“Good morning, good morning, good morning!” said Tara as she waved us over to the breakfast table. It was 9:00 a.m. on Saturday. The sky was clear, the wind was calm, and she had just come back from her daily five-mile jog and was now bustling about the kitchen in a pink velour sweatsuit and matching running shoes. Her hair was in a ponytail and she wasn’t wearing any makeup except for lip gloss. Despite the strenuous workout and the early hour, she looked fresh and perky enough to be on her way to cheerleading practice, and, once again, I wanted to smack her.
I, on the other hand, looked like hell. While Tony slept like a baby—well, a baby who snores—I spent the night trying to avoid bumping into him accidentally. He was a roller, which meant that he didn’t stick to his side of the bed as promised. He rolled over to my side, he rolled back over to his, he rolled over to the middle, and then he lay there spread-eagle. He was all over the place, in other words, and I ended up exhausted. By 6:30, I gave up on sleep and crept out of bed, put my clothes back on, and started flipping through the issue of the Robb Report that Tara had placed ostentatiously on the night table. In case you’re not familiar with the magazine, it celebrates the lifestyles of the super-rich. I was skipping over ads for yachts and jewelry and authentic British butlers when I came upon a photo of Stuart, of all people. He’d been interviewed for an article called “High-Style Birthday Parties,” in which he described how, on the occasion of Tara’s thirtieth birthday, he’d thrown her a million-dollar bash at their rented villa in Tuscany. It sounded like sort of an upscale toga party, and my head exploded as he described the lavishness of it. What I’m saying is that I slept badly and then awoke badly, so by the time I landed in Tara’s kitchen, I had to force myself to rally in order to play the part of the dewy-eyed bride-to-be.
“Here’s some fresh-squeezed orange juice,” she said, handing Tony and me our glasses, both of which were rimmed with brown sugar, just as she advocated in Simply Beautiful.
“Thanks, Tara,” said Tony. “And thanks for letting us sleep in the guest house last night.” He leaned over and gave me a loud mushy kiss on the cheek. “It turned out to be a pretty romantic spot for us, didn’t it, buttercup?”
Buttercup. Nice. No wonder the critics panned Joe’s marriage to Lucy. Tony had a lot of work to do if he wanted to make that relationship ring true. “Oh Tony.” I sighed, as if reliving some passionate X-rated moment. “Last night could have been a rehearsal for our honeymoon.”
Tara averted her eyes, which I loved, because it suggested that my bliss was too much for her to take. “I’m glad you two have decided to abandon the reserved, hush-hush bit,” she said, “and are letting everybody see how happy you are together.”
“Not everybody,” I cautioned. “We’re still keeping our engagement under wraps, Tara. We’re only sharing our news—our joy—with you and Stuart.”
“Your secret is safe with us,” she said. “Now, how about some breakfast? Michelle’s not here, but I can whip something up for you guys. Stuart likes scrambled egg whites, since he’s watching his cholesterol. What do you two usually eat for breakfast?”
Since I had never eaten breakfast with Tony, I could only speak for myself. But he had other ideas.
“Amy and I aren’t really breakfast people,” he said. “Just a cup of coffee and we’re good to go. Right, buttercup?”
Okay, so I would talk to him about the buttercup. I would also talk to him about the fact that I drank tea, not coffee, and that I was a breakfast person and was starving.
We made it through the first fifteen minutes of chitchat, then were joined by Stuart, who had traded his Brooks Brothers suit for the same sweatsuit as Tara’s, except that his was black.
“Good morning, everybody,” he said to the room at large, then glanced at his idol. “Sleep okay, Tony?”
“Like a rock,” he said, “once Amy and I had worn ourselves out in the bedroom.”
This time, it was Stuart who averted his eyes, but only briefly. “Well, I just wanted to make sure our star author got his rest.” He patted Tony on the back, as if they were two manly men with a knack for satisfying their women. “I’d hate to think that it was our tree falling in the driveway that gave you a case of writer’s block.”
“Not to worry, Stuart,” said Tony. “I have a feeling this whole episode is actually going to stir my creative juices.”
“Good. Good. Glad to help. I’ve called the tree people, by the way. They can’t get to us until this afternoon because of all the other damage in the area, but they’ll be here between three and five.”
Swell. That was hours away.
“And since our garage is blocked, too,” he went on, turning to Tara, “I’ll be doing a little work at home today.”
“Oh, do you really have to, sweetheart?” she said. “I was hoping you could spend the whole time with Amy and Tony and me.”
“Me, too, but Mandy’s coming over soon with some papers for me to look at.”
“Mandy’s his secretary,” Tara explained.
“And then Walter’s dropping by to go over the company’s taxes.”
“Walter’s his accountant,” she said.
“And then Bobby will be here to stretch me out.”
“Bobby’s his personal trainer,” she said.
“And then there’s my standing appointment with Chaya.”
“Chaya’s his massage therapist,” she said. “She teaches yoga, too, but Stuart’s not very Zen, so he sticks with the massage.”
“I’m sorry about all the visitors,” said Stuart, who didn’t seem that sorry; instead, he seemed rather pleased with his own importance, “but they’re previous commitments. I had no idea we’d be having guests today.”
“Don’t give it a thought, either of you,” said Tony, who gazed at me adoringly. “Amy and I can keep ourselves occupied. We can always go back to bed.”
I thought Tara’s eyes would bug out of her head. “Uh, well, you’re free to do whatever you like, but I’ll be at your disposal today. We could sit and talk some more. I’m dying to hear how you two became a couple, for instance. I know you work together, but how did the romance blossom? I mean, which one of you was the pursuer?”
“He was,” I said at the very instant that Tony said, “She was.”
Tara laughed. “Come on. Get your stories straight.”
“The truth is that I made the first move in that direction,” said Tony. “And let me tell you, I had to get my courage up to do it.”
“Your courage?” Tara said skeptically. “You don’t strike me as the wimpy type, Tony.”
“Are you kidding? I was totally intimidated by the idea of pursuing Amy. You probably don’t realize this, Tara, but she’s a legend in book-publishing circles. Authors would kill to have her as their publicist. She’s considered the best in the business.”
Yesss! Tony was playing his part magnificently. Tara seemed surprised to hear what a success I was. Even Stuart poked his head out of his newspaper for a minute and was viewing me with new respect.
“And then there were all the men she’d been linked with,” Tony continued. “I’m talking about big guns—the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, an Emmy award-winning television producer, the senator from a certain New England state. Powerful competition, right? The thought of asking her out on a date made me feel like an insecure high school boy.”
Well, yeah, maybe he was going for too much, but I was lapping up every word, especially the high school reference. Even I thought I sounded like hot shit. And you should have seen Tara and Stuart. They were listening to Tony but staring at me, as if to try to reframe me in their minds from poor sweet Amy to Amy the siren.
“And, of course, there was her beauty,” said Tony, reaching over to stroke my cheek. “I know you and she were friends when you were kids, Tara, so you probably witnessed the effect her looks had on people back then. She was the prettiest girl in town, right?”
That did it. The muscle to the left of Tara’s mouth actually started to twitch. “She was always pretty, yes,” she said in a voice that was extremely subdued.
“What amazed me,” Tony went on, “is that a find like Amy had never been married. At first, I thought maybe she was only interested in her career—you know, the type that avoids commitment to focus on climbing the ladder. But then, when we finally got together, she told me she’d been engaged once. I asked her why she and her fiancé broke up, and she said that he dumped her for another woman right before the wedding. Can you believe it? I mean, what kind of an idiot would give up the chance to be her husband? He must have been deluded, to think he’d found someone better.”
He was brilliant, absolutely brilliant. I’d always known what a good storyteller he was, but the scenario he’d just recounted was priceless. Tara was so stricken, she looked as if she’d caught a bad stomach virus. As for Stuart, he stuck his head back in his newspaper, the coward.
“Suffice it to say that Tony summoned up the nerve to ask me out and I accepted,” I chimed in. “One date led to another, and it wasn’t long before we were talking about marriage.”
“You bet we were, buttercup,” he said. “Now, how about giving me a big kiss to show me how much you love me?”
Before I knew what was happening, he pulled me up from my chair and planted a soulful, tongue-involved kiss on my lips. It was entirely for the benefit of our hosts, just part of the performance, so I couldn’t very well push him away. I had to make the kiss look convincing, had to make our relationship look convincing, and so I kissed him back with everything I had. It was a head-spinning kiss that lasted whole seconds, and I nearly keeled over from the heat it was generating throughout my body.
Naturally, I told myself that the “heat” was only embarrassment over our public display of affection; that it had nothing whatsoever to do with any feelings I might be developing for Tony. Still, when he finally released me and my blood pressure returned to normal, I had to admit to myself that I didn’t hate the experience and, should the need arise, I would certainly be willing to repeat it.
During the rest of the day, Stuart’s retinue—the secretary, the accountant, the trainer, the masseuse—paraded through the house at their appointed hours, and we didn’t see much of him once they arrived. Tony spent an hour or so washing the Ferrari and making sure it was ready for the trip back to New York. Which left Tara and me alone for a chunk of time, during which she sat me down and said she wanted to talk.
“If it’s about the publicity for Simply Beautiful, we should probably wait until Monday, when I’ve got my notes in front of me,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I think you should come into the office and meet Scott, my assistant, so he can be up to speed on everything we’re doing.”
“It’s not about the book, Amy. It’s about you and me.”
“Oh?” So my act with Tony had gotten to her, made her give up the superficial nonsense and get down to emotional business.
“Yes. Ever since we were reunited, we’ve been tiptoeing around what happened with us, with our friendship.”
“You mean Stuart, I assume. Because if you do, there’s really nothing—”
“Please listen. I just want to say that I’m very grateful that you didn’t tell Tony the whole story. You kept our names out of it, and we appreciate that. We’d hate it if he thought badly of us.”
You didn’t seem to mind that I thought badly of you. “I had no desire to poison him against you two. Why should I? As you can see, I’ve moved on with my life.”
“I know, and I want to congratulate you for everything you’ve accomplished. I had no idea you were such an important person in the publishing field. And I had no idea you were in such demand socially. And then there’s Tony.” She put her hand over her heart and sighed. “He’s fabulous, Amy. And he’s crazy about you, obviously. But your greatest accomplishment, in my opinion, has been your ability to stay centered.” Marianne would be thrilled to hear that one. “I’m in awe of the professional, courteous way you’ve handled our interactions regarding the book, given how stressful they must have been at first, and of how friendly and forgiving you’ve been with Stuart. You seem as if you really have put aside the hurt we caused you, and I’m just…” She paused. She was on the verge of tears—her standard operating procedure whenever she wanted my sympathy.
“Just what?” I said, loving this.
“Just amazed by your strength.” She shed actual tears now—two of them—and they plopped down along her left cheek, as if her eye had sprung a leak. “You’re an inspiration,” she said, wiping them away with her French-manicured fingers. “I mean it. I’m so, so impressed by you.”
Well, there they were—the words I’d been longing for, the words I’d gone to so much trouble to wring out of her mouth. She was awed by me as well as impressed by me, and I finally felt that justice had been served.
Of course, I also felt like an utter fraud. I had gotten Tara to acknowledge me as someone who not only measured up to her but surpassed her. Yes, judging by the “awe” and the “impressed” and the “inspiration,” it sounded like she was the one with an inferiority complex for once. But I hadn’t made it happen without resorting to tricking her. And so, right on the heels of the euphoria came the guilt, heavy guilt. I had lied, she had fallen for the lies, and suddenly there was a hollowness inside me that I hadn’t anticipated.
“Sorry to go on like this,” she said, bowing her head, as if she were truly reduced by my presence.
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” I said before I could stop myself.
She looked up. “What for?”
I stared into her face, the same beautiful face that was probably buried in Stuart’s privates the day I walked in on them, and snapped back to reality. Nope. I wasn’t sorry, or at least not that sorry.
“Amy? You were going to apologize for something.”
“Just that I’m sorry Tony and I left the guest house in such a mess,” I said. “I’d better go straighten it up.”