I didn't know how long I'd sit there, but I was curious to see when Beth would come home.
Would she actually stay out all NIGHT with that son of a bitch?
A moment later the lights dimmed and the noise level went through the roof as the Chili Peppers came out for their show.
Not more than twenty minutes later, as I wondered what to do with myself tonight, C. called and said he'd scored two Chili Peppers tickets from a friend in the Sales Department at Bloomingdale's, where he worked as a buyer. He just liked rubbing it in my face what a happy, unattached New York gay man he was, and how many great-looking guys he dated.
"Are you free tonight, or have you got plans with the ball-and-chain? "Actually, Beth is stuck at the office tonight, and I'd love to go." We made plans to meet at the Garden and I got off the phone.
I was angry and devastated, but determined to put on a cool, collected face in front of her. A bunch of teenage girls spotted Madonna and her husband in the hallway, and started screaming and running towards her. They were at the curb, about to get into the open door of a big white limo, beyond hearing range. The ones of Beth and me—at our wedding, with friends in Central Park, with her family at Christmas—I left sitting on the bookcase, though it took all my will-power not to just hurl them to the floor. I'd stayed there once before, when I'd come up from Philly for a couple of days of job interviews, and I knew it was clean, and about the cheapest I could find in the city.
In no time there was a stampede, and 200 excited, shouting fans were blocking me from where Beth and Huntington were headed out the door. Once again I pulled out my phone and managed four pictures of him helping her into the limousine, his hand familiarly on her arm and then caressing her butt. I checked the machine—no calls from Beth, or from anyone else. I told them I'd be arriving very late, and they gave me the phone number for the night porter.
Before I could get close, the limo pulled out into traffic. Then I uploaded my cell-phone photos to our computer and had a look.
Standing panting on the sidewalk, I speed-dialed Beth's phone. Several of the ten were too distant or too blurry to show much, but six of them were pretty incriminating.
Two were from inside the Garden and four as they entered the limo.
And each one showed a degree of intimacy that was totally wrong for a happily-married woman and her boss, who happened to be engaged to an internationally-known fashion model.
D., born and raised on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, anybody west or south of the George Washington Bridge was a hopeless rube: a redneck, an Okie, or some other sort of hick.