She wonders now what her Uber driver would have made of her situation. Would Taylor describe Barney as “controlling”? But Barney wasBarney. He controlled the markets! Different rules.
Well. None of it matters now. This is his funeral.
“Honey?” It’s Barney’s third wife, seated next to her. She wears gloves and a veiled black hat that seems to be the size of a bicycle wheel. Honey has to keep swerving her head to avoid it. Svetlana has bright red lips andI don’t give a fuckwrinkles.
“Mad as a cut snake,” Barney always said. It was his shortest marriage and most expensive. It produced a stunning daughter who is already walking the catwalk at fourteen. Svetlana ignores the nondisclosure agreements and does interviews whenever she feels like it. She said Barney cheatedand lied and manipulated. She said he was a terrible father and a wonderful lover. Barney was delighted.
It was literally on the public record that Barney was a cheat and still Honey had thoughtshewas somehow special.
Svetlana pulls down the side of her hat so she can lean closer to Honey. “Who is that man talking to Luisa Long and Mac right now?” She points discreetly with her gloved hand.
Honey turns to look. An attractive olive-skinned man, in his late twenties or maybe early thirties, is standing at the side of the cathedral near their pew. He’s in deep conversation with Mac and Luisa Long. He’s right beneath a stained glass window, so he’s dappled with a kind of heavenly light. A dimple dents his stubbled cheek, and as he talks he runs his hands through his dark, thick hair. He feels like a deeply familiar stranger.
Honey turns back around to the front.
“An actor?” she suggests to Svetlana. Sometimes when Barney works late, she watches drama series and falls deeply in love with leading men. Those relationships feel so real! Perhaps she’d imagined herself dating him as he strode about some fictional world. That would explain the familiarity.
“He’s handsome,” comments Svetlana. “Spanish, I believe.”
Meredith leans forward. “Who is he?”
“A love child coming out of the woodwork?” Svetlana gives Meredith a sparkly, sidelong look. “Didn’t Barney spend a lot of time in Spain when he was married to you, Meredith?”
“Too old,” says Meredith. “It would have been during Rita’s time.”
Now Rita turns to look. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“The child of a housekeeper perhaps?” suggests Svetlana.
Rita lifts one shoulder. “It’s not impossible.” She continues studying the man. “They’re arguing.”
“I think he’s a blackmailer,” says Svetlana. “Luisa Long looks nervous.”
“If so, she and Mac will make a deal,” says Meredith. “They’ll protect Barney’s image at all costs.”
Honey turns to look again, and this time the man catches her eye.
He makes a quick gesture with his hand. It’s like he’s playing the chords of an invisible guitar. What the hell? That seems inappropriately cheerful for a funeral.
She turns back around to see the archbishop ponderously approach the pulpit. His ornate robes glow in the candlelight.
Honey doesn’t see the stranger again until hours later when people are beginning to leave the reception. She is exhausted. Her feet hurt. The event was exquisitely catered in a beautiful reception room at the city’s best hotel, and all has gone as Luisa Long planned, of course.
The more people drank, the more they had talked at Honey, their sour breath in her face, as they explained her husband’s genius, as if that would somehow console her for his death.
She is momentarily alone, sliding one foot in and out of her shoe, when the man approaches with a glass of champagne. He holds it out to her. “You look thirsty.”
“Are you a journalist?” asks Honey. Sheisthirsty. She drinks the champagne like water.
She’s had journalists do this before. Behave as if they are old friends. Charm you into revealing secrets they can publish. The man looks too wealthy to be a journalist. He’s wearing a well-cut gray suit with a white open-necked shirt.
“No.” He smiles. It’s a ravishing smile. She’s mildly intrigued by his identity but immune to his charms.
“An actor?”
“No.”
She is annoyed by the subterfuge. “Well, if you’ll excuse me—”
