perfectly dyed hair, half-gray, and got himself into his newest Armani tux. The waistband was a bit snug, probably a 34, up an inch from the early days when Brianna stalked him around the penthouse. As he dressed himself, he cursed the evening ahead and the party and the people he would see there. They would know. At that very moment, the news was racing around the financial world. Phones were buzzing as hisrivals roared with laughter and gloated over Krane’s misfortune. The Internet was bursting with the latest from Mississippi.
For any other party, he, the great Carl Trudeau, would simply call in sick. Every day of his life he did whatever he damned well pleased, and if he decided to rudely skip a party at the last minute, what the hell? But this was not just any event.
Brianna had wormed her way onto the board of the Museum of Abstract Art, and tonight was their biggest blowout. There would be designer gowns, tummy tucks and stout new breasts, new chins and perfect tans, diamonds, champagne, foie gras, caviar, dinner by a celebrity chef, a silent auction for the pinch hitters and a live auction for the sluggers. And, most important, there would be cameras on top of cameras, enough to convince the elite guests that they and only they were the center of the world. Oscar night, eat your heart out.
The highlight of the evening, at least for some, would be the auctioning of a work of art. Each year the committee commissioned an “emerging” painter or sculptor to create something just for the event, and usually forked over a million bucks or so for the result. Last year’s painting had been a bewildering rendering of a human brain after a gunshot, and it went for six mill. This year’s item was a depressing pile of black clay with bronze rods rising into the vague outline of a young girl. It bore the mystifying title
Abused Imelda
and would have sat neglected in a gallery in Duluth if not for the sculptor, a tortured Argentine genius rumored to be on theverge of suicide, a sad fate that would instantly double the value of his creations, something that was not lost on savvy New York art investors. Brianna had left brochures around the penthouse and had dropped several hints to the effect that
Abused Imelda
would be stunning in their foyer, just off the elevator entrance.
Carl knew he was expected to buy the damned thing and was hoping there would not be a frenzy. And if he became its owner, he was already hoping for a quick suicide.
She and Valentino appeared from the dressing room. The hair boys were gone, and she had managed to get into the gown and the jewelry all by herself. “Fabulous,” Carl said, and it was indeed true. In spite of the bones and ribs, she was still a beautiful woman. The hair very much resembled what he had seen at six that morning when he kissed her goodbye as she sipped her coffee. Now, a thousand dollars later, he could tell little difference.
Oh, well. He knew very well the price of trophies. The prenuptial gave her $100,000 a month to play with while married and twenty million when they split. She also got Sadler with liberal visitation for the father, if he so chose.
In the Bentley, they hurried from beneath the apartment building and were onto Fifth Avenue when Brianna said, “Oh, my, I forgot to kiss Sadler. What kind of mother am I?”
“She’s fine,” Carl said, who likewise had failed to say good night to the child.
“I feel awful,” Brianna said, feigning disgust. Her full-length black Prada coat was split so that the backseat was dominated by her amazing legs. Legs from the floor up to her armpits. Legs unadorned by hosiery or clothing or anything whatsoever. Legs for Carl to see and admire and touch and fondle and she really didn’t care if Toliver had a good look, either. She was on display, as always.
Carl rubbed them because they felt nice, but he wanted to say something like “These things are beginning to resemble broomsticks.”
He let it pass.
“Any word
For any other party, he, the great Carl Trudeau, would simply call in sick. Every day of his life he did whatever he damned well pleased, and if he decided to rudely skip a party at the last minute, what the hell? But this was not just any event.
Brianna had wormed her way onto the board of the Museum of Abstract Art, and tonight was their biggest blowout. There would be designer gowns, tummy tucks and stout new breasts, new chins and perfect tans, diamonds, champagne, foie gras, caviar, dinner by a celebrity chef, a silent auction for the pinch hitters and a live auction for the sluggers. And, most important, there would be cameras on top of cameras, enough to convince the elite guests that they and only they were the center of the world. Oscar night, eat your heart out.
The highlight of the evening, at least for some, would be the auctioning of a work of art. Each year the committee commissioned an “emerging” painter or sculptor to create something just for the event, and usually forked over a million bucks or so for the result. Last year’s painting had been a bewildering rendering of a human brain after a gunshot, and it went for six mill. This year’s item was a depressing pile of black clay with bronze rods rising into the vague outline of a young girl. It bore the mystifying title
Abused Imelda
and would have sat neglected in a gallery in Duluth if not for the sculptor, a tortured Argentine genius rumored to be on theverge of suicide, a sad fate that would instantly double the value of his creations, something that was not lost on savvy New York art investors. Brianna had left brochures around the penthouse and had dropped several hints to the effect that
Abused Imelda
would be stunning in their foyer, just off the elevator entrance.
Carl knew he was expected to buy the damned thing and was hoping there would not be a frenzy. And if he became its owner, he was already hoping for a quick suicide.
She and Valentino appeared from the dressing room. The hair boys were gone, and she had managed to get into the gown and the jewelry all by herself. “Fabulous,” Carl said, and it was indeed true. In spite of the bones and ribs, she was still a beautiful woman. The hair very much resembled what he had seen at six that morning when he kissed her goodbye as she sipped her coffee. Now, a thousand dollars later, he could tell little difference.
Oh, well. He knew very well the price of trophies. The prenuptial gave her $100,000 a month to play with while married and twenty million when they split. She also got Sadler with liberal visitation for the father, if he so chose.
In the Bentley, they hurried from beneath the apartment building and were onto Fifth Avenue when Brianna said, “Oh, my, I forgot to kiss Sadler. What kind of mother am I?”
“She’s fine,” Carl said, who likewise had failed to say good night to the child.
“I feel awful,” Brianna said, feigning disgust. Her full-length black Prada coat was split so that the backseat was dominated by her amazing legs. Legs from the floor up to her armpits. Legs unadorned by hosiery or clothing or anything whatsoever. Legs for Carl to see and admire and touch and fondle and she really didn’t care if Toliver had a good look, either. She was on display, as always.
Carl rubbed them because they felt nice, but he wanted to say something like “These things are beginning to resemble broomsticks.”
He let it pass.
“Any word
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