Lauren Halliday had been born Lauren Bryson of the Boston–Palm Beach–Nantucket Brysons. The silver spoon in her mouth had literally been a ladle, intricately carved by Paul Revere himself and owned by her industrialist and abolitionist great-great-great grandfather, who’d been gifted it for his “statesmanlike spirit” in helping desegregate Boston.
From the Beacon Street brownstone where she’d been raised, to the waterfront mansion where the family wintered, and the sprawling, gray-shingled “cottage” where they summered, Lauren had it all.
She was quiet and sweet, always eager to help. She went to the right schools, had the right friends, wore the right clothes, smiled the right smile. She never had acne, had perfect blond hair that to this day she wore demurely long, tied back with a pretty ribbon. As a young girl she’d been a natural at dancing and on horseback, and she loved her volunteer job giving out books at the hospital because it made her father so proud. At twelve, however, she was whacked in the head by the boom of a sail mast (did her cousin Gracie really not see her?) and soon after, she developed ulcers, which the doctors said she’d outgrow. When she didn’t, they put her on Xanax, which she still enjoyed on occasion.
Bob had been a friend of her father’s, a member of the Harvard Club, an investment manager for First New York National, where he’d gone from New Boston Bank & Trust, where her father had been senior vice president.
Lauren married Bob eighteen years ago when she was thirty-one and he, forty-nine. It was a second marriage for both. (Her first to the son of a lobsterman who was more enamored of her cash than of her—as her father, too late, had predicted; Bob’s first to a woman who’d borne him seven children, then had the misfortune to be hit by a bus. “A city bus, of all things,” Lauren’s mother had wailed. “Public transportation.”)
Unlike less privileged Gracie, who’d been raised with Lauren’s leftover clothes and accessories once Lauren had tired of them or they’d gone out of style, this was the first time Lauren had been given a hand-me-down. Fortunately, by the time she and Bob married, two of his kids had their degrees and were living on their own, two were still in college, and only three were still “school age”—nine, twelve, and fifteen—still in need of some sort of mothering, which Lauren would have done if only she knew how.
But like her father, Bob was rich, so instead of patience and hugging, Lauren offered nannies (they were too old for that), then summer camps, then child psychologists. When the kids finally grew up she was hugely relieved, though she never said so.
The thing with Vincent had been a fluke.
Bob had turned sixty-five, and along with the milestone came impotence. With impotence came frustration, then confusion, then anger.
He was angry, she supposed, at the clock and the calendar and the fact that, though he played racquetball and golf and ran three miles a day, Mother Nature had pointed her finger and said, “Done.”
So his penis was wilted like overcooked pasta and he refused the Viagra and the rest of the stuff, citing that this must be a “virus” or some other phenomenon, that surely his noodle would come back to life and spring forth once again from his pants.
He had, after all, fathered seven children. Clearly he had no problems in the bedroom.
She tried blowjobs and oils and getting on top. She tried whipped cream and pornography and negligees with the nipples cut out.
None of it worked.
After a year, Lauren was horny. Well, the truth was, after two weeks, Lauren was horny, but it took her a year to admit it. And that long to wonder if Bob’s “virus” would define the rest of her life.
Then, on a simple, run-of-the-mill Tuesday, there was Vincent.
She’d been in the city buying china because Dory’s wedding was in a few weeks, and Lauren wanted to be certain the girl had the best. She’d taken the train because Bob was using their driver, and she hated the traffic and the hassle of parking.
There had been an accident of some sort on the tracks north of the city. The train to New Falls was delayed. She went into The Campbell Apartment—a chic bar in Grand Central Station—for wine and the wait. Within five minutes Vincent DeLano sat down beside her.
“If it isn’t Lauren Halliday,” he said with a grin.
They talked.
They drank.
The train was stalled another hour.
They discussed having dinner, but drank more instead. Then Vincent told her she was the prettiest of all of Kitty’s friends. That she was the sweetest, the absolute sexiest. That whenever he saw her, his penis got hard. Very hard.
Did Bob know how lucky he was?
If he hadn’t mentioned Bob, Lauren might have escaped. Instead her hand traveled to Vincent’s crotch, right there in The Campbell Apartment in Grand Central. He was right: His package bulged.
Luckily the Helmsley was within walking distance.
By the time they were finished, Lauren was weak-kneed and raw. And God, she felt good. If she felt any guilt, it was over the fact that she didn’t feel guilty. For once in her life she had been a bad girl, and God, yes, it had felt good.
A few months and dozens of lusty afternoons later, she found out that Vincent was also seeing Yolanda. The thought of him touching the woman whose hands touched her hair had been too repulsive for words.
Now that he was gone, she should feel relieved, the way she’d felt when Bob’s kids finally left. But as she sat in her boudoir, staring out at the sunset, Lauren could think only one perilous thought: Had Vincent told anyone about their affair, and if so, would they tell the police?