straightened the paper in her hand.

“‘It seems somehow fitting that our story begins with an ending,’” she read. “‘It was, as tout New York remembers, Jacqueline Posner’s poignant farewell to the Park Avenue home she had made so lovingly for Mike Posner. Jacqueline seemed fragile that night, her long face white against her cloud of dark hair. If not for Ponce Morris, whose cool blond beauty gave the evening its spine and her friend her courage, the guests would have left before the dinner was even served. But Ponce, in her rhinestone pants and silver charmeuse top, sparkled as surely as the stars outside the windows in the inky velvet sky.’”

Rachel yelped with indignation. “What the hell is that?” She turned to Robin. “This is a twenty-five-year-old kid who’s written beauty captions for Self, but I don’t think that even a mascara has a name as putrid as Inky Velvet Sky. And ‘tout New York’? It’s like drinking tea with your pinkie in the air. Low and dated. No one under forty would write like that. Or even think it. The thing is overwritten and underwritten at the same time. Anyone knows that Jacqueline Posner has dark hair, and anyone could assume she’d be pale if she were upset. It’s not specific enough. And what does it mean that Ponce’s beauty gave the evening its spine? It makes no sense. The whole thing is off. It has an ‘as told to’ quality.”

She looked around. “You all see what I’m saying, don’t you? I mean, you can tell by the way Babette speaks that the Carmen piece is written in her voice. The only thing missing is ‘Isn’t it hilarious?’ But this.” She looked disdainfully at Robin. “You couldn’t tell she didn’t write this?”

He looked miserable. “No. I mean, it never occurred to me she hadn’t.”

Red spoke up. “Okay, Rachel, let’s say you’re right on this. Say one of us tells Manhattan magazine that the piece was written by someone not its author. How do we prove it?”

“Hell if I know. But I know enough about writing to know that that girl did not write this paragraph.”

The intercom rang. Puzzled, Ponce walked to the kitchen to pick it up.

“What? Oh, damn!”

She came back in and sorted through the pile on the coffee table, picking up her calendar. “The car’s downstairs to take me to my workout with Thom. I completely forgot to cancel.”

Rachel looked excited. “No! Don’t you dare cancel. Thom knows Babette better than any of us. You’ve got to go. You can ask him what writers she knows, who else she’s friends with. Someone wrote this for her—it’s just a matter of finding out who, that’s all.”

Ponce shook her head. “I am in no shape to go over there and do even one sit-up, I can assure you. And I never gossip with Thom. I’ve made that a point through the years. I can’t start asking questions about Babette now. He’d know something was off.”

Rachel was already up and walking toward the door. “Fine,” she said. “While we’re letting our hair down today, I’ll tell you that of the ten sessions with him you bought me, I’ve only used two. I can’t stand him, and I can’t stand the sit-ups. So I’ll take your appointment instead and try to find out what’s going on. Wish me luck!”

Once she was gone, Ponce looked at the group. “Do you all think she’s right?” she asked. Robin looked ashamed, but nodded. So did Red. Shawsie reached for Ponce’s shaking hands and rubbed them in hers to warm them. “I hope so,” she said.

“Does that mean ‘Yes, but good luck finding out who’?”

Shawsie sighed. “I guess.”

Robin picked up his jacket and walked toward the hallway.

“Where are you going?” Red asked.

“My office,” he said. “I’m going to start with the A’s and keep going. Maybe someone I know needed to make some extra dough.”