M . Frieda liked the New York Post. She should read the New York Times, and often did, but she relished her gossipy tabloid. Unlike her child, her apartment, her gallery, her relationship, the Post was easy. Uncomplicated. The broad-sheet made no emotional or intellectual demands. She could flip through the pages in seconds, scan, scan, scan, turn. Except when, on the odd morning, she was blind-sided by an item. Like today, right there, on Page Six, she read that Gwyneth Paltrow was having a hard time dealing with the death of her father from cancer.Gorgeous Gwyneth missed her father? Boo fucking hoo, thought Frieda. He lived long enough see his perfect daughter get an Oscar. He got to love his wife deep into their middle age. Gwyneth had decades’ worth of memories of him. Justin, meanwhile, asked Frieda last night if his dad had had blue or green eyes. He couldn’t remember, and it was hard to tell in photos. Not that there were many photos or videotape. Gregg had always held the camera.
