Boyfriend from Hell by Avery Corman Page B

guilt, or for luck, or all of these, people gave money and food to him and he offered no acknowledgment. He had reacted to Ronnie with sudden antipathy. The peculiar social compact between the man in the box and people on the street had been broken. He had frightened her.
    Richard Smith was a courtly host for the party attended by a couple of dozen people, with employees from Burris’s publishing company helping to occupy the space. Richard was dressed in Armani—blue suit, white shirt, light blue silk tie—the standout-looking man in the room. Nancy and Bob came in with Ronnie, and on seeing Richard for the first time, Nancy whispered, “This is People magazine stuff. He is amazing-looking.”
    Ronnie made the introductions, Richard declaring he was glad to finally meet Ronnie’s friends. Bob was less cheerful than the others, trying to take the measure of this guy, while feeling, in his Brooks Brothers suit, severely out-tailored.
    While Richard charmingly concentrated on the guests, Antoine Burris was serving as the co-captain for the event and he made certain everyone’s glass was filled and that the hors d’oeuvres were passed properly by the uniformed waitstaff of four people.
    Jenna Hawkins arrived with her husband, Jeb, a former Broadway producer; in his seventies, silver haired, with a red W. C. Fields nose and alcohol on his breath, a man now supposedly engaged in writing his memoirs.
    “Great place,” Jeb said to Richard. “So how do you make your money?”
    Nancy and Ronnie exchanged smiles on his directness.
    “I write, I lecture.”
    “On what?”
    “Cults, mostly.”
    “Cults? We talking about the same thing, cults? People following some crackpot?”
    “Right.”
    “What’s the most interesting thing about cults?”
    “I’d say the way people have a need to be in them.”
    “And cults gets you a place like this?”
    “Jeb—” his wife interceded. “This is supposed to be a nice party for Veronica Delaney and this is our host.”
    “That’s all right, he can handle it.”
    “I rent, I don’t own.”
    “See, he gave me a good answer. You’re a good-looking guy. Ever act?”
    “No, I never acted.”
    “If you did, I’d put you right in a production of Private Lives. Know the play?”
    “I do.”
    “Put you right in it. But I’m not active just now.”
    “Okay, Jeb,” and she pulled him away.
    Laughing, Richard walked over to Ronnie and said, “I think I just lost my chance at another career.”
    “Looks to me like you’re doing fine.”
    “I’ll say,” and he kissed her on the lips, a proprietary kiss.
    Richard made a toast thanking everyone for coming and congratulating Ronnie for her book contract. “To the girl of the moment,” he said, “and the moment is going to last for a very long time.” He introduced Antoine Burris, who told the group he was pleased and honored to be responsible for the first book by an exciting new literary talent. Her inquisitiveness combined with her sophisticated style was refreshing in someone so young, and they were going to do everything they could to put the book on the map.
    Ronnie chatted with people from the publishing company as the party rolled on. The art director, a woman in her thirties, brought a date, an advertising account executive in his thirties, aggressive, confident of his own good looks, who took the opportunity when the woman was in the next room to try slipping his business card to Ronnie on the basis of how much he could help her with the book when it came out. He knew everything there was to know about advertising, and might they get together, he was really ending his other relationship. “I’m flattered, but I’m not available. Richard Smith and I …” He got the message although she couldn’t finish the thought.
    Richard Smith and I … “sleep together” was the best she came up with for herself.
    They didn’t have a plan for dinner after the party and as people began to leave Richard took Ronnie