“Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I was this happy,” Mitch exclaimed as he wolfed down some more of his chef salad. “The job is fun. Being on TV is fun. And I feel incredible.”
Lacy Nickerson took a bite of her ten-ounce bacon cheeseburger, gazing admiringly at Mitch’s biceps inside his fitted polo shirt. “Well, you certainly look incredible. But just between us, kiddo, what happened to your eyebrows?”
“Why, what’s wrong with them?”
“Not a thing. I simply never realized before that you bear such an eerie resemblance to Joan Crawford.”
Mitch’s former editor speared some fries with her fork and washed them down with a swig of New Amsterdam ale. Lacy ate and drank like a longshoreman, yet remained needle thin. She was a tall, impeccably groomed tuning fork of a woman who, at age fifty-seven, had been the most influential cultural arbiter in New York until the empire pushed her out in favor of the younger Shauna. Not that Lacy seemed at all bitter. She was her same upbeat, A-list self. It was she who had called Mitch to meet her for lunch at Pete’s Tavern, the historic landmark on East 18th and Irving Place that opened its doors when Lincoln was in the White House and had never closed them. She lived right around the corner in a three-bedroom apartment overlooking Gramercy Park with husband number five, a Wall Street titan.
And she still had pull-they were sharing one of Pete’s prized sidewalk tables. Lacy dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and studied him there in the afternoon sunlight. “If you’re doing what you want to be doing then I couldn’t be more pleased for you. Although that does mean I’m wasting my time.”
“Wasting your time how?”
“I’m here to proposition you.”
“Lacy, I’m flattered but I’ve never thought of you as more than a friend.”
“Stop! This is me being serious. Mitch, I’ve been reading your pieces very closely of late and I don’t feel you’re doing your best work. Your insights lack their usual depth and passion. You seem hurried.”
Mitch sipped his iced tea with lemon, no sugar. “Only because I am. I’m still learning how to manage my time better. I’ve decided to take on a Web intern for all of the Peg Entwistles.”
“All of the what?”
“The movie trivia for my Web site. We get a ton of hits. Shauna says people are totally hooked.”
“And Peg Entwistle is…?”
“Was the struggling young actress who jumped to her death from the letter H of the HOLLYWOOD sign on September 18, 1932. Caused quite a stir at the time, believe me.”
“Oh, I do.” Lacy cocked her head at him slightly. “And I think I get it now. This new editor…”
“Intergroup manager.”
“She’s trying to dumb you down.”
“She is not. I’m free to write what I want, how I want. She’s just not much for spitballing is all. Maybe that’s what you’re noticing-how much I miss us.”
“Stop it, you’re going to make me weep.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t tell me you’re sorry,” she huffed. “Tell me what you’re working on for Sunday.”
He grinned at her. “I thought you’d never ask. Okay, here it is: I keep noticing how there are two distinct species of leading men-those who ripen and mature before our eyes and those who simply become aging boys. Take Tom Cruise…”
“You take him,” she sniffed.
“For me, he’s still a boy up there on that screen even though he’s, what, forty-six? Same goes for Hugh Grant. Sean Penn, on the other hand, has become a man.”
“Just like Harrison Ford,” Lacy said, nodding her head. “He gets better the older he grows. Meanwhile, Sly Stallone has become a total joke.”
“Hold on, Sly Stallone was always a total joke.”
“I am absolutely loving your premise, Mitch. Trust me, I have dated a lot of successful men in my time…” In her wild youth Lacy claimed to have bedded the likes of Irwin Shaw, Mickey Mantle and Nelson Rockefeller. “It doesn’t matter whether they’re forty or fifty or even sixty-some grow up, others never do.”
“And the screen merely reflects it,” Mitch said, nodding. “Like a great big wide-screen mirror-complete with Dolby sound.”
“God, a million names are suddenly racing through my head,” Lacy said excitedly. “Like Newman…”
“A grown man.”
“And Redford?”
“Still a boy, definitely.”
Their waiter came by and cleared their table. They ordered espressos.
“I’ve missed this, too,” Lacy sighed. “Mitch, we owe it to ourselves to be together again.”
“How?”
“Funny you should ask,” she said, wagging a long, manicured finger at him. “I’ve spent these past months figuring out what I would do if I could do anything. And I’m doing it. Kiddo, I’m starting up a new arts magazine. Or I should say Webzine, since my money genius has convinced me it’s the only way to go. I’m bringing all of the finest young critics and essayists I know together on one site. Our primary focus will be on New York at first, but I believe we’ll build a national following very quickly because I’m convinced that fresh, passionate writing is still what people want-no matter whether they live in Tribeca or Billings, Montana. I want the best, Mitch. And when it comes to movies that means you. It’ll mean less money, of course. I can’t compete with the empire. I’m not even sure I can offer you a health plan. But it’s a chance for us to be together again. And to hell with Peg Entwistle.”
The waiter returned with their coffees.
Mitch took a slow sip of his before he said, “They’re giving me my own weekly half-hour show, Lacy. I’ll be spending a lot of my time in L.A. from now on.”
She looked at him in surprise. “You never wanted that sort of thing before.”
“You’re right, I didn’t. But the world is changing, and I have to embrace change.”
She nodded her head at him sagely. “This is all about Des, isn’t it?”
“It has nothing to do with Des. Why would you even think that?”
“Because I’ve been dumped by the best-and embraced change like you wouldn’t believe. God, I even moved to Tibet for six months after my Harry Reasoner thing. Honestly, kiddo, you’re doing great. You’re positive. You’re productive. I just want to make sure you’re not turning yourself into a sculpted Roger Ebert wannabe because you think it will impress her.”
“Lacy, I’m completely over Des.”
“If that’s the case then I have a terrific woman for you.”
“Not interested. I’m really not looking to get involved again. Not for a long, long time.” Mitch drained his espresso. “Why, who is she?”
“My new dance critic. She just moved here from London. In fact, she’s living in my spare room until she finds a place. Her grand-daddy was the Earl of somewhere. She’s a graduate of Oxford. A gourmet chef. Tall, slim and a dead ringer for Diana Rigg.”
“Diana Rigg then or now?”
“She’s twenty-eight. And don’t be mean. Her name is Cecily Naughton. She goes by C.C. in her byline.”
“Sure, I’ve read her pieces in Vanity Fair. She’s wicked funny. And so insightful.”
“She used to be a dancer herself.”
Mitch’s eyes widened. “Really?”
Lacy let out a hoot. “What is it with men? I can talk until I’m blue in the face about a terrific woman and get nowhere with you. But if I so much as mention the word ‘dancer’ or ‘model’ you start drooling like horny teenaged boys.”
“That’s totally your imagination.”
“Do you want to call her?”
“Lacy, I’m afraid I just don’t have the time right now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mitch. And very sorry that you and I won’t be working together again.” Her eyes searched his for a moment before they let go. “My door is always open in case you change your mind.”
“That’s incredibly nice of you, but I won’t be.” Mitch beamed at her. “Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I was this happy.”