“Do you want some more,” he said. “Does Neely want some more.”
She knew she had no choice. “Yes,” she whispered. “I want some more.” It felt as if he would never stop.
He leaned over, grunting into her ear. “Do you want some more,” he said again.
“Yes, I want some more.”
His sweat fell onto her bare back. He covered her mouth with his hand, then one last shove, and he came.
“You okay?” he said later, after he had brought up two glasses of ice water, after she had washed her face and put on a fresh nightgown.
She nodded yes.
He kissed her on the forehead. “My wife,” he said.
They had been married for almost a month. Just as she realized it was the first time he had said it, he said it again.
“My wife.”
He was asleep in minutes. Neely watched the end of the show alone. Lyon had been right: the sister was innocent, the accountant was the murderer. In the morning he would ask her how it had turned out, and in the morning she would lie.
1993.
Neely didn’t get the part. It went to a twenty-four-year-old actress named Casey Alexander who had done a little television work and not much else. She was married to someone even older than Perry Hayes, a real estate developer who had escaped the Nazis just before the war. The newspapers called Casey “a natural,” which was another way of saying she had no training whatsoever.
Lyon recognized Casey’s picture in Entertainment Weekly: She was the actress who looked so much like Jennifer North. He hid the magazine before Neely could see it, but soon more photographs appeared. Lyon knew a full-court publicity press when he saw one. Casey was getting a five-star buildup, including a full-page portrait in Vanity Fair.
“Casey Alexander, what kind of name is that?” Neely said to Lyon. “It sounds like someone who should be singing with the Muppets.” She sulked for several weeks, throwing temper tantrums when the littlest things didn’t go her way. Lyon knew the only cure was either to get Neely back to work or to spend a great deal of money on her.
He made some calls, and Neely took a role in a Mafia film set in New York. She wasn’t in that many scenes, but the cast was pure A-list, and her agent assured her the part had “Best Supporting” written all over it. The Helen Lawson movie opened to spectacular reviews and stayed near the top of the box-office charts for much of the summer. Everyone was saying that a Best Actress nomination was a sure thing. On the last day of 1992, Neely and Lyon closed on a beach house in Malibu.
“Happy anniversary,” Neely said, pushing the mortgage papers his way. They had been married exactly one year and two days.
“Happy anniversary,” said Lyon. The loan was enormous. He had not wanted to take on such a large debt, but Neely was insistent. Wasn’t the house worth far more than five million? Weren’t they both making insane amounts of money? And wouldn’t weekends in the Colony be good for their careers? Everyone knew that some of the best deals started right on the beach.
They drove out to catch the sunset, a cooler of white wine and sandwiches on the backseat.
“Spectacular,” Lyon said. “Worth every penny. Now let’s just hope the damn thing doesn’t slide into the ocean.”
“Oh, pooh,” said Neely. She lifted her glass. “To 1993!”
Anne spent New Year’s Eve weekend at Bill’s house in Connecticut. They went to a party at the country club and then to a brunch given by a couple who lived one town over. The talk was all about dogs and horses and a fishing trip the men had taken the previous summer.
After coffee, the women decided to go for a walk.
“You won’t be warm enough,” the hostess told Anne. “I’ll lend you a sweater.”
The women walked through the woods, two by two. Up ahead were Cynthia, their hostess, and Mary, who was married to Cynthia’s cousin Jim. Anne walked behind with Diana, whose husband was a partner at Bill’s firm.
“Do you like living in the city?” Diana asked. “I could never. It’s too noisy. I don’t know how you manage to sleep at night.”
“You get used to it,” Anne said. They chatted about movies (Diana thought they were too violent) and music (Diana’s son listened to rap, but it just sounded like noise to her) and the new president (Diana had gone to college with his wife, remembered her as being pushy and not very attractive).
“I guess all this must seem very boring and provincial compared to life in Manhattan.”
“I was just thinking the opposite,” Anne said, “how lovely it all is. You know, I grew up in Lawrenceville, it wasn’t that different.”
“Those Welleses!” Diana cried, clapping her mittened hands. “Of course! I had no idea. I thought maybe it was, you know, a sort of stage name.” She gave Anne a wide smile.
Anne recognized the look: You’re one of us, it said.
“So, I suppose it’s getting serious,” Diana said as they turned for home. “Will we be hearing wedding bells any time soon?”
“Who knows. We haven’t really talked about it.”
“How long has it been—a year?”
“A little more, actually.” But in some ways it seemed to Anne like less. They had slept together only a dozen or so times—on a summer weekend to Maine, a few times at her apartment when Jenn was staying over with friends, a few times at Bill’s house—and Bill didn’t seem to be in any rush for more. It had taken her awhile to realize that he was waiting for her, waiting for her to decide what she wanted. She thought there might be other women in his life, perhaps someone at his office in New York or a divorcée up here in Connecticut. Women who weren’t marriage material, women who could take care of his needs with no strings attached. But she was too shy to ask. She knew thinking about it should make her feel jealous, but she didn’t really care. It was as if some part of her had been boxed up and put away, like a pair of outgrown shoes.
“Well, don’t wait too long,” Diana said. “Bill is a catch. And at our age they’re few and far between, right?”
They were back at the house. Anne stomped the snow off her boots.
“How was the girl talk?” Cynthia’s husband asked.
“Anne is from Lawrenceville,” Diana announced. “I had no idea.”
“Those Welleses?” her husband asked. He turned to Bill. “You didn’t tell us.”
“Didn’t I?” Bill said. He looked at the three men and shrugged. “I just assumed.”
The men turned to Anne with expert eyes. They knew how to size things up: a hunting dog by the slant of its head, a racehorse by the curve of its back, a man by how he behaved on the tennis court. Anne knew her minor television celebrity carried no weight with them, the kind of talent she possessed meant as much to them as the ability to do a handstand or speak fluent Italian; it was something you learned, as opposed to something you were born with.
“Bill, you devil,” one of them said.
Bill winked at Anne. He had done it on purpose. She realized they were all standing in a circle, with Anne in the middle. Of course they would get married. Of course she would move up here, they would redecorate Bill’s house (starting with the master bedroom), and soon these women would be her best friends. They would play tennis together on the weekends, she would learn bridge again. It was the most natural thing in the world.
That night Bill proposed. They were sitting in front of the fire, drinking a fine old brandy.
He got down on one knee. In a dark blue velvet box was his grandmother’s ring: an enormous star sapphire buttressed by six diamond baguettes.
“Say you will,” he said.
“I don’t know what to say. I want to be married, I want to be married to you. But I don’t feel ready.” She felt foolish saying it, like a schoolgirl, instead of what she was: a few months shy of forty.
“Just try it on, then,” he said, slipping the ring on her finger. The platinum band was slightly loose. He sat down, putting his arm around her.
“It’s beautiful. I just … I just
don’t feel completely sure.”
“I can be sure for both of us,” Bill said. “You know, I’ve been sure from the beginning. I knew right away.”
“I mean … what I mean is,” she began, “I’m sure of you. That isn’t it. It’s me I’m not sure of.”
He refilled her glass. “Maybe what you’re waiting for, a sign, whatever it is, maybe it’s never going to happen. You know, it isn’t the same, at our age. We know too much.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We know how much our mistakes cost. How much we can be hurt. Anne, I promise you, I will never do anything to hurt you. Ever. I love you, and I want to take care of you. Of you and Jenn. Forever.”
She took off the ring. “I can’t. Not yet.”
“When, then.”
“I don’t know. I know I can’t ask you to wait. I just wish, I just … I’m not sure how to say this.”
“Just say it. I won’t break.”
She shook her head.
“The first time you got married,” Bill said, “were you sure then?”
“That was different.”
“But you were sure, weren’t you.”
“Yes.”
“And you were wrong, weren’t you.”
“I suppose.”
“This is real life, Anne. What we have together, it’s as good as it gets. The other way—that doesn’t last. You believe in it when you’re young, but then you realize it doesn’t last. If you’re waiting for that again, my God. Are you waiting for that again?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“If you are, it doesn’t exist.” He took her face in his hands. “I love you, Anne. This is love. This is what real love looks like.” He kissed her. “This is what real love feels like.”
They kissed for a while. She felt no passion; it was the same as always, nothing stirred in her until his hands were on her body, and then she began to feel herself heat up, slowly, so slowly, his large hands moving her along. She had seen him touch animals this way, watched him calm a nervous dog or a frightened horse with a few sure strokes. He carried her upstairs. They made love quietly, slowly. She could feel him about to finish, and then his hand was on her and they finished together.
“I love you,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “I think I know it better than you do.”
“I just need time.”
“I won’t rush you,” he said. “There’s no rush.”
“You,” she said, kissing him again. “You’re the best man in the world.” Was it love, she wondered, or just an enormous feeling of relief? She imagined life as Mrs. William Carter. Perfect man, perfect house, perfect life. Wasn’t this just what she needed? And just what Jenn needed—a stable home, another kind of man to look up to, a place where values still mattered.
Bill was right: she was waiting for something that would never happen. She was too old to find that kind of passion again. And even if she did, would she trust it? Did passion ever last? And that kind of man—how long would someone like Anne keep him satisfied? Maybe that kind of man needed another kind of woman, a woman whose blood ran hotter, a woman who was wild all the way through. Anne knew what she was, and she wasn’t that. She was, at heart, a nice girl from Lawrenceville. A Welles. Her mother’s daughter. Breeding meant more than inherited silver. It was who you were. How you were made. And who you were made for.
After Bill fell asleep, she snuck downstairs and put the ring back on. He would see it in the morning, and he would know.
Anne watched the Academy Awards alone, on the tiny television set she kept in the kitchen.
“Good for you,” she said to the empty room when Neely went up to accept the award. Neely wore an elegant low-cut green velvet dress and a complicated diamond necklace that was surely borrowed. Anne counted the thank-yous: seventeen.
“And thank you, Helen Lawson, for being such a great old broad!” Neely said in closing. Her eyes were dry. Anne missed the old days, when actresses wept, and went on too long, and picked out their own clothes. Now everyone was tasteful and assured. There was a small army of people—stylists, jewelers, publicists—to protect Neely from making a mistake.
Anne didn’t go to the movies anymore. There wasn’t any time. There was work all day, and at night there was prep reading or one of the parties the IBC publicity department told her to go to. On the weekends, she drove up to Connecticut to see Bill or out to Southampton with Jenn.
Morning Talk led their time slot in the May sweeps. Charles Brady sent her a dozen yellow roses, Bill a dozen red ones. Anne was sitting at her desk, talking to one of the producers about a series on automobile safety, when her phone buzzed.
“I’m sorry, I asked her to hold all calls,” Anne said. “This will just take a second.” She picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“I know you told me not to interrupt, but it’s Keith Enright,” her secretary said.
“On the phone?” Anne said. Keith Enright was the head of IBC network news. “For me?”
“Yup. Well, his secretary. You’re going to take it, right?”
Anne looked at her producer apologetically. “Can I swing by in a minute?” she asked him. Keith Enright was famous for five things, and one of them was never returning phone calls. The producer nodded and left. “Okay, I’m alone,” she told her secretary.
“Okay, here goes.”
“Hello? Miss Welles?” It was Keith Enright’s secretary. “Hold, please.”
Anne waited for what seemed like two minutes. Why would Keith Enright be calling her? He had lunch with Charles Brady every couple of months, but other than that, he couldn’t be bothered with anyone at the local affiliate.
“Anne,” he said when he came on the line. “Anne Welles. How are you.”
“Just fine, thank you. And you.”
“Nice going last week. Very nice going.”
“Thank you.”
“Listen. Can you come up. There’s something I want to ask you,” he said.
“Well, sure. When would be—”
“Great, great. Hold on, we’ll get it set up.” There was a click, and then his secretary was back on the line.
“Miss Welles? How is two-forty this afternoon?” she asked.
“Just fine. I’ll see you then.” That was the second thing Enright was famous for: even the busiest executives at IBC scheduled their calendars at fifteen-minute intervals, but Enright divided his hours into six ten-minute slots.
The third thing everyone said about Enright was that he refused to talk to anyone on the elevator. There were four elevator banks in the IBC building, each one going to a separate set of floors. The first elevator bank went to the lowest floors, where there were offices for the local affiliate, for payroll and office services, and for IT. The mailroom was on three, Morning Talk on four. The second elevator bank went higher: to sports, legal, and finance. The third elevator bank went to the entertainment division, and the last elevator bank went to the highest floors: the news division and the executive offices in the penthouse.
Everyone joked that you could often tell which elevator bank people would use by what they looked like. Anyone who was casually or unfashionably dressed was bound to be headed for the lower floors. Men in navy blazers and gray flannel trousers worked in sports. Men with fashionably colored ties and women in expensive suits—short, straight skirts and long, tailored jackets—worked in entertainment. The last elevator bank was the province of men who wore traditional white shirts and suits in a gray so dark that it was almost black.
At 2:25 Anne applied a fresh coat of lipstick, went downstairs to the lobby, and crossed over to the last elevator bank. She was still wearing her on-camera outfit: a peach silk suit, a white silk T-shirt, pale stockings, and camel-colored pumps with three-inch heels. There were five men on the elevator, and none of them spoke during the long ride up. They were dressed almost identically, except for their ties, which were slightly different shades of red.
She waited in Ke
ith Enright’s outer office for twenty minutes. The secretary offered her a beverage, then seemed surprised when Anne asked for a glass of water. The water arrived on a tray: a plastic bottle of French spring water and a glass a quarter full of ice.
The secretary twisted off the bottlecap.
“Thank you,” Anne said, “I can take it from here.”
“That’s okay,” the secretary said, sounding at once utterly polite and just a touch condescending. “We wouldn’t want to spill anything on that gorgeous suit of yours.”
At 2:41 Anne was ushered inside. The secretary followed behind with a fresh bottle of water and a cup of coffee for Keith Enright. He was on the phone, his back to the room.
“I know, I know,” he was saying. “But numbers are numbers. We can’t wait till November.” He swirled around and waved to Anne. “I know you can,” he said into the phone, “we have full faith.” He hung up without saying goodbye.
“So,” he said to Anne. “How are things down on three?”
“Just great. It’s four, actually.”
“Of course, of course,” he said. “Been awhile. I’ve been meaning to say hello.” He stroked his mustache. That was another thing he was famous for: long after mustaches had become unfashionable, long after every other man had gone clean-shaven, losing the beard and the youthful sideburns, Keith had kept his mustache. It was steel gray and neatly trimmed, arching over a thin mouth and perfect white teeth that were the envy of the newscasters who worked for him. Anne guessed that Keith was somewhere in his early fifties. His thick salt-and-pepper hair fell forward onto his face. He looked more like an aging rock-and-roll star than what he was: one of the most powerful men in American television.
They hadn’t spoken in years. Keith used to come to Anne and Lyon’s parties, always with a beautiful woman on his arm, always someone different. He was one of those people who just disappeared from her life after the divorce: no more Christmas cards, no more invitations. Anne hadn’t held it against him. At the time it felt as though pretty much everyone had disappeared, or rather, it was Anne who had disappeared: without the right kind of man, without money, without the right kind of job, she had simply ceased to exist for people like Keith Enright.