The Boy Next Door Read online

  Aaron Spender

  Senior Correspondent

  New York Journal

  To: Aaron Spender

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: “This”

  That was really moving, Aaron. Have you ever considered writing fiction for a living?

  Seriously. I think you’ve got real talent.

  Mel

  To: Nadine Wilcock
  From: Tony Salerno

  Subject: We got e-mail

  Nad!!! Look!!! We got e-mail!!!

  Isn’t it righteous? You can write to me at [email protected]. Get it? I’m foodie because I’m the chef!!!

  Anyway, just thought I’d say hi. Now we can e-mail each other all day long!

  What are you wearing? How come you never wear to work that bustier I got you?

  Do you want to know tonight’s specials?

  Asparagus tips wrapped in salmon

  Soft-shell crab

  Lobster bisque

  Pasta puttanesca

  Red snapper in an orrechiette sauce

  Filet mignon

  Crème brûlée

  I’ll save you some bisque.

  Hey, by the way, my uncle Giovanni’s throwing us an engagement party next weekend. Nothing fancy, just out by the pool at his house in Long Island. So keep Saturday free!

  Love you,

  Tony

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: Another one

  Look, Tony’s uncle Gio is throwing us an engagement party (yes, another one) and I’m telling you right now, YOU HAVE GOT TO COME. Seriously, Mel, I don’t think I can handle another round of Salernos without you. You know what they’re like.

  And this one has a pool. You know they’re going to throw me in. You just know it.

  Say you’ll come and keep me from being humiliated. PLEASE.

  Nad :-O

  P.S.: And don’t you be giving me that damned DOG excuse again.

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: I can’t

  You know I can’t go. How am I supposed to go all the way out to Long Island when I have Paco to think of? You know he has to go out every four to five hours. I am wearing out my Steve Maddens as it is, running back and forth between the office and my apartment building, trying to get there in time to take him out. There’s no way I can go all the way out to Long Island. The poor thing might explode.

  Mel

  P.S.: Vivica—you know, the supermodel, and Donald Trump’s latest arm candy—has dumped him! Seriously! She’s dumped the Donald! He is said to be devastated, and she’s gone into hiding.

  Poor things. I really thought that one was going to work out.

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: Paco

  Okay, this is ridiculous. Mel, you cannot put your life on hold just because your next-door neighbor happens to be in a coma. Seriously. There must be someone in the woman’s family who can look after that stupid dog. Why do YOU have to do it?

  You’ve done enough, for God’s sake. I mean, you probably saved her life. Let someone else handle Paco and his digestive schedule.

  I mean it. I am not getting into that pool on my own. If you don’t find this woman’s next of kin, I will.

  Nad :-(

  P.S.: Excuse me, I understand your concern for Winona, but the Donald? And Vivica, the Victoria’s Secret Wonder Bra girl? They’ll be fine. Trust me.

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: Paco

  It’s easy for you to say let someone else handle Paco. My question would be: WHO?

  Mrs. Friedlander’s only living relative is her nephew, Max, and not even the cops have been able to find him to tell him what happened to her. I know he lives somewhere in the city, but his phone number’s unlisted. Apparently, he’s some up-and-coming photographer with pictures in the Whitney, or something. At least, according to his aunt. And quite popular with the ladies…ergo, the unlisted number, I assume so the ladies’ husbands can’t track him down.

  And of course his aunt doesn’t have his number written down anywhere because she undoubtedly had it memorized.

  In any case, what can I do? I can’t put the poor thing in a kennel. He’s already freaked out enough about his owner being…well, you know. How can I leave him locked up in some cage somewhere? Seriously, Nadine, if you saw his eyes, you wouldn’t be able to do it, either. He is the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen, and that includes nephews.

  If only he were a man. I’d marry him. I swear it.

  Mel

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Tony Salerno

  Subject: What do you mean you’re not going?

  Nadine, you HAVE to go. The party is for YOU. Well, you and me. You can’t not go.

  And don’t give me any of that bull about how you don’t want anybody in my family to see you in a swimsuit. How many times do I have to tell you that you are the hottest girl in the world? Do you think I care what size you wear? You have it going on, girl.

  Only you should wear those thongs I bought you more often.

  I don’t understand what difference it makes whether or not Mel goes. Why do women always have to do things together? It doesn’t make any sense.

  Besides, if you feel that strongly about it, just tell them you have an ear infection and can’t get in the water.

  Jeez. I don’t get you dames. I really don’t.

  Tony

  To: Mel Fuller

  cc: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Dolly Vargas

  Subject: Your little problem

  Darlings:

  I couldn’t help but overhear your little tête-à-tête in the ladies’ just now. I was otherwise occupied, or I would have joined in (we really ought to talk to someone about how narrow those stalls are). Fortunately, Jimmy—you know, the new fax boy—is quite surprisingly flexible, or we never would have managed. ;-)

  First of all, Mel, sweetheart, Max Friedlander did not have just any old picture in the Whitney—which you would know, if you ever ventured out of Blockbuster long enough to take in some real culture. He had a stunning self-portrait on display there for the Biennial, in which he was sans apparel. If you ask me, the man’s a photographic genius.

  Though that may not be where his true talent lies, judging by that photo…if you get my drift.

  And I’m sure you do.

  Anyway, he has, for reasons unfathomable to me, chosen to cheapen his gift by prostituting himself out for photo shoots, such as, just as an example, last winter’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. And he just finished up the Victoria’s Secret Christmas catalog, I believe.

  All you have to do, children, is contact those so-called publications, and I’m sure they’ll know how to get a message to him.

  Well, ta for now.

  XXXOOO

  Dolly

  P.S.: Oh, Mel, about Aaron. Look, can’t you throw him a bone? He’s no good to me like this. And all that Wagner is giving me a migraine.

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: Max Friedlander

  Listen, thanks to Dolly, I think I’ve finally managed to track down Max Friedlander!

  At least, no one seems to have his number, but I’ve got an e-mail address. Help me draft a note to him. You know I don’t do well with groveling.

  Mel
/>   To: Max Friedlander

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: Your aunt

  Dear Mr. Friedlander,

  I hope you get this. You are probably not aware that the police have been trying to reach you for several days now. I am sorry to inform you that your aunt, Helen Friedlander, has been seriously injured. She has been the victim of an assault in her apartment.

  She is currently listed in critical condition at Beth Israel Hospital here in New York. Unfortunately, she is in a coma, and the doctors have no way of knowing if she will ever come out of it.

  Please, Mr. Friedlander, if you get this message, call me as soon as possible on my cell phone, 917-555-2123, or if you prefer, please feel free to e-mail me. We need to discuss how you think your aunt would best like her pets cared for while she is in the hospital.

  I know this is the last thing you need to be worried about right now, considering how grave your aunt’s condition is, but I can’t imagine that, being the great animal lover she is, your aunt didn’t have some sort of proviso arranged for just this sort of circumstance. I am her next-door neighbor (in apartment 15B), and I have been walking Paco and taking care of your aunt’s cats, but I’m afraid that my schedule does not allow for full-time pet care. Taking care of Paco is beginning to affect my job performance.

  Please contact me as soon as you can.

  Melissa Fuller

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: The letter

  I like it. Short but sweet. And it gets the point across.

  Nad :)

  P.S.: I think it’s good you left out the part about all your tardies. No one in the real world cares about tardies. Just at OUR $@%#ing workplace does anyone keep track of how late we are.

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: The letter

  Yeah, but do you think he’ll even get it? From what I can tell based on the people I’ve talked to so far, this Max Friedlander seems to be taking the role of playboy artiste to brand new heights. In fact, I can’t believe he’s never hit Page Ten before!

  Plus, it seems like he’s always on the road. The guy was in Thailand on a shoot last month, Hawaii last week, and this week, who knows? Nobody seems to have any idea where he is.

  Oh, and it’s no good trying his cell phone: According to Sports Illustrated, he lost it scuba diving in Belize.

  If he even gets this message, does he sound to you like the kind of guy who’ll even do anything about it?

  I’m a little worried.

  And it’s okay, I guess. I mean, I’m bonding with the cats (well, Mr. Peepers won’t come out from under the bed), and Paco’s like my best friend now.

  But I’ve gotten five more of those tardy warnings from Human Resources. They are seriously going to put me on probation! But what can I do? Paco NEEDS a good hour-long walk in the morning.

  Still, if I have to ditch out of one more society function because I have to get home to walk that dog, I’m pretty sure I’m going to get fired. I completely missed the Sarah Jessica Parker thing the other night because Paco wouldn’t go. I had to walk him for like an hour.

  George was furious, because the Chronicle got the scoop on us.

  Though what the Chronicle is doing, reporting on celeb gossip, I can’t imagine. I always thought they were too highbrow for that!

  Mel

  To: Tom Barrett

  From: Max Friedlander

  Subject: Message

  To whom it may concern:

  Please deliver the following message to Vivica Chandler, who is staying in the Sopradilla Cottage.

  Viv—

  Do not—I repeat, DO NOT—accept any messages, telephone calls, faxes, e-mails, etc., for me from a woman named Melissa Fuller.

  No, don’t worry, she’s not one of my exes. She’s my aunt’s next-door neighbor. Apparently, Helen took a tumble, and this Fuller woman is trying to get in touch with me about the stupid dog.

  But we aren’t going to let her ruin our little getaway together, are we?

  So, don’t even answer the door until I get there. I’m just finishing up the Neve Campbell shoot, and then I’ll be taking the red-eye out from LAX, so I ought to be there in time to watch the sunset with you, baby. Keep the champagne chilled for me.

  Love ya,

  Max

  To: Max Friedlander

  From: Tom Barrett

  Subject: Message

  Dear Mr. Friedlander,

  It is my pleasure to inform you that your message for Miss Chandler has been delivered.

  If there is anything else we here at the Paradise Inn can do to make your stay an enjoyable one, please do not hesitate to let us know.

  We look forward to your joining us tomorrow.

  Sincerely,

  Tom Barrett

  Concierge

  Paradise Inn

  Key West, Florida

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Max Friedlander

  Subject: My aunt

  Dear Ms. Fuller,

  I am shocked. Deeply shocked and appalled to hear what has happened to my aunt Helen. She is, as I’m sure you know, my only living relative. I cannot thank you enough for the efforts you’ve gone to in order to contact me and let me know about this tragedy.

  Although I am currently on assignment in Africa—perhaps you’ve heard of the drought here in Ethiopia? I am doing a photo shoot for the Save the Children fund—I will begin making preparations to return to New York at once. If my aunt should wake before I get there, please assure her that I am on my way.

  And thank you again, Ms. Fuller. Everything they say about cold and unfeeling New Yorkers is obviously untrue in your case. God bless you.

  Sincerely,

  Maxwell Friedlander

  To: John Trent

  From: Max Friedlander

  Subject: S.O.S.

  Dude.

  I’m in trouble.

  You’ve got to help me out.

  I’m serious. You don’t know what’s at stake here: I have a chance for an extended vacation with Vivica.

  Yeah, you read that right. Vivica. The supermodel. The one who just dumped Trump. The one in those ads for that new bra with the water pump. The one on the Sports Illustrated cover.

  Yeah. THAT one.

  But it’s not going to work out, buddy, if you don’t do me a little favor. Just one little favor. That’s all I’m asking.

  And I know I don’t have to remind you about that time I saved your you-know-what in Vegas. Remember? Spring break, our senior year? I’ve never seen anybody drink as many pitchers of margaritas as you did that night. I’m telling you, man, you’d be paying alimony right now if it weren’t for me. I SAVED you. And you swore to me the next day (by the pool, remember?) that if there was ever anything you could do for me, you’d do it.

  Well, today’s the day. I’m calling it in. The favor.

  Crap, they’re making me put away my electronic devices for takeoff. Write back, man.

  Max

  To: Jason Trent

  From: John Trent

  Subject: Max Friedlander

  I knew it was coming. I knew it was coming, and just now it arrived: A dispatch from Max Friedlander, demanding payback for a favor he did me our senior year in college.

  My God, that was ten years ago. The man has a mind like a sieve. He can’t remember his own Social Security number, but this “favor” I owe him he remembers. What did I ever do to deserve this?

  You remember Max, don’t you
, Jase? He was my roommate senior year, the one I got my first apartment with when I moved to the city after college. That dive in Hell’s Kitchen, where the guy got stabbed in the back the first night we were there—remember? It was in the papers the next day…I think that’s what led to my deciding to become a crime reporter, as a matter of fact.

  Remember how Mim offered to get me out of the lease so I could move in with her and live, to quote Mim, “like a human being”? God, after two months of living with Max, I almost took her up on it. It’s like the guy still thought we were in college—half of Manhattan used to show up in our living room for Monday night football every week.

  No hard feelings when I moved out, though. He still calls me every few months to catch up.

  And now this.

  God only knows what Max wants me to do for him. Rescue a raftful of refugee Cuban ballerinas, I suppose. Or house the Australian rugby team. Or loan him the $50,000 he owes to the Russian mob.

  I am seriously considering leaving the country, Jase. Do you think Mim would let me have the Lear for the weekend?

  John

  To: John Trent

  From: Jason Trent

  Subject: Max Friedlander

  I hesitate to ask, of course, but as your big brother I feel I have a right to know:

  What, precisely, did Max Friedlander do for you that left you owing him this enormous debt?

  Jason

  P.S. Stacy says when are you coming to visit? The kids have been asking about you. Brittany’s riding post, and Haley won best jumper at last week’s exhibit.

  P.P.S. No go on the Lear. Julia’s using it.