Judy slammed the door to the library and went upstairs to bed. She hated using foul language, because it sounded like all the nobodies in her high school class who hung out at Fat Taco and joined the army.

Judy sat down at her bedroom vanity and began taking off her jewelry. She was already planning her recovery from the evening. Samantha would call to thank her, and she would invite her to a lunch she was planning to throw for Narciso Rodriguez or some other hot designer. Judy didn’t really know Narciso, but she would find out what charity he supported and could get Albert to give a large donation. Then she could throw a little luncheon.

The thought of this intimate gathering ordinarily would have cheered Judy immediately. But tonight it only underscored something she had been thinking about for a while and didn’t dare mention to Albert. Ever since the planes went into the World Trade Center, Judy had begun thinking it might be nice to move back to Modesto. They could get the largest house in town, a historic landmark, and Judy could take classes at the local college. She liked reading Wharton and Jane Austen for her book group and wouldn’t mind seriously studying either of them. In fact, she herself had enjoyed writing when she was at Mademoiselle. While she knew she was no Edith Wharton and had abruptly lost interest in the nanny diaries she had begun in Palm Beach, Judy was secretly sure she could write one of those Park Avenue princess novels. After all, she reassured herself, it takes one to know one. If she moved back, she wouldn’t even be self-conscious about getting a master’s in creative writing. There would be no insecurity or stress like tonight. In Modesto, Judy Tremont would be Brooke Astor, Samantha Acton, and a movie star all in one.

Judy slipped two Ativans under her tongue and took a deep breath. Gently stroking her face upward from her eye, Judy put on her La Mer antiaging moisturizer and, calmer now, prepared to go to bed.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

·CHAPTER FIFTEEN·

Barry

“There’s nothing I hate more than a puny, know-it-all kid from the Ivy League. Why the hell should I go listen to his reading?” Barry blurted at Yvonne, his assistant.

“Because you said you would,” she answered. “It’s on your schedule.”

“Who the fuck put it there? You? I told you to check with me first.”

Yvonne had worked for Barry longer than any other assistant. The others all had aspirations to become development girls or boys and move up to associate producer. Yvonne was mostly interested in staying put.

“This is the script you commissioned,” she explained to him. “It’s by the kid who won Sundance while he was still a Yale Drama student.”

“Doesn’t mean a fuckin’ thing. I didn’t get into Yale.”

“His father is also the governor of Iowa.”