A bleary-eyed waiter materializes. Carla and I order a calamari appetizer and two Greek salads. Afterwards she sets down her glass, glances around and says: “Well. You’re not the only one who had a big Friday night—guess who I saw at Jizz.”
“The singing widow!”
“Nope. Her boyfriend.”
“You’re sure?”
“My sources are primo,” Carla says, “but I would’ve pegged him anyway, on account of the hair. What’s up with that?”
“I told you it was amazing.”
“From behind we all thought it was Mariah Carey. I swear he must do it in a fucking laundry press, that hair.”
“What’s his name? Who is he?”
I pull out my notebook and fumble for a pen. Carla grins. “Black Jack in action!”
“Did you get his name or not?”
“What do you think? Course I got his name. It’s Loreal.”
“First name first.”
“He doesn’t have one,” she says.
“Of course he does.”
“No, that’s his whole name. Loreal.”
“Like Sting or Bono—”
“Very good, Jack.”
“Except this chowderhead named himself after a shampoo.”
“Can you believe it?” Carla squeaks.
“So what does Messr. Loreal do for a living?”
“He’s a record producer, is what I heard. Very hot.” Carla’s watching me scribble in my notebook. “I asked who he’s produced and somebody said the Wallflowers but then somebody else said no, it was Beck. I never really got it straight, but everybody says he’s hot.”
“And they say he’s bonking Jimmy’s wife?”
“More like she’s bonking him.”
I drum my pen on the table.
“See, the difference is,” Carla says, “like, Cleo’s in total charge of the program. She calls, he comes running. The sex is at her convenience, not his. He’s the boy toy, just like you said.”
I prod Carla for more dope about Loreal and she says he’s twenty-nine or thirty, has recently moved here from Los Angeles, drives a motorcycle and, based on firsthand observation, has a fondness for Ecstasy. He tells everyone within earshot that he’s producing Cleo’s new album.
“I want to meet this guy,” I tell Carla.
She beams. “You gonna kick his ass? Jack, I’d pay good money to see you punch somebody.”
“What’s so funny?”
“I can’t picture it, that’s all. I just can’t!” She pops a batter-fried squid into her mouth. “This dickbrain who busted into your apartment—was he bigger than you? God, what if he had a gun! You ever think a that, Jack?”
“Hook me up with Loreal. But please don’t tell your mother you’re helping me out.”
Carla snaps her fingers. “That reminds me!” She hoists a voluminous crotcheted handbag onto her lap and takes out a thick shiny book. With a flourish she passes it across the table, annoying the waiter who is attempting to deliver our salads.
“What’s this? “I ask.
Carla raises an eyebrow. “You heard of him, right?”
“Sure.”
The novel is called The Falconer’s Mistress. On the jacket is a drawing of (naturally) a falcon, wings flared. The bird is perched on the velvet-gloved fist of a woman wearing a sparkling ruby bracelet. Only her bare Corfu-tanned arm is shown. The author of the book, whose name is displayed in raised gold lettering, is Derek Grenoble. His secret-agent novels sell millions.
“Your mother is marrying this person?”
“First I wasn’t gonna tell you,” Carla says, “but then I figured you’d find out sooner or later. I never read anything the guy wrote but he seems nice enough. Seriously.”
I turn the novel over and study the retouched face in the photograph. “He looks like Ann-Margret in an ascot.”
“He’s British,” Carla volunteers. “Or maybe it’s Australian.”
“In the first place, that can’t possibly be his real name. ‘Derek Grenoble’? No way. Your mom knows better. Second, he can’t possibly be forty-four.”
Carla frowns. “You’re taking this worse than I thought.”
“I’m disappointed, that’s all.” Heartsick is more like it. And jealous and petulant and furious at myself for driving Anne away.
“Jack, she’s really happy. I’d tell you if she wasn’t.”
“Swell. Lady Anne Grenoble—is that what she’ll be calling herself from now on? When’s the big wedding day?”
“Next Saturday.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Derek’s leaving for Ireland to start another project.”
“That’s my birthday,” I say emptily.