“It’s Ms. Walsh,” I correct him, ignoring what’s going on beneath my feet. We shake hands, and Ness smiles as if he knows what I’m thinking, as if these are roles we are playing. It occurs to me that despite his recent seclusion, he’s done hundreds of interviews over the years. Probably more than I have—and it’s kinda what I do for a living. And then I wonder if he has the timing of coming to the door down to a science, watches on a video screen or peeks through the blinds, all to take the strength out of the knees of his guests as they see what they’ve been driving on for miles.
Suddenly, all the trash-talking I did in the newsroom yesterday afternoon comes back to haunt me. I assured Dawn that I wouldn’t get flustered, that I’d eaten men like this for lunch. Hell, I’ve sat in the White House pressroom and tossed firebombs at the President of the United States. I reminded her of that, and Dawn had laughed. She had interviewed Ness Wilde before.
“Welcome to my home,” Ness says. He half-bows and waves me inside. “Ladies first.”
Despite what I feel about Ness, despite the suspicious shells in my purse, despite the fact that I’ve seen his face on a hundred magazine covers, in all the newspapers, and all over the news, his handsomeness in person still comes as a shock. It’s his smile, however insincere it might be. It’s his golden-bleached locks from years spent shelling. It’s his physique from being wealthy enough to exercise just to pass the time.
I had guiltily hoped to find him broken and shattered, that this was why he was holed up. Forty pounds overweight, perhaps. Balding. Staggering drunk. Some obvious reason for his reclusiveness for the better part of the past four years. But he looks the same. Ness Wilde is one of those men who won’t push forty so much as he’ll shove Father Time aside. Only actors get away with remaining heartthrobs so late in life. Actors and master shell collectors.
“I’ve got a bottle of wine breathing and some snacks put together,” he tells me. “Come downstairs. I’ll show you the view.”
It’s like I didn’t publish a story two days ago accusing his great-grandfather of flooding the world. It’s like this is our third date. Considering how many times he’s done this in the past, I imagine it’s comfortable for him. Remembering what I’m there to do, I force myself to be even more comfortable. I strain to be comfortable.
Ness leads me inside and through a labyrinthine and multi-level layout that manages to chop up ten thousand square feet into small and cozy spaces. My heels clop-clop on sandstone tile. They sound ridiculously loud and formal with him walking ahead, barefoot. I wore one of my power suits: pinstripes and a lacy blouse that I thought went great with the FBI wire. Ness, meanwhile, has on white bottoms that look perfect either for sleeping in or practicing karate. For a top, he has on a pale blue button-up left untucked and only halfway fastened up in the front. Before he turned, I spotted a necklace dangling against his chest, a single shell or stone on a string. I wasn’t brave enough to study it closely to ascertain the species—because this is probably just what he wants people to do: study and stare.
Much too quickly, I am led past priceless treasures. It’s like being hauled through a museum after closing. A flawless junonia, probably six inches long. An array of ivory wentletraps, sitting out in the open. There’s an entire wall of scallops and pectin raveneli with water trickling down them; a great fountain separating two adjoining rooms. I assume all are real. Otherwise, why have them on display?
“The competition,” Ness says, waving at a wall of pictures. It’s dozens of magazine covers, mostly gossip rags and weeklies, a lot of shots I recognize from my research and from years of riding the subway to work. Many of the cover shots feature Ness holding up some rare or impossible shell between his fingertips. He means the magazines, I realize, when he says “the competition.” The competition we face at the paper. As if any of us are healthy enough to worry about the others.
Or maybe he means the reporters. I think back to the stacks of articles I’ve read over the years while writing my piece. How many were written by men? These Ness Wilde clones smile at me as I walk past, almost as if they know what I’m thinking. I’m thinking of how many of those reporters probably trailed dutifully down this hall, just like I am. I think of how many stayed the night. I know of a few, have spoken to them, but that story isn’t set to run for another few weeks. This collection of framed trophies will have to feature in that story, I realize, and I make edits in my head. When I’m done with my own story, I have a strong suspicion that Ness will not frame what I write. Hell, there’s a chance he’ll be reading it behind bars.