What an insane way to make a living. It was like a lifetime of Halloween, trick or treat . . . getting all dressed up for a daily masquerade party to spy on your friends. This was the first "season" when it had rankled right at the beginning. It usually took a few months to get to her. This year, the restlessness had come early.
She smoked a last cigarette, turned off the light, and it seemed as though only a few moments later the alarm was ringing. It was eight o'clock in the morning.
Chapter 4
Kezia did three hours of work on the new article, outlining, sketching what she thought she knew about the women she wanted to write about, and drafting letters to key people who could tell her something more about them. It was going to be a nice solid K. S. Miller piece, and she was pleased. After that she opened her mail and sifted through it. The usual spate of invitations, a couple of "fan" letters forwarded to her by a magazine via her agent, and a memo from Edward about some tax shelters he wanted to look into with her. None of it was interesting and she was restless. She had another article in mind; maybe that would help. A piece on child abuse in middle-class homes. It would be a hot and heavy piece if Simpson could find a market for it. She wondered if the Marshes, with their parties for a cast of thousands, ever thought of that. Child abuse. Or the slums. Or the death penalty in California. None of them were "in" causes. If they had been, surely there would have been a benefit for them, a "fabulous" ball, or a "marvelous little vernissage," something "absolutely super" staged by a committee of beauties . . . while Marina waited for a sale at Bendel's or hunted a good knock-off at Ohrbach's, and Tiffany announced the cause as "divine" .... What was happening to her, dammit? Why did it matter if Marina tried to palm off her copies as originals? So what if Tiffany was drunk every day long before noon? So fucking what? But it bothered her. Oh God, how it bothered her. Maybe a good piece of ass would calm her nerves.
She was in Mark's studio by twelve-thirty.
"Wow, lady, what's with you?"
"Nothing. Why?" She stood watching him work on a gouache. She liked it. She would have liked to buy it from him, but she couldn't do that, and she wouldn't let him give it to her. She knew he needed the money, and that was one commodity she was wise enough not to exchange with him.
"Well, you slammed the door, so I figured something must be bugging you." He had given her back her keys.
"No, I'm just grumpy, I guess. Jet lag or something." A smile broke through the anger in her eyes, and she dumped herself into a chair. "I missed you last night. Sometimes I wish you wouldn't let me go anywhere."
"Do I have that option?" He looked surprised and she laughed and kicked her shoes off. "No."
"That's what I thought." It didn't seem to bother him, and Kezia was beginning to feel better.
"I like the gouache." She looked over his shoulder as he stepped back to observe the morning's work.
"Yeah. Maybe it'll be okay." He was demolishing a box of chocolate cookies and looking secretly pleased. Suddenly he turned to face her and slipped his arms around her. "And what have you been up to since yesterday?"
"Oh, let's see. I read eight books, ran a mile, went to a ball, ran for president The usual stuff."
"And somewhere in all that bullshit lies the truth, doesn't it?" She shrugged and they exchanged a smile interspersed with kisses. He didn't really care what she did when she wasn't with him. He had his own life, his work, his loft, his friends. Her life was her own. "Personally, I suspect that the truth is that you ran for president." "I just can't keep any secrets from you, Marcus." "No." He said it while carefully unbuttoning her shirt "No secrets at all. . . . Now there's the secret I was look-big for." He tenderly uncovered one breast and leaned down to kiss it, as she slid her hands under his shirt and onto his back.
"I missed you,
She smoked a last cigarette, turned off the light, and it seemed as though only a few moments later the alarm was ringing. It was eight o'clock in the morning.
Chapter 4
Kezia did three hours of work on the new article, outlining, sketching what she thought she knew about the women she wanted to write about, and drafting letters to key people who could tell her something more about them. It was going to be a nice solid K. S. Miller piece, and she was pleased. After that she opened her mail and sifted through it. The usual spate of invitations, a couple of "fan" letters forwarded to her by a magazine via her agent, and a memo from Edward about some tax shelters he wanted to look into with her. None of it was interesting and she was restless. She had another article in mind; maybe that would help. A piece on child abuse in middle-class homes. It would be a hot and heavy piece if Simpson could find a market for it. She wondered if the Marshes, with their parties for a cast of thousands, ever thought of that. Child abuse. Or the slums. Or the death penalty in California. None of them were "in" causes. If they had been, surely there would have been a benefit for them, a "fabulous" ball, or a "marvelous little vernissage," something "absolutely super" staged by a committee of beauties . . . while Marina waited for a sale at Bendel's or hunted a good knock-off at Ohrbach's, and Tiffany announced the cause as "divine" .... What was happening to her, dammit? Why did it matter if Marina tried to palm off her copies as originals? So what if Tiffany was drunk every day long before noon? So fucking what? But it bothered her. Oh God, how it bothered her. Maybe a good piece of ass would calm her nerves.
She was in Mark's studio by twelve-thirty.
"Wow, lady, what's with you?"
"Nothing. Why?" She stood watching him work on a gouache. She liked it. She would have liked to buy it from him, but she couldn't do that, and she wouldn't let him give it to her. She knew he needed the money, and that was one commodity she was wise enough not to exchange with him.
"Well, you slammed the door, so I figured something must be bugging you." He had given her back her keys.
"No, I'm just grumpy, I guess. Jet lag or something." A smile broke through the anger in her eyes, and she dumped herself into a chair. "I missed you last night. Sometimes I wish you wouldn't let me go anywhere."
"Do I have that option?" He looked surprised and she laughed and kicked her shoes off. "No."
"That's what I thought." It didn't seem to bother him, and Kezia was beginning to feel better.
"I like the gouache." She looked over his shoulder as he stepped back to observe the morning's work.
"Yeah. Maybe it'll be okay." He was demolishing a box of chocolate cookies and looking secretly pleased. Suddenly he turned to face her and slipped his arms around her. "And what have you been up to since yesterday?"
"Oh, let's see. I read eight books, ran a mile, went to a ball, ran for president The usual stuff."
"And somewhere in all that bullshit lies the truth, doesn't it?" She shrugged and they exchanged a smile interspersed with kisses. He didn't really care what she did when she wasn't with him. He had his own life, his work, his loft, his friends. Her life was her own. "Personally, I suspect that the truth is that you ran for president." "I just can't keep any secrets from you, Marcus." "No." He said it while carefully unbuttoning her shirt "No secrets at all. . . . Now there's the secret I was look-big for." He tenderly uncovered one breast and leaned down to kiss it, as she slid her hands under his shirt and onto his back.
"I missed you,
Similar Books
