The Next Wife
A millionaire lifestyle beckons for Nina, but will the wealthy magnate’s spouse stand in her way?
Manhattan was a ghost town the third week in August. Nina opened the gallery at noon, though there wasn’t much point. The clients had decamped to the Hamptons. At least it was cool in here, and quiet. She’d stayed out dancing and drinking till the nightclubs closed, and she was nursing a hangover. Being alone in the high-ceilinged space with its spartan white walls and hum of air-conditioning soothed her aching head.
She sat by the window, drinking black coffee fortified with bourbon, watching the sun bake the cobblestoned street. A Mercedes pulled up in front of the gallery, and a driver got out to open the rear door. The man who emerged was short and stocky, fifty-ish, with greying hair. She couldn’t place him, but she knew he was somebody important.
A soft tone sounded when the gallery door opened. She approached him with a Sphinx-like smile.
“Welcome. We’re featuring a Basquiat exhibit. Pricing is in the brochure.”
Her voice was low and pleasing. Nina was as much an attraction as the art. Twentythree, graceful and willowy, with red hair and an art history degree from Barnard. The man had a collector’s instinct. He followed her with his eyes as she moved about, showing him the paintings. She told him her name, asked for his. He was Edward Levitt, a real estate magnate with a contemporary art collection valued in the hundreds of millions. No wonder she’d recognized him. Normally, someone like that wouldn’t wander in off the street. He’d have a consultant who bought for him. This felt like a stroke of luck.
They walked around, studying the paintings, talking so long that the sun shifted in the sky. She didn’t want him to leave. She was smitten – not with the man so much as the possibilities he represented. Then, he looked at his watch.
“I’m due in Southampton.” “No, don’t go.”
She had nothing to lose by voicing her disappointment. Either he was interested, or not, and if not, he wouldn’t be back anyway. He looked her up and down, from her artistic earrings to her Maud Frizon shoes, and liked what he saw. A girl with aspirations, taste, hungry for what life could bring.
“What are you doing this weekend?” he asked.
She was supposed to work tomorrow. But Edward was throwing a party at his beach house. There would be good wine and interesting people. It would be worth her while just to see the art. Who could turn down an invitation like that on a hot August Friday? Not Nina.
He offered to have the driver stop at her apartment so she could pick up some clothes. She lived in a fifthfloor walk-up near Tompkins Square Park. Squatters and punks controlled the neighbourhood. His car might be targeted, she warned. He wasn’t worried. He went where he pleased, and if there was a problem, the driver was armed. So, they stopped, and she ran upstairs as fast as she could and threw some things in a bag. She was relieved to get downstairs and find the Mercedes still there.
Traffic was crazy, and the drive took hours. But she was never bored, drinking vintage champagne from the mini-fridge, listening to him talk about mega-deals and famous friends. Eventually, they came to a tall gate that slid open at their approach. A plaque on the wall said “Windswept.” The house had a name. At the end of the long drive, she saw it, and caught her breath. It was a mansion, a palace. Waves crashed nearby as she stepped from the car, breathing in the brine of the ocean. Edward personally escorted her to her room. He hadn’t touched her during the drive, but now he came in and locked the door. He was skilled in bed beyond any of the boys she’d been with.
She didn’ t want him to go . She was smitten , not with the man so much as the possibilities here presented
When he left, she felt that something momentous had happened. But, at dinner, she got a reality check.
Mrs. Levitt.
It was a sultry night. Clouds scudded across a yellow moon. Edward’s wife was gaunt, perfectly groomed, dressed in couture, dripping with diamonds. She flitted about the vast terrace that overlooked the sea, chatting with her guests, throwing back her head in laughter. Never once did she look in Nina’s direction, which gave away that she knew. When dinner was served, Edward took his wife’s arm and escorted her to one end of a long table set up under an awning. He pulled out her chair, then went to sit at the head. They didn’t speak otherwise, that Nina saw. There were maybe thirty people there – celebrities, socialites. Nina was seated halfway down one side. Edward glanced her way occasionally, but she felt forgotten. She was surprised at how much that stung.
She tried to be philosophical. There were other people to meet. After dinner, she hung out by the pool with a noted fashion photographer, who rested his hand on the small of her back. Edward, smoking a cigar with some Wall Streeters, watched them from the corner of his eye. Eventually, she drifted back to her room, alone. She was surprised when he knocked on her door. They went for a walk on the beach, then to bed. They were together that night, and the next, and the following afternoon. He sent her home in a car. She imagined their affair would take place in hotel rooms, and last until he got bored, at which point his secretary would stop putting through her calls. He’d send her an expensive piece of jewellery, which she’d promptly hock for cash. Life afterwards would feel too ordinary.
It didn’t happen that way. Nina was good company. She knew what to say and not to say. She looked exquisite in clothes, as well as out of them. Edward brought her to art exhibits where he’d ask her opinion, then to dinners in restaurants with his business associates. She never put a foot wrong. She accompanied him to a big conference in Aspen. He didn’t mind when they were photographed together. She was careful not to ask what Mrs. Levitt thought. The rules didn’t apply to Edward, she knew that by now. She didn’t want to rock the boat. She’d pay for it later, when he dropped her. But she was wrong. Without realising it, she’d been auditioning for the role of his next wife.
In Paris that December, he took her to Cartier. A man with a moustache met their car, escorted them to a private room, offered an aperitif. Nina was expecting a generous Christmas gift, but instead, the man presented a tray of diamond rings with stones as big as eggs. She didn’t like how they weighed down her hand, and asked for something smaller, but more unusual. The ring she chose had a rare blue diamond. They left it behind to be sized.
“Just as well,” Edward said in the car afterwards.“you can’t wear it in public yet.”
She normally wouldn’t have questioned him. But she wanted to be sure she understood.
“What about your wife?” “Not your concern,” he said. “But --”
“Nina. I’ll take care of her. The less you know, the better.”
She was slightly alarmed. Surely he wouldn’t resort to murder, would he? But she dropped the subject, knowing that a chance like this would not come again.