A follower of mine asked why I haven’t mentioned Camille.
We had a fight, that’s why.
I want to say it was stupid, and all my fault, but it’s not how I feel.
It involved a man we know, in my estimation, she treated rather ruthlessly.
I try as a rule not to judge, a skill well-honed, but sometimes when circumstances seem profound there really isn’t much choice in the matter…especially if it involves someone you’ve known for 40 years.
Mike, I’ll call him, is a man in his early 70s…in great shape…financially secure, who lost his wife after 35 years.
We knew them both since they were well-known art directors in our field.
Maggie, I’ll call her, wasn’t even cold yet when Camille pounced like a puma.
Mike, shell-shocked, welcomed what I felt were her inappropriate intentions.
He went from widower to wealthy man on-the-town with a redhead on his arm without passing go.
I kept saying, “But Camille, he hasn’t properly mourned yet.”
“He’s old…there’s no time Susannah…do the math.”
My heart ached because I knew it was all about the money.
They shopped and traveled, ran up lavish hotel bills. He even bought her a sable coat she’s been eying for a year.
I know my friend…all this is great until even the crisp sound of a 100 dollar bill will bore her to tears, causing her to chill like a bottle of Tats in the back of the fridge.
Mike called one day asking if I had heard from Camille. He was waiting at the Ritz Carlton bar for over an hour and she had yet to show.
I knew she had met some pilot when she went to Palm Beach to do something for Neimans, my heart wincing not having the heart to tell him.
When I approached her she got mad, telling me to mind my own business…I clearly didn’t understand their arrangement. Obviously neither did Mike who she just dropped like a glove on a railroad platform.
That was three months ago.
I miss her…but can’t pick up the phone.