“Hey, did you see the Post today?” my best friend’s panicked voice was on the other end of my cell phone.
Odd. She knew I rarely read New York City’s answer to the tabloids. The NY Post contains legendary “Page 6” a gossip column about all the Somebodys (celebs and heavy hitters).
As if reading my thoughts, she raced on, “Never mind Page 6. Check out page 9. Gotta go,” Click! The line went dead.
Off I scurried to buy a copy. There was a newspaper vendor close to my teensy rented apartment, smaller than many suburban bathrooms. Paper in hand, I flipped it open. Even in preoccupied, uptown (chic) Manhattan, my scream made a few jaded New Yorkers turn around to see what had caused such a ruckus.
While the financial mecca of New York is home to hundreds of thousands of investment bankers, how many Babbitt Alistair Doneghan IVs could there be? Perhaps Heaven knew that I needed more proof. His bank was mentioned as well. My boyfriend was being sued by his fiancé. His what? The article concluded with a picture of an attractive-in-a-trashy-way woman claiming physical abuse and breach of contract to marry her.
No! That couldn’t be. While very far from perfect, Babbitt was not a wife beater. His lapses in attention, the lack of a key to his place, the frequent business trips all took on a different meaning. Was he really a Wall Street workaholic or had I been played? I glanced at my ring finger, devoid of jewelry.
I did what any intelligent woman would do. I stood by my man. He thanked me profusely, insisting this horrific experience taught him I was that rare bird, a true friend. After his name was cleared, the bank gave him back his old job, complete with retroactive pay. He asked me to marry him. I declined.
Instead I sold my script, “Is Willie a Wife Beater?” a fictionalized version of the events. With the proceeds, I purchased a beach bungalow. Now I’m in the other Manhattan. No, not Kansas; I live in Manhattan Beach in sunny, Southern California with Guss U. Davis, a world-class surfer and the most trustworthy gentleman I’ve ever known.
My best friend insists that the moral of my un-Page 6 worthy story is that if you manage through B.A.D., you’ll end up with G.U.D.
