On Monday morning Bambi was arriving at Burghley's at her usual late hour when the doorman failed to open the heavy etched-glass door. For a moment she stood there, then looked daggers at him.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Parker," he told her. "I'm afraid you're not permitted inside."
"I beg your pardon?" She drew herself up and stared at him, not sure she'd heard correctly.
He looked away, coughed discreetly into his cupped, white-gloved hand, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I've been given orders, you see. You're not allowed in."
"Oh?" Bambi's withering gaze raked him up and down. "And why the hell not?"
"I really wouldn't know, but I was told to give you this." He produced a sealed envelope.
She snatched it out of his hand, ripped it open, and speed-read the enclosed memorandum. It was short, not sweet, and to the point:
April 3, 1995
TO: Barbara (Bambi) Parker
FROM: Sheldon D. Fairey
A recent review of your performance as director of the Old Masters Paintings and Drawings department has found you seriously lacking in leadership abilities, expertise, and on-time performance.
Subsequently, I regret to inform you that you are dismissed from that position as of immediately.
Naturally, you are entitled to the usual severance package and unemployment benefits. Please contact Ms. Heidi Ross at personnel for details.
It goes without saying that this has no bearing on your becoming a future Burghley's customer, and you will always be welcome as such.
Sheldon D. Fairey
cc: Heidi Ross, personnel
Bambi's first reaction was annoyance.
If this is someone's idea of a joke, she thought angrily, I'm not having any of it.
A second read-through, and an inspection of the signature, proved otherwise. It was for real, all right.
She felt a sudden fear clutch at her insides. I'm fired. I'm really fired! "Sheldon D. Fairey regrets!" she huffed. "He'll regret it all right!" Brandishing the memo and shaking with fury, she pushed past the doorman and yanked open the big heavy door herself.
She found her way barred by two beefy security guards. "Sorry, ma'am," one of them said. "Our orders are to deny you entry."
She stared at them.
Deny. Me. Entry. It's that bitch of a wife's doing!
"I insist upon speaking with Mr. Fairey," she demanded.
"Sorry, ma'am. He's not available."
"Then where the hell is he?"
"He didn't say."
"I want to use a phone."
"Sorry, ma'am. You'll have to use one outside this building." It was like finding herself trapped in a nightmare. "What about my personal belongings?" she wanted to know. "They'll be messengered to your home."
She glared at both guards, then spun around and stalked back out. Hurrying down the block to the entrance of Auction Towers, she could feel her face burning with humiliation. She could already hear the girls in The Club dissecting her. Yak-yak-yaking and picking her to pieces while going brush-brush-brush with mascara. Did you hear about Bambs? Wonder what the story behind that is!
Thank God she hadn't run into one of them! She'd as soon have died!
As soon as Bambi was gone, a security guard called Sheldon D. Fairey. "The doorman served Ms. Parker with the notice, sir." "Thank you. Was there a problem?" "No, sir."
"Good. If she returns, you know what to do." "Yes, sir."
"Hopefully it won't come to that." "Hopefully not, sir." "Keep me informed."
Sheldon D. Fairey pressed the intercom button. "Miss Botkin, please call Ms. Turner. Tell her I wish to see her at once."
For Kenzie, the day had begun like any Monday morning. Her alarm clock had jolted her awake. She had showered, put on makeup, and gotten dressed. Had rushed to work wearing super comfy Mephistos (bye-bye, Reeboks), and along the way picked up a container of takeout coffee.
At Burghley's, she and Arnold exchanged stories about their respective weekends, tried to get Annalisa to join in—a hopeless task—and was soon immersed in work.
Then Ms. Botkin called.
Now, heading to Sheldon D. Fairey's office, she felt a wormlike sense of apprehension twisting in her stomach.
Something had to be amiss. Why else would she have been summoned?
Miss Botkin was her usual unsmiling self.
"Please have a seat, Miss Turner," she sniffed, indicating a chair. "Mr. Fairey will be with you shortly."
Kenzie thanked her and sat down. Five minutes later, the intercom buzzed and Miss Botkin showed her into the inner sanctum.
Sheldon D. Fairey was standing at the window behind his massive uncluttered desk, his back turned, looking out.
"It's a grand day, Ms. Turner, wouldn't you say?" he said in that rich plummy voice of his.
Kenzie, approaching the desk, looked out. The sky was gray and overcast, an April showers kind of day.
"It looks like rain, sir," she said.
He turned around, a distant, slightly chilly smile on his lips. "Grand days," he said, "don't necessarily have to mean nice weather, do they?"
Kenzie frowned, wondering what on earth he was getting at. "No, sir," she said. "Not if you like May flowers."
He waved a long-fingered hand at a chair. "Please, Ms. Turner. Do have a seat."
"Thank you, sir."
She pulled up one of the Anglo-Indian, carved ebony armchairs and he took a seat in the executive swivel chair behind his giant, ivory-inlaid calamander, thuya, and ebony desk. Lacing his hands, he tilted back his chair and regarded the ceiling, the wintry smile still hovering on his lips.
"Tell me, Ms. Turner," he said, "do you believe in miracles?"
"I suppose that would depend upon the definition of a miracle, sir."
He nodded, abruptly tilted his chair forward, and stared intently at her.
"What would you say," he asked gravely, "if I told you we've had our very own miracle right here at Burghley's?"
"Then I'd have to ask you what it is and judge it for myself."
"Ah. Cautious as ever, I see." He looked mildly pleased and flipped the switch on his intercom. "Miss Botkin?"
"Sir?" came the crisp, disembodied reply.
"About the memorandums. They can be distributed now."
"Yes, sir."
He sat back, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, and tapped his fingertips together in slow motion.
"If it were in my power to grant you one wish, Ms. Turner, what would you ask for?"
"I'm afraid you've caught me completely unawares, sir. I'd really have to think on it."
"Come, come, Ms. Turner! You needn't be so tactful. What does anyone here want? Power. Position. Promotions ... meaning a hefty raise, of course."
Kenzie smiled. "I suppose that brings us back to the subject of miracles, doesn't it, sir?"
"Miracles," he said softly, "have been known to happen." She was silent.
He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, then pulled open a desk drawer and slid a sheet of paper across to her.
"Even as we speak, copies of this are being distributed throughout the various departments," he said.
She picked up the piece of letterhead with its impressively embossed, intagliolike seal and read:
BURGHLEY'S
FOUNDED 1719
April 3, 1995
TO: All In-House Staff FROM: Sheldon D. Fairey
Although we regret the sudden resignation of Ms. Barbara (Bambi) Parker from the Old Masters department, we are pleased to announce the promotion of Ms. MacKenzie Turner to the post of director, Old Masters Paintings and Drawings.
This promotion is to take effect immediately.
On behalf of our entire staff, I want to be the first to congratulate Ms. Turner, and know you will all enjoy working closely with her.
Sheldon D. Fairey
Kenzie sat there, stunned. "Well, mercy," she whispered, and glanced over at him. "Has Bambi resigned?"
"Renews one's faith in the human race, eh?" he said, with a rare chuckle.
"Yes, sir. I suppose it does."
"Well, I'm sure you'll have your hands full moving into Mr. Spotts's old office and all."
He rose to his feet, indicating that the meeting was over, and came around from behind his desk.
"Please accept my congratulations, Ms. Turner," he said in diapason tones, shaking her hand warmly and walking her to the door. "You see, miracles do sometimes occur."
"Yes, sir." She held his gaze. "It does seem that way."
It did not escape her that he'd neatly sidestepped the issue of Bambi's "resignation."
No sooner was Bambi in her apartment than she charged straight for the phone and punched Robert's private line.
A recorded message informed her that the number she was calling had been changed. She waited, but no new number was forthcoming.
Wrong number, she thought, and punched again.
Same message.
Frowning uneasily, she called information.
"I'm sorry," the operator told her, "it's an unlisted number."
"But this is an emer—"
The operator hung up.
Frantic, Bambi tried the switchboard at Robert's office.
She got as far as his secretary. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but Mr. Goldsmith is unavailable. If you'd like to leave a message—"
She couldn't believe it.
I've been dumped, she thought, and without so much as a good-bye.
"The chickenshit!" Her eyes were hot with tears. "He could have had the decency to tell me in person!"
With that, she flung the phone across the room.
Dina started off with a black-and-white Chanel suit. Too businesslike.
Changed to a ruffled pink silk minidress from Valentino. Too flirty.
A white silk shantung dress with a snappy Pompeiian red jacket from Saint Laurent. I'm not going to lunch.
A lantern-shaped, pleated silk dress in carnival colors from Issey Miyake. Great for South of the Border.
An oversize brown velvet top with floppy batik trousers from Lacroix. Too casual.
Nothing suited.
Finally, gazing at her Boldinis for inspiration, Dina decided upon the yellow silk morning gown. With its translucent muslin overgown and lavish trim of yellow silk bows, it was a couture fantasy of a fin de siecle housedress. Perfect.
She wore a minimum of makeup. Even more perfect.
Sweeping into the living room, she struck a Tissot pose on the duchess brisee: lounging sideways with one leg up and one down, and only the tips of her slippers peeking out from under two layers of extravagantly ruffled hems. She looked languidly, supremely, confidently at ease, the slim volume of poetry on her lap adding the crowning touch.
Julio cleared his throat. "Mr. Goldsmith is here, madam."
"Thank you, Julio. Please show him in." She picked up the little book of poems and pretended to read.
Two days and three nights had passed since Dina had insisted upon the trial separation, and she'd had plenty of time to take stock of the plusses and minuses of remaining married.
On the plus side were wealth, power, position, and unlimited charge accounts.
On the minus, everything boiled down to basically one thing—an unattractive, uncouth philanderer with peculiar sexual appetites.
Which wasn't exactly a revelation.
And, although in the beginning she had married Robert solely for his money, over time, and despite all his faults, Dina had to admit that she really had grown rather fond of him.
Besides which, the fact remained that she'd worked hard—damn hard!—to reach her social position. She'd literally invested years—nearly a decade, to get where she was.
Did she want to throw all that away? And for Bambi Parker?
No, she'd decided. I'd sooner slit my wrists.
And besides. She and Robert didn't have a prenuptial agreement. That put him over a barrel and her in the driver's seat.
And he damn well knew it.
"Scram, Tinkerbell! I can find my own goddamn way!" Dina heard from out in the foyer, and then Robert came charging into the living room, puffing tycoonlike on one of his Flor de F. Farach Extras.
"Charming as ever, I see," Dina observed with a glimmer of a smile.
"Goddamn twinkletoes!"
Robert squinted balefully in the direction of the foyer.
"Who's he think he is, keepin' me waitin' out in the hall? The public hall! An' I pay the rent on this place."
"But I," Dina reminded him sweetly, "happen to live here. Now, why don't you calm down and fix yourself a nice drink?"
"Why?" he asked edgily, although he was already at the bar. "Am I gonna need one?"
"That depends," Dina said vaguely.
He poured himself a drink, downed some, and paced the room impatiently, glass in hand.
"Well?" he scowled. "You wanted me here, an' I'm here."
As if that wasn't obvious.
"So. What's up?"
"Will you sit down? Really, sweetie. You are making me dizzy."
He looked wounded. "This the way I get welcomed home?"
She clarified one point. "I wouldn't exactly call this a homecoming, Robert. I called you so we could discuss matters."
"So? Let's discuss." He sank into the couch across from her. "Whatcha decide?"
"Always to the point," she sighed.
"That's 'cause I'm busy."
"Sweetie, you'll be a lot busier and a whole lot poorer if I want a divorce."
That silenced him—as she knew it would—and she took a moment to regard him closely. On the surface he was the same old Robert. Grouchy, demanding, and a pain in the behind. But under the blunt bull-in-a-china- shop bluster, she detected something different about him.
But what?
And then she knew.
There was an undercurrent of wariness and unease she hadn't noticed before.
"I have," she said, "given us a lot of thought. Not only in regard to this particular situation, but to our entire relationship."
"Yeah, yeah." He nodded impatiently and rolled the cigar around in his mouth. "An'?"
"And, the old saying goes that a leopard does not change its spots."
He glowered. "Yeah, but leopards ain't people."
"You know very well what I mean, Robert."
"C'mon, Dina." His gruffness abruptly gentled. "We have a good thing goin', don't we?"
"I thought so. Until it was ruined by a certain affair with a certain young lady."
"Yeah, but she's history."
"She may be. But what about other young ladies down the road?"
"Aw, Christ!" he blurted. "Gimme a break, Dina, will ya?"
He pushed himself to his feet and clumped back and forth across the room, reminding her of a man dying to take a leak.
"Look, I did everythin' you asked for," he growled. "I got her fired. She'll be outta Auction Towers. An', I'm cleanin' up my act."
He churned up humongous, lavish clouds of blue smoke.
"What more d'ya want?"
"Reassurance would be nice," she said.
"Okay. Okay."
He scratched the back of his head as he paced.
"Look. I'm not exactly proud about what I've done," he said miserably. "An' I'm not tryin' to wheedle out of it, either. Believe it or not, I feel guilty as all hell!"
He shot her a pleading look. "That satisfy ya?" he asked.
"Well, it's certainly a step in the right direction."
"A step! Look, I'm tryin' ta tell ya that I missed ya!"
He stopped pacing, took the cigar out of his mouth, and jabbed it in her direction.
"Yeah, you! I missed you!" His voice abruptly softened. "An' I'm sorry, Dina. Really I am. Last thing I wanna do is hurt ya, 'cause ..."
He sighed heavily, shifted position, and looked down at his feet in obvious embarrassment.
"... 'cause I love ya," he said so quietly she could barely hear.
Dina looked at him in amazement. "I love you." He'd actually said, "I love you!" And now he was blushing and glancing shyly over at her like a schoolchild!
Surprise, surprise! she thought. Good heavens!
If memory served her correctly—and it had never failed her yet— this was the first time he'd ever uttered those three magic little words. And, however clumsy and inept the delivery, she couldn't help but be touched.
She found her anger and harshness dissipate, and smiled at him slowly.
"Well, perhaps it's quite a large step," she qualified.
"Oh, yeah?" He perked up. "This mean you'll gimme another chance?"
"I'll give us another chance," she emphasized.
"Hot damn!" His face lit up like a Christmas tree. "You won't regret it," he promised.
"I certainly hope not."
"That mean I can move back in?"
"As long as you remember you are on probation. But don't forget, sweetie. If I so much as catch you sneaking a glance in the wrong direction ..." Her voice trailed off.
"I won't."
"You'd better not," she said darkly.
He glanced at his watch. "Shit. I'm late for a meetin'."
She sighed. "Sweetie, you are so romantic."
He puffed away grandly. "Gotta keep my babe in moolah, right?"
She smiled happily. "Right. And speaking of which, Mr. Mongiardino needs two million dollars to continue on the apartment. You will see that it's paid promptly, won't you, sweetie?"
Another two mil! Robert's cigar nearly fell out of his mouth. "What's the guy do with money," he asked. "Eat it?"
Well, what the hell, he thought. What's a few mil? Pocket change.
A divorce could easily have set him back a quarter of a bil. Put into that context, he was getting off cheaply, and knew it.
Bambi heard the chime of the doorbell, and her heart gave a leap. Robert ...!
Convinced he had come to tell her it was all a mistake, she rushed to the door and flung it open.
What ...?
It was not Robert standing there, but the building manager. "What do you want?" she snapped.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Parker, but we have received complaints. As this is an illegal sublet, I'm afraid you're going to have to vacate the premises." She couldn't believe this! The nightmare was continuing! Will it never end? she wondered.
"Just what sort of complaints are you talking about?" she sniffed. He cleared his throat. "As you know, here at the Towers we pride ourselves on the utmost discretion—"
"Well, stick it up your discreet ass!" she declared, slamming the door. Then she collapsed against it and shut her eyes. Oh, God, she thought. This can't be happening! Where will I go? What will I do?
She was stumped.
But only temporarily. Bambi was, above all, a survivor. The following morning, she moved in with Lex Bugg.