or need your gratitude. I do it for me.’ His voice was arctic cold. ‘I happen to get a kick out of it. Now I think you said it was past your bedtime.’
‘I have trouble owing people anything. You help me with my work, but at the same time you humiliate me, then you send me a sexy present and expect me to show up wearing it when and where you want. I’m getting mixed messages from you and I’m a little confused, but thank you. I do appreciate your help.’ I leaned over and kissed him quickly. I half expected, wanted him to hold on to me, but he didn’t.
I walked across the street to my building, Boris dutifully following, and realised Thorne wasn’t the one confusing me. I was sending mixed messages to myself. What did I want from this man? Just mind-blowing sex or something that might touch my heart? At the door I turned around. Thorne had turned on the light and was reading the newspaper. Well, maybe I deserved that.
‘Goodnight, Boris,’ I said. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to see him again. Or Thorne. I’d messed things up with my ingratitude.
‘Goodnight, madam.’
‘My name’s Nicole.’
I stripped off my clothes, tossed Thorne’s three-triangles lingerie in the trashcan and took a long hot shower. Propped up in bed in a pair of unsexy pyjamas I’d had since college, I started to read the information on Thorne that Leila had gleaned from the Internet. I kept the bedroom door open in case…yes, part of me was hoping that the downstairs buzzer would ring. That Thorne wasn’t angry with me. That he still wanted me. Just like my mom, hoping for no good reason at all. And again, for what? The possibility of love? Dumb, dumb me. Why was I bothering to read this stuff?
I quickly read through every mention of him and his company in The New York Times, Bloomberg Businesss Week, the Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times. He was 34 years old. He’d gone to Yale, then gotten an MBA at Wharton. The net worth of his company was estimated at $130m in one article, $150m in another. Various charitable institutions had honoured him for his generosity. He founded an organisation, FirstStep, that helped people in need start their own businesses. There was a glowing comment in one paper from a single mom with three kids who was able to have a knitting shop thanks to FirstStep. ‘Archer Thorne gave me back hope. That alone is worth a million bucks.’
I was learning that Thorne was a good guy. I was also learning about his dating life. Leila had included a series of pictures taken from Vanity Fair and The New York Times’ Sunday Style section. He was always with the same woman. Darci Dirshen, a drop-dead willowy blonde in one beautiful strapless gown after another.
A New York Post Page Six item read:
New York’s favourite bachelor Archer Thorne has been going around town gloating like a MegaMillions winner. It has nothing to do with money this time. It looks like he’s found his dream woman, model Darci Dirshen. Last week they were spotted dancing at the Literacy For All benefit. There was no music playing. Maybe when you’re in love you make your own.
Another Post item. This one from Cindy Adams:
Does that eight carat diamond sparkling on Darci Dirshen’s finger mean Archer Thorne has finally gotten down on one knee?
An eight-carat diamond was gross. Thorne was playing around, showing off how rich he was. I didn’t care how many diamond carats Thorne tossed to his bimbo. I threw the pages on the floor, turned off the light. Fluffed up my pillow. Remembered I hadn’t brushed my teeth. Turned on the light again. When I got to the bathroom, I discovered my toothbrush was wet. That meant I had brushed my teeth. God, I was getting old before being old. I looked at myself in the mirror.
OK, face it, Nicole. You want to know how the eight-carat-diamond story ended. It had to end in a bust. Had to. Or else Leila…
I went back to my bedroom, picked up the sheets of Leila’s printout. Luckily the paper clip still held them together. I flicked through to the last page. One last picture. This one hit me like a body blow. I dropped down on the bed.
June 28, two years ago. Their smiling heads touching each other.
Darci Renee Dirshen and Archer Thorne were married Saturday at Albergo Cipriani in Venice, Italy, by Judge Albert Schecter, a childhood friend of the groom’s.
Mrs. Thorne, 28, is a model who is now pursuing an acting career.
I stopped reading. Thorne had a wife. I was having a hard time getting my head around that stark, nasty little fact. Why didn’t I ask? I didn’t bed married men, no matter how much they turned me on. My mother had imprinted that lesson in my brain. Thorne married. The possibility had never crossed my mind. I tore that sheet into confetti, threw it in my face. I wanted to kick myself. How could I be so stupid? Damn Leila! She’d read this stuff, printed it out. Why didn’t she warn me? I glanced at my clock. It was past two. I reached for the phone, but a picture of her and Melissa fast asleep together stopped me. I’d slam her with my anger the minute she walked in the door tomorrow morning. I got up, fished Thorne’s present out of the trash can and tore those damn triangles to shreds. What a bastard. And that gorgeous apartment he’d taken me to. Was that his and Darci’s home? Darci safely far away, pursuing her acting career in some B movie?
The thought that he could take me to the home where he lived with his wife made me sick. I slammed the door of my bedroom with all my strength. Bits of plaster from above the frame rained down on my head. Served me right for leaving the door open to hear the doorbell that I now wasn’t going to answer and that Thorne had no intention of ringing in the first place.
Loud music jerked me awake. What the hell? I hadn’t set the alarm on the radio. I turned over toward the bedside table and tried to bring the red numbers on my clock into focus. It took a while. The last time I’d looked it was 4.03. Now 6.13. The tailend of a bad night in the company of Mrs Archer Thorne modelling through my dreams in one strapless designer gown after another. I kept wondering how she managed to keep those dresses from falling down since she had no breasts to speak of.
The singing stopped and it hit me. Alicia Keys singing ‘Girl on Fire’. The ringtone I’d picked, jacked up to the highest level so I’d hear it in my handbag. I reached for the cellphone. On the screen: Leila. Message. Ah, yes, my faithful assistant. She had a few choice words coming to her. I clicked on the message.
Am in ER with Melissa. Will be late. Sewing machines fixed.
My heart skipped a beat, my anger at her instantly wiped out.
I texted back. Are you hurt? Which hospital? I’ll come right away.
I’m fine. Doctor finally here. Will explain later.
What can I do?
Hold the fort.
Was she really fine? Was she lying so I wouldn’t worry? Later when? Leila in an emergency room reassuring me that the sewing machines were fixed. Telling me to hold the fort. How wonderful was that? Crazy. She couldn’t be that hurt.
Leila, please be OK, please. I promise I won’t say a word about Thorne being married.
Maybe she just printed out whatever she found without taking a close look.
I pulled on jeans, a sweatshirt, ran a comb through my hair, dabbed some lipstick on. A busy day had just gotten busier. We were filling orders on the bags I’d shown a couple of days ago. It was a hectic time, a time when I totally
