Judy & Liza & Robert & Freddie & David & Sue & Me... by Stevie Phillips

night that I could have gone on through life never needing to know. One was that blood doesn’t leak out; it spurts, it arcs. I can see it still on the gold-and-white bedspread, on the flocked wall covering and matching drapes, and on me. I was wearing my new favorite outfit, my first-ever ensemble, a three-piece outfit manufactured by my husband’s uncle, from whom I bought the most wonderful designer rip-offs wholesale. The fabric of my wool challis blouse matched the lining of my coat. I definitely loved it too much. That night when I walked into her room I thought I looked so snazzy. But all I see now is her blood all over my once-beautiful ensemble, on my skirt and coat. My hands. My hair. I stood there horrified. This was her normal! This is what she did. This is who she was. This is the kind of a teacher she was.
    I was beginning to understand that these events were all about manipulation and control. Judy’s suicidal episodes gave her power. With every horror she became the center of “his” attention. “‘His’ attention” was owned by the man of the moment. She craved his love much more than the adoration of her fans. They were strangers. It would soon be over for her—this episode—and she would go on to the next, but not so for me. I would never forget it. It would be seared into my memory, and I would replay it forever. You know what else? I still feel sorrier for me.
    So why slit her wrist on that particular night? Let me repeat it: It’s a love story. On that particular night she did it for David, for the love of this man who was, at this moment in time, the single most important consideration in her life. (I often wondered—still do today, and will for as long as I live—if I could have sat her down in a totally sober moment—of which there were none—and asked her: Judy, what’s more important to you? Being in love? Or singing? What would her answer have been? Some may think they know that answer, and they may be right. But I do not know it. I never have, and I don’t think I ever will.) But let me get back to her heart, and her affair with David Begelman.
    After an absence of a few weeks, Begelman was back in New York. Judy was in thrall to him. Obsessively. They’d been having an affair for some months, and the affair was forever tripping down a rocky road; for the last many weeks it had been caught on some insurmountable boulders due to David’s disappearance. Judy did not, like other women, tell everything to her hairdresser, because her hairdresser sometimes changed as often as her wardrobe. I was her confidante; she told me everything, and I knew about the affair from the beginning. I often wished I did not, because David was my boss. It put me in the very uncomfortable position of being in the middle when Judy sought insider information. She would ask me questions about his wife, Lee, and where he’d been on certain nights, questions I couldn’t answer—sometimes because I didn’t know, and sometimes because I didn’t want to.
    Recently he’d gone on a trip abroad, and had dared to take his wife along with him. And how did Judy know that? Not from me. She’d checked with his housemaid, whose confirmation had sent her into a tailspin. She could not be jollied out of it. I faced daily questions like: “Do you think he’s sleeping with Lee?” What was I supposed to answer? My best shot at a response was: “How could he be sleeping with her if he’s in love with you?”
    Answering her question with a question wasn’t really answering her question at all, and I preferred doing that to lying. Judy was sure that David was in love with her. And I was happy to leave it right there. I knew the truth, and it was ugly. David was ugly. I had now been in his employ a year and a half, and I was learning what a liar he was. The truth would have hurt. The truth might have cured some