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Bruce, this is ridiculous. I m not having an affair with
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your wife. She s my nutritionist. I m her client. We re eat-
ing together as part of my training.
Bruce wiped his eyes, and stared hard at Peter. He said,
Vermillion? Is that you?
Ilene said, Am I to understand that you . . .
I can t believe it! shouted Bruce. Peter Vermillion!
You must have dropped, what, a thousand pounds? I
wouldn t have recognized you if you d sat on me.
Peter massaged his jaw and looked at the mess he d
made. And at the wait staff, nervously gathering to watch.
And the other diners, both horrified and enthralled by the
entertainment.
Jesus, Peg, extolled Bruce, examining Peter. You re
good!
You actually thought I was sleeping with Peter Vermil-
lion? asked Peggy, a bit more serious now that the hilarity
of her husband s violence had ended.
If I d known this was about Vermillion, I never would
have suspected a thing. But this woman has been calling
me for weeks, insisting you were having an affair. I blew it
off, but she showed up at the apartment tonight, demand-
ing that I come with her to catch the two of you in the act.
Peter said, She never identified herself by name?
She did. Schast.
She never identified me by name? he asked.
Ilene said, Your first name.
Peter said to his wife, You didn t recognize his name?
She said, Why on earth would I recognize his name?
Because he worked for me for a year. Because I told you
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at great length how hard it was for me to fire him. I ve
mentioned his name many times to you.
Peggy said, Maybe the source of your emotional eating
is that, when you do vent, you re rarely heard.
Please shut up, Peggy, thank you.
Ilene said, It does make sense now. You were seeing a
nutritionist to diet. I thought you were seeing this woman,
romantically, who happened to be a nutritionist, and the
weight loss was for her. And I saw all those cash with-
drawals from our checking account. I thought they were to
pay for trysts.
The withdrawals wouldn t have been as noticeable had
I not been overcharged.
Bruce to Peggy: You overcharged him? Sweet!
Peter said, And I wasn t dieting for her. I was doing it
for you. For you. Always for you. Everything for you and
your approval. Which I never fucking get. Instead of love
and appreciation, instead of acknowledgment that I ve
done well or suffered to please you, I get accusations and
humiliation. Plus, I m sure, I have to pay for all these bro-
ken dishes. Peter glanced at the matre d , who nodded
discreetly. They cost a fortune, right? From France. Rare
china. The matre d frowned and lowered his eyes.
Peter could have started groaning and not stopped until
Tuesday. He watched several waiters pile broken pieces of
plates and glasses in the hammocks of their aprons. They
worked quickly and quietly. The other patrons stopped
staring and returned to their own meals with a story to
dine out on here or elsewhere for months.
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The Not-So-Perfect Man
Bruce helped Peggy out of her chair miraculously un-
touched in the fray. He gave her a tight, loving squeeze,
and she returned it. Bruce smiled meekly at his wife, his
face a palate of vulnerability that even Peter would have
succumbed to. That famous McFarthing charm, at work
again. Peggy smiled back up at him like she d struck gold.
Bruce said, Can you forgive me for being so stupid?
I do every day, said Peggy.
They kissed and left together.
Peter waved the matre d over. He said, I m being
charged for the full cost of the meals?
Well, you see, sir, we ve already started preparing the
food to order, and
Doggie bag it. All of it. Including the basket of bread.
And the water. And the lime in the water.
Ilene grinned nervously. He d seen that expression be-
fore, whenever she knew she d done wrong and had some
reparation to make. She put a hand on his shoulder. She
said, Peter, I m so sorry. I am proud of you. Can you for-
give me for being so stupid?
Peter said, No. I can t.
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Chapter 23
Monday, June 9
10:03 A.M.
Frieda liked the New York Post. She should read the New
York Times, and often did, but she relished her gossipy
tabloid. Unlike her child, her apartment, her gallery, her re-
lationship, the Post was easy. Uncomplicated. The broad-
sheet made no emotional or intellectual demands. She
could flip through the pages in seconds, scan, scan, scan,
turn. Except when, on the odd morning, she was blind-
sided by an item. Like today, right there, on Page Six, she
read that Gwyneth Paltrow was having a hard time dealing
with the death of her father from cancer.
Gorgeous Gwyneth missed her father? Boo fucking hoo,
thought Frieda. He lived long enough see his perfect
daughter get an Oscar. He got to love his wife deep into
their middle age. Gwyneth had decades worth of memo-
ries of him. Justin, meanwhile, asked Frieda last night if his
dad had had blue or green eyes. He couldn t remember,
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and it was hard to tell in photos. Not that there were many
photos or videotape. Gregg had always held the camera. He
was greedy that way. His voice was all over the video, nar-
rating ( Justin, roll over. That s it, roll over. Nearly there,
come on, kid. Frieda? Frieda, move that chair. Move the
chair. Yes. Good. Back to Justin. Nearly over. One more
push, etc.) But Gregg s face was rarely seen.
Frieda was alone in the gallery. She took a sip of coffee,
a bite of bagel. She spotted an article in the Post s health
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