LITMIR.BIZ

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mouthed. I shrugged.

      “Can’t we talk about this later?” Gallagher said. “I’m in the middle of something.”

      “No, we cannot talk about it later. I’m not leaving here without a check. And don’t even try to cry poor. Your new apartment’s the lead spread in this month’s Architectural Digest. Little Annabel probably spent more on each square foot of that place than the school costs.”

      “There’s no need to drag Annabel into this.”

      “I could care less about dear Annabel. All I want is for you to pry open your checkbook and write the check. Make it out directly to the school. If they don’t get it in the next two days, Beth’s going to lose her spot for next year. Or perhaps I should write a letter to the editor of Architectural Digest? I’m sure they’d be interested to learn all about how you managed to find the money to pay for your swanky penthouse but can’t seem to scrounge up your daughter’s tuition.”

      “I’ll write the check. Just shut up already.”

      There was silence, and then the sound of a check being ripped from a ledger.

      “This better not bounce.”

      “You’re psycho. A real head case. Now get out of here before I call security.”

      “Gladly.” Naomi reappeared at the door then turned back for one last parting shot. “You know, you’d be of more use to your daughter dead. Pull any more of this crap, and I’ll kill you myself.”

      She walked calmly out of her former husband’s office, and everyone who’d been listening hurriedly began shuffling papers or typing at their computers, feigning utter absorption in work. I stifled the urge to clap.

      “I’m off,” Naomi said to Dahlia. “But I have the feeling that he’s not going to be much fun to deal with for the rest of the day.”

      The women’s eyes met. Then Gallagher began yelling for Dahlia from his office.

      chapter five

      N aomi was still waiting for an elevator when I went out to the lobby a moment later to meet Jake and Mark. Listening to her let Gallagher have it had been almost as cathartic as if I’d done it myself, and it had definitely been more cathartic than my blunt-object fantasy. I wanted to thank her, but even I knew that probably wouldn’t be appropriate.

      She appeared preoccupied anyway, tapping her foot and checking her watch as she waited. My colleagues sat on the other side of the floor so had missed the entire scene—I was already looking forward to filling them in over lunch.

      An elevator finally announced its arrival with a digital beep. The doors slid apart, framing another woman in the opening.

      “Figures,” I heard Naomi say under her breath.

      The woman was about my age and roughly the same size, but that was where any resemblance ended. With her golden highlights and glossy manicure, not to mention the enormous diamond on her ring finger and matching studs in her ears, she was pretty much the illustrated dictionary definition of socialite-slash-trophy-wife. The Gucci jacket, Prada skirt, Manolo Blahnik heels, and Louis Vuitton purse did nothing to contradict the image, although I did find myself wondering if it was wise to mix so many brands at once. I also felt suddenly self-conscious. It must be nice to have the funds and leisure time to support such perfect grooming and over-the-top wardrobe selection. In fact, it must be nice simply to get enough sleep.

      She and Naomi were standing face-to-face, and together they were blocking the elevator entrance, but it seemed rude to push past them.

      The socialite-slash-trophy-wife heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Hello, Naomi.”

      “Well, hello, Annabel. You’re looking coiffed. Here to see Glenn?” Naomi’s voice dripped acid.

      It wasn’t just an image, then. This woman was, in fact, a trophy wife. Glenn Gallagher’s trophy wife, to be exact. What could she possibly be thinking, marrying a weasel like him? But the outfit answered that question nicely—the jewelry alone likely added up to more than the annual income of your average top-tax-bracket American household.

      Annabel sighed again and indicated a garment bag she had slung over one arm. The bag bore a Brioni logo, as if it needed a label to join the rest of her ensemble. “I’m bringing him his tux. We’re going to a benefit tonight, and he won’t have time to stop home to change.”

      “He’s in a fine humor.”

      “Oh?”

      “I have that effect on him. And I managed to separate him from some of his money. He never likes that much. Can I give you some advice, Annabel?”

      “Do I have a choice?” she answered impatiently. She moved to step past Naomi, but Naomi moved with her. The elevator doors gave a whining beep in protest at standing open for so long.

      “If you didn’t already sign everything away in a prenup, which he probably made sure you did, get things squared away now. Especially if you’re planning on having any little Annabels or Glenn juniors. Find a good lawyer and have him draw up some watertight contracts. Otherwise all you’ll see once he’s onto Number Three is half of whatever he made while you were married, and my guess is that he’ll hide a lot of that away.”

      “Thank you for your concern, but I can take care of myself. Are you done now?” asked Annabel, trying again to step past Naomi. “These people are waiting for the elevator.” She motioned toward our little group, which had been bearing witness to the entire scene with varying degrees of awkwardness. I thought I caught a flash of recognition in her eyes as her glance swept over us.

      “Yes, I must get back to my office. Some of us work, you know. Besides, I wouldn’t want to keep you from anything important. I know how busy you must be with all of that shopping and decorating to do. Goodbye, Annabel.”

      “Goodbye, Naomi,” Annabel said, mimicking Naomi’s tone. This time Naomi let her pass and stepped into the elevator, followed by Jake, Mark, and me. A small smile played over her lips as the doors slid shut.

      We were all silent as the elevator descended. Personally, I was in awe. Naomi seemed to be completely comfortable saying whatever she wanted to whomever she wanted. And while Miss Manners most assuredly would not have approved, I couldn’t help but be impressed.

      The doors parted when we reached the ground floor, and Naomi strode off.

      “Wow,” I said.

      “Good show,” agreed Jake.

      “You missed the first act.” I filled them in on Naomi’s showdown with Gallagher as we made our way to a nearby Burger Heaven. I’d chosen our destination; I was very much in need of protein, preferably accompanied by large quantities of French fries.

      “It sounds like Wife Number One isn’t exactly president of the Glenn Gallagher fan club,” said Jake when we had settled in a booth and placed our order.

      “I don’t think that’s a very happening club,” I said.

      Mark laughed, his first laugh in the three days we’d spent almost entirely in each other’s company. I turned to him, glad to see some sign of personality. It would be nice if the guy loosened up—thus far, he’d been like a Stepford associate: focused, uncomplaining, and completely humorless.

      “So, Mark, where are you from?” I asked.

      “Me?” He took a sip of his soda. “New Jersey.”

      “Southern New Jersey or northern New Jersey?” asked Jake. I wondered how this could possibly matter. New Jersey was New Jersey as far as I was concerned.

      “Southern.”

      “Then you’re an Eagles fan, right?” said Jake.

      My heart sank. I really hated sports talk, and it didn’t help that I had no idea what sport the Eagles played.

      “Yeah.”

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