Almost Perfect Read Free Page A

but it’s basically balls. Right, Rich?”)
    In his pale-gray blazer, smiling his smile, Richard moves through his party, adoring every minute, every overheard or directly spoken word of praise. Each pat on the back, each kiss. He loves this, this makes it all worthwhile, his often lousy work. He loves all this love and praise, it warms his blood. Love vibrates in his chest.
    And it all could vanish in a breath, he knows that. Like soap bubbles vanishing. It’s all unreal; he is playing with funny money; it could all be dust tomorrow. As he could be dust, lying dead and dirty in an alley somewhere. What he does is as fake, as phony, as what all the others do, all the people in this room, the art directors and the clients, the hotshot moneybags clients; they could lose it all, as easily as anyone. As easily as he himself could lose it all. As Richard Fallon, Esquire.
    But in the meantime he might as well enjoy it, mightn’t he?
    “Say, Richard man, this is really the greatest.”
    “Dick, old man, a lot of the time I think you’re an asshole, but you’re also a fucking genius, you know that?”
    “Richard darling, I never saw anything quite so beautiful. You must leave it like this forever!”
    Of course all these people are jerks.
    On the other hand, a few of them are fairly attractive.
    Linda, who wants him to keep his studio like this forever, is not too bad. Hair a little long for her age, and that pink shirt is definitely a mistake, but still, Linda is not too bad.
    She is across the room by now and is talking to someone else, some old advertising broad, he’s seen her around. Approaching the two women, Richard smiles, he gleams at them both, and then, as the older woman turns for a moment to someone else, into Linda’s ear he whispers, “Why don’t you ever call me?”
    “Call you? Richard, for heaven’s sake, why would I?” But she is blushing.
    “Because I’d really like it if you did. Isn’t that a reason?”
    She laughs. “I’ll think about it.”
    She will, he knows she’ll call. But why did he have to ask her? Most women just call, and call. Even Claudia, to whom he was recently married, still calls.
    And some men call.
    Like Andrew Bacci, who in fact did call this very morning to say, “You know, we could just put in a little more time together. Hang out. Preferably siesta time, but if not, not. Don’t you ever get tired of women? Of—that horrible word you guys use—of ‘cunt’? I wouldn’t do anything you don’t want, I promise.I’ll stop the minute you say to. But honestly, kiddo, I think you might like it.”
    Andrew is very good-looking, if you like that curly, long-lashed Italian look, and Richard sort of does; he has to admit it. Andrew is young, twenty-something, and smart, very smart. A stockbroker. Funny too. Richard always has a lot of laughs on the phone or having a couple of drinks with Andrew. And as far as that other stuff goes … well, Andrew could be right. He might like it. And that might be a problem.
    This quick reverie on Andrew—which, Richard has to admit, has turned him on, it really has—is interrupted by a woman named Margot Carlisle, a dark and extremely chic (there is no other word for Margot’s style) older woman, whom Richard distrusts and almost dislikes and is not at all turned on by. Margot in fact is a good friend of Andrew Bacci’s. For all Margot’s big reputation for sexiness and lovers—she has lived all over the world, known almost everyone and slept with most people—Margot is almost always with gay men, and she seems to like Andrew best of all.
    She begins her conversations with a tiny deep-throat laugh, usually. She does so now, the little laugh, before saying, “Darling Richard, you’ve really outdone yourself. This is truly fantastic.” Her manner is somewhat campy, with always too many gestures, eyebrow raisings, like a bad imitation of Garbo.
    “Well, dollings,” Richard tells her, Bronx style, “thanks. Coming from