Jaden,” Gracie said.
“And we’re scheduled to have another,” Kenny said. “As soon as she turns two, we’ll start trying.”
Gracie shook her head. She hadn’t forgotten. Kenny always wanted two; so had she. But lately, the news was getting to her. If terrorism wouldn’t wipe them out, the environment was on the verge of collapse. And then there were all the shots she’d have to endure …
“What about all your boards?” Kenny said. “You know, a lot of women find fulfillment raising money for charity.”
Gracie nodded. She was thinking about all the drinking she’d seen at ladies’ luncheons. The rumors about Vicodin abuse; someof the women’s best friends had names like Percocet or his cousin Percodan.
“I think I should go back to writing,” Gracie said. “I really liked writing children’s books.”
“Is there a market for that?” Kenny asked.
Gracie shrugged. She had no idea. She didn’t examine her needs in terms of market value. She wondered when she would have time to write, anyway. There were so many petty obligations encroaching on her free time. It was the cosmic joke about having money: The more money you had, the more things you had, the more things you had to take care of, the more you worry about them, the less time you have for the important things, the unhappier you are.
Rich = Unhappy seemed to be Gracie’s equation.
T HE ONE GOOD THING to come out of El McMansion was that Gracie met Will. Will had been an up-and-coming designer—he’d worked hand in hand with the legendary designer Maria Paul—and was said to have completed most of her latest jobs, including Jackie Onassis’s last apartment. Will walked into the house on Rockingham and said, “I need a chair. Fast.” Gracie sat him down.
“Now, tell me what happened, and don’t leave out a thing,” he said breathlessly.
“What do you mean, what happened?” Gracie asked.
“Water, I’ll need some water.” Will waved his arm.
“We moved all our furniture in—”
“Stop,” Will said. He got up to leave.
“Where’re you going?” Gracie said.
“I can’t take this job. I’m sorry,” Will said. “Forget the Aquafina, I need air …”
Gracie followed him out. “Why can’t you take this job?”
“We’re incompatible,” he snipped.
“We’re not getting married.”
“I can’t work with you,” he said. “Now, how do I get to Sunset from here?”
Gracie grabbed his sleeve. He looked at her hand as though it were a rattlesnake or, worse, a bad manicure.
“Look, Liberace,” Gracie said, “I am in no mood to play Siegfried to your Roy. The least you could do is give me advice.”
Will looked at her and smiled. Gracie noted that his teeth were crooked—a rare treat in a homosexual man. The moment marked the beginning of a beautiful and somewhat complicated friendship, complicated by the fact that Gracie was paying Will for his companionship. She had sworn she’d never be one of those Hollywood wives who paid for friendship—whose best friends were their Pilates instructors, personal trainers, interior decorators. But she grew to love Will; she loved that he told her the truth—that basically she had no taste. She loved that she could complain to him. She loved that he shared his secrets, where to get highlights, where to find the best spa on the Baja Peninsula, where to get black-market Phenfen.
Theirs was a true friendship, paid in full at the end of each month.
T HE W IFE O F was a full-time job; some women (and men) were better at it than others. Gracie and Will, during an extended shopping trip for a turn-of-the-century light fixture, argued over who was the most celebrated Wife Of, the one who turned her wife status into not just a Trade but a Calling.
The rules were stringent: The woman had to be able to warrant her own single picture in a weekly magazine, her own mentionin Liz Smith or on Page Six, she had to count A-level celebrities as close friends, and she could not
“And we’re scheduled to have another,” Kenny said. “As soon as she turns two, we’ll start trying.”
Gracie shook her head. She hadn’t forgotten. Kenny always wanted two; so had she. But lately, the news was getting to her. If terrorism wouldn’t wipe them out, the environment was on the verge of collapse. And then there were all the shots she’d have to endure …
“What about all your boards?” Kenny said. “You know, a lot of women find fulfillment raising money for charity.”
Gracie nodded. She was thinking about all the drinking she’d seen at ladies’ luncheons. The rumors about Vicodin abuse; someof the women’s best friends had names like Percocet or his cousin Percodan.
“I think I should go back to writing,” Gracie said. “I really liked writing children’s books.”
“Is there a market for that?” Kenny asked.
Gracie shrugged. She had no idea. She didn’t examine her needs in terms of market value. She wondered when she would have time to write, anyway. There were so many petty obligations encroaching on her free time. It was the cosmic joke about having money: The more money you had, the more things you had, the more things you had to take care of, the more you worry about them, the less time you have for the important things, the unhappier you are.
Rich = Unhappy seemed to be Gracie’s equation.
T HE ONE GOOD THING to come out of El McMansion was that Gracie met Will. Will had been an up-and-coming designer—he’d worked hand in hand with the legendary designer Maria Paul—and was said to have completed most of her latest jobs, including Jackie Onassis’s last apartment. Will walked into the house on Rockingham and said, “I need a chair. Fast.” Gracie sat him down.
“Now, tell me what happened, and don’t leave out a thing,” he said breathlessly.
“What do you mean, what happened?” Gracie asked.
“Water, I’ll need some water.” Will waved his arm.
“We moved all our furniture in—”
“Stop,” Will said. He got up to leave.
“Where’re you going?” Gracie said.
“I can’t take this job. I’m sorry,” Will said. “Forget the Aquafina, I need air …”
Gracie followed him out. “Why can’t you take this job?”
“We’re incompatible,” he snipped.
“We’re not getting married.”
“I can’t work with you,” he said. “Now, how do I get to Sunset from here?”
Gracie grabbed his sleeve. He looked at her hand as though it were a rattlesnake or, worse, a bad manicure.
“Look, Liberace,” Gracie said, “I am in no mood to play Siegfried to your Roy. The least you could do is give me advice.”
Will looked at her and smiled. Gracie noted that his teeth were crooked—a rare treat in a homosexual man. The moment marked the beginning of a beautiful and somewhat complicated friendship, complicated by the fact that Gracie was paying Will for his companionship. She had sworn she’d never be one of those Hollywood wives who paid for friendship—whose best friends were their Pilates instructors, personal trainers, interior decorators. But she grew to love Will; she loved that he told her the truth—that basically she had no taste. She loved that she could complain to him. She loved that he shared his secrets, where to get highlights, where to find the best spa on the Baja Peninsula, where to get black-market Phenfen.
Theirs was a true friendship, paid in full at the end of each month.
T HE W IFE O F was a full-time job; some women (and men) were better at it than others. Gracie and Will, during an extended shopping trip for a turn-of-the-century light fixture, argued over who was the most celebrated Wife Of, the one who turned her wife status into not just a Trade but a Calling.
The rules were stringent: The woman had to be able to warrant her own single picture in a weekly magazine, her own mentionin Liz Smith or on Page Six, she had to count A-level celebrities as close friends, and she could not
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