instead.
No comments. It was an emergency.
Cybil lives in Sutton Place. A fabulous apartment with a garden terrace and a doorman who is better connected than most socialites. The apartment had been her grandmother’s and, when the old girl had moved to the family compound in Southampton, Cybil had taken over the residence. It was the kind of place that people kill for. Literally. Six rooms with twelve-foot ceilings, casement windows, a fireplace, and original molding. Add in the completely renovated bathrooms and cook’s kitchen, and you have the stuff of metropolitan dreams.
Just at the moment, however, none of that meant anything. What mattered was the fact that my best friend was sitting cross-legged on her white Berber carpet, surrounded by tissues and cake crumbs.
“So tell me exactly what happened.” We’d been through the story a couple of times, but Cybil’s tears had interfered with coherent discussion and I was a little hazy on the details. And from the little I had been able to glean, it didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Not even for Stephen.
And for the record, let me be perfectly clear here, I might not have been lamenting Stephen’s departure, but I certainly wasn’t happy about the pain it was causing my friend. In fact, if I could have gotten my hands on the man, well, suffice it to say, I’d be moving from Page Six to page one in less time than it takes to say “local artist murdered.”
“I don’t know. It all happened so fast.” She blew loudly into a Kleenex and then sucked in a fortifying breath. Even blotchy and teary-eyed, she looked amazing. Joe’s Jeans, a faded Trinity sweatshirt, and a wonderful pair of red square-framed glasses. “I was a little late.” She shot a glance at the Bergdorf’s bag sitting in the foyer, as if it was to blame for everything.
“I hardly think that’s a reason for walking out. Even when it’s Stephen doing the walking.” She frowned at the last, and I quickly softened the remark with a smile. “I’m only saying he can be a little irrational sometimes in how he reacts to things.”
There was a dinner party once long ago where he’d refused to sit at his assigned place because the table wasn’t angled in just the right way. Bad karma or something. Unfortunately, the hostess was not amused and Cyhil had had to tap dance around the gossip-enhanced story for months afterward.
Not that she’d minded all that much. She’s too sweet for that. But I’m not sweet and I minded for her—a lot.
“I’m just saying there has to be something more than that.”
She nodded, pushing her glasses up onto her head, tears welling again. “He hates me.”
“Did he say that?” Stephen may not be the best when it comes to interpersonal relations, but he’s never struck me as the malicious sort.
“No. Not in so many words.” She took a large bite of cupcake, defiantly ignoring the glob of frosting that landed on the carpet. Her housekeeper was not going to be amused.
“So what exactly did he say?" I folded my arms, ignoring the cupcake calling my name as I leaned back against the overstuffed sofa cushions.
“At first everything seemed fine. He ki . . . kissed me.” There was a pause as she pulled herself back into control. I’ve always maintained that Stephen must be a hell of a lover. I mean for all the grief he’d caused Cybil, it was just easier to believe there was a payout of some kind.
“And then what?” I bit my lip, trying to hang on to my patience. Right now Cybil needed to hear it all out loud, to process it, and hopefully to realize that it was—in the infamous words of Martha Stewart—a good thing.
“We sat down and ordered champagne. It was a celebration,” she reminded me.
“Right, the painting you sold.”
“I didn’t sell it. It sold itself.” From the garbage heap. “Anyway, we didn’t talk about the painting. We talked about you and the bet. And my part in it. He knew I was having regrets.” She shot me an
No comments. It was an emergency.
Cybil lives in Sutton Place. A fabulous apartment with a garden terrace and a doorman who is better connected than most socialites. The apartment had been her grandmother’s and, when the old girl had moved to the family compound in Southampton, Cybil had taken over the residence. It was the kind of place that people kill for. Literally. Six rooms with twelve-foot ceilings, casement windows, a fireplace, and original molding. Add in the completely renovated bathrooms and cook’s kitchen, and you have the stuff of metropolitan dreams.
Just at the moment, however, none of that meant anything. What mattered was the fact that my best friend was sitting cross-legged on her white Berber carpet, surrounded by tissues and cake crumbs.
“So tell me exactly what happened.” We’d been through the story a couple of times, but Cybil’s tears had interfered with coherent discussion and I was a little hazy on the details. And from the little I had been able to glean, it didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Not even for Stephen.
And for the record, let me be perfectly clear here, I might not have been lamenting Stephen’s departure, but I certainly wasn’t happy about the pain it was causing my friend. In fact, if I could have gotten my hands on the man, well, suffice it to say, I’d be moving from Page Six to page one in less time than it takes to say “local artist murdered.”
“I don’t know. It all happened so fast.” She blew loudly into a Kleenex and then sucked in a fortifying breath. Even blotchy and teary-eyed, she looked amazing. Joe’s Jeans, a faded Trinity sweatshirt, and a wonderful pair of red square-framed glasses. “I was a little late.” She shot a glance at the Bergdorf’s bag sitting in the foyer, as if it was to blame for everything.
“I hardly think that’s a reason for walking out. Even when it’s Stephen doing the walking.” She frowned at the last, and I quickly softened the remark with a smile. “I’m only saying he can be a little irrational sometimes in how he reacts to things.”
There was a dinner party once long ago where he’d refused to sit at his assigned place because the table wasn’t angled in just the right way. Bad karma or something. Unfortunately, the hostess was not amused and Cyhil had had to tap dance around the gossip-enhanced story for months afterward.
Not that she’d minded all that much. She’s too sweet for that. But I’m not sweet and I minded for her—a lot.
“I’m just saying there has to be something more than that.”
She nodded, pushing her glasses up onto her head, tears welling again. “He hates me.”
“Did he say that?” Stephen may not be the best when it comes to interpersonal relations, but he’s never struck me as the malicious sort.
“No. Not in so many words.” She took a large bite of cupcake, defiantly ignoring the glob of frosting that landed on the carpet. Her housekeeper was not going to be amused.
“So what exactly did he say?" I folded my arms, ignoring the cupcake calling my name as I leaned back against the overstuffed sofa cushions.
“At first everything seemed fine. He ki . . . kissed me.” There was a pause as she pulled herself back into control. I’ve always maintained that Stephen must be a hell of a lover. I mean for all the grief he’d caused Cybil, it was just easier to believe there was a payout of some kind.
“And then what?” I bit my lip, trying to hang on to my patience. Right now Cybil needed to hear it all out loud, to process it, and hopefully to realize that it was—in the infamous words of Martha Stewart—a good thing.
“We sat down and ordered champagne. It was a celebration,” she reminded me.
“Right, the painting you sold.”
“I didn’t sell it. It sold itself.” From the garbage heap. “Anyway, we didn’t talk about the painting. We talked about you and the bet. And my part in it. He knew I was having regrets.” She shot me an
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