"You have my word."
He let me go, so suddenly I stumbled. "All right. Go get yourself a drink and find Patricia. I have business."
"I'll come with you."
"No you won't." The I can't trust you not to make a scene was implicit in his expression.
Hurt, I turned my back on him and went over to the bar. I'd intended to drop a few hints into Councilman Hartmann's ear about my husbands inexcusable behavior, but he had wandered away.
By the time I found him he had become embroiled in a heated political discussion with the mayor, Governor Rockefeller, and several other men. When it became clear that nobody was going to take particular notice of me, I went in search of Patricia and my circle, to pass the evening with martini in hand, exchanging gossip about those of our circle not present, along with other unfortunates whose names arose in idle conversation.
Brand spent most of the evening with Marilyn. I comforted myself that the husbands of most of the women in my circle also paid court to her. But Brand was clearly a favorite, and they went off together at least twice, before I got too drunk to notice.
Patricia began throwing me pitying looks, which reminded me in an unfortunate way of Dr. Isaacs's expression earlier. I'd be a target for nasty rumors as soon as my friends gathered without me. I wasn't the only predator in my social circle.
The rest of that evening fades into obscurity in my memory, but one other incident stays with me. New York politics and high society were always weird and paranoid, and one got used to not knowing what was going on. But this seemed different.
The party had thinned out so it must have been quite late. In the past couple of hours I had managed to sober up a bit. On my way out of the ladies' room I happened to hear Brand's voice, quite low but recognizable. It came from within a cranny around the corner, where the pay phones were.
I started to enter the cranny but paused at the corner when I heard Dr. Rudo's voice. He spoke in a soft and reasonable tone that nevertheless managed to sound as though he expected unquestioning obedience.
"It would be preferable for you to avoid her altogether."
Brand sounded a bit chilly. "Let's leave my personal life out of this, shall we?"
"Your involvement with her could complicate matters. It's easy to underestimate her, but I've known her a long time. She's seductive and she can be cunning."
Brand scoffed. "Oh, come now. There's not a ruthless bone in that lovely body."
"I don't think you understand me. She is one of ours."
Brand's voice was shocked. "She's a Card Shark?"
"Mmmm. She holds a key position in Hollywood and is an important player - even if she is inept."
"Then ... if she's one of us, why the secrecy?"
Dr. Rudo's voice was sharp. "Think about it."
A pause, then a gasp. "Of course. She's compromised."
"Seriously so. We've kept her completely out of the picture. But it's my guess she's gotten wind that something's up. She'll learn eventually - she probably knows we're up to something right now - but it's important she doesn't find out What we're about too soon. Otherwise she might try to stop us."
Somehow, call it a Woman's intuition, I knew that they were talking about Marilyn. And that Brand had fallen for her. The rest made no sense to me, but it all sounded so odd that I decided to take notes in my address book, in case I needed details for emotional blackmail later.
I wrote down "Card Sharks." I thought they were playing one of those silly conspiracy games one hears about, played by men old enough to know better, who don silly hats and pass secret codes and hand shakes back and forth.
"She'll need someone, then."
"Don't be a fool, van Renssaeler. She's using you. She knows you're involved. And if not now, afterward she'll certainly know."
"Nonsense. How could she?"
"I imagine my organization has sprung a leak. And I intend to locate it. In the meantime, I suggest you stay away from her."
Perhaps I should have taken some comfort from the fact that Dr. Rudo was warning Brand off Marilyn, but I knew Brand too well. He had never listened to his father, never listened to me, and he wasn't going to listen to this Dr. Rudo person, either, if he could help it.
A noise, like a chair bumping the wall, made me flee to the bathroom, heart racing. I put away my address book with shaky, sweaty hands, and then made a commotion coming out again. But they had already headed down the hall to rejoin the party.
Though I could have caught up with them I didn't feel I could face Brand right then, so I went in search of friends - only to learn that Patricia and most of my social circle had left.
I headed straight for the bar and ordered a highball, And another. And another. But the alcohol didn't dissolve the indigestible knot that had formed in my stomach.
***
The sun was rising by the time Brand finally blurred into view and announced that it was time to go home. As he hailed us a cab I remember hugging myself, looking at Brand, wondering if he'd already taken her someplace and had her - someplace filthy like a stairwell. Or perhaps he'd thought to rent a room. A tear or two trickled down my face. I rubbed my belly again.
With that artificial clarity that comes as drunken euphoria collapses into toxicity and illness, I recall thinking as Brand bundled me into the cab that all I'd have to show for this night was a terrible hangover and a lot of trouble.
***
Incidently, I can't help but notice that you're feeling the heat a bit. I would turn down the thermostat but you would find me talking ve-e-ery slowly.
Do feel free to remove as much clothing as you need to, to remain comfortable. It's just us ladies here tonight and as you can see, all I wear any more is my scales.
***
Tuesdays, at promptly nine-thirty A.M., Patricia and her car and driver would arrive at our apartment. I would rush down, climb into the back of her grey Mercedes limousine, and we would descend upon the upper class midtown stores. Our sweep usually encompasse Chanel, Bergdorf's, Di Laurenta, Jaeger, and the higher quality midtown boutiques along 5th Avenue. We'd hand our purchases to the driver as we went along, to dump into the trunk of the limo.
Afterwards we would send him on his break and eat a late lunch at the Russian Tea Boom on 57th Street near Broadway, where we would pull out some of our smaller, choice pieces to croon over, and look for Igor Stravinsky. The famous composer ate chicken-with-giblets soup at the Russian Tea Room every Tuesday afternoon. He was a friend of my parents, and it wasn't unusual, if we ran into each other, for him to join us for lunch. Often, though, Patricia and I got there too late. More rarely, we had a chance to dine with Salvador Dali as well.
This Tuesday four days after Brands party was, in some respects, no different than most of our outings. Once the waitress had brought us our drinks and taken our orders, Patricia spread the Times across the table.
"Have you been following Dr. Spock's trial? They've selected an all-male jury."
I caught her cocktail glass barely in time to keep it from toppling; cloudy drops stained the newsprint. She brushed the liquid away and went on. "It's simply shocking, isn't it? Him egging boys on to dodge the draft."
"I wish you'd wear your glasses, dear. You're terrifically clumsy without them."
"Oh, thank you very much I'm sure!" She turned to the inner pages and sat up a little straighter, studying the ink-sketched advertisements. "I knew we shouldn't have skipped Jaeger today. They're having a big spring sale. Listen to this. 'Nostalgic Mists of Organza Silk. Cafr-au-lait, gentle grey, glade green.' Look at the cut of this dress. Perhaps we should have Rufus drop us by there on the way back."
I sighed and ran a finger slowly around the rim of my glass. It made a tone like a flute or a bell; I stopped, embarrassed, and folded my hands in my lap. "I'm all shopped out."
"You? Impossible. Besides, the glade green sounds perfect for you."
"I'm just not in the mood."
She folded up the paper with a sigh of mi
ld exasperation and looked at me. "What's the matter with you? You haven't been yourself all day."
The waitress brought our lunches. I leaned my chin on my knuckles, poked at my salad, and said nothing for a moment. Tears gathered in my eyes.
"He's having an affair. I'm sure of it. With that horrid Marilyn Monroe."
Her thoughtful nod told me she'd already known.
"Everyone knows, don't they?"
She nodded again, looking uncomfortable. "He's not making much of a secret of it, I'm afraid. Several people saw them leaving Tuxedo Park together yesterday. She met him there after the golf game."
My throat got tight and tears spilled down my cheeks. She took my hand and made several false starts.
"Look," she said finally, "he's swinging a bit, that's all. Free love, you know?"
"You're the one who told me to keep him under lock and key."
"And you were the one who said he'd never go for her." At my hurt glance, Patricia grimaced. "What I mean is that it's a little late to lock him up now. Why not let it run its course?"
"Thanks for the understanding."
"I mean it. She won't be in town long."
I shook my head, miserable, took my hand back. "This isn't just a fling. He's in love with her."
"You're exaggerating."
"I'm sure of it." I bailed my napkin up, shook my head. A tear ran down my cheek. "He came home Sunday night smelling of her perfume and last night he didn't even come home. And with her, of all people. Damn him."
More tears came. Patricia shushed me, looking around. The couple two booths down stared; I pointedly stared back till they looked away.
In a lowered voice I said, "He can't treat me this way."
"There's not much you can do, though. Really."
I was silent a moment, eyes downcast. Not because I didn't know how to respond or because I didn't know what I wanted; I'd given it plenty of thought. I hesitated because if I said what was on my mind it would be made too real.
But when I looked up, Patricia read my intent. "You know you can't. How would you survive?"
"I have my trust fund."
"That only gives you ten thousand a year! You'd live like a pauper, you'd have to get a job. And doing What?"
"I'll find something."
"What about Clara? You can't deprive her that way." She grabbed my hands again and held them. "Don't do something in haste you'll regret later. Brandon, you know, he's a fine catch. He'll probably be general counsel for Morgan Stanley someday. You'll have everything you ever dreamed of if you just stick it out."
I pulled my hands loose. "How can you say that? You know how miserable I've been. He doesn't care about me. I'm just an ornament on his arm. A hostess for his parties."
"It beats not having anyone." She paused, thinking. "Besides, Brandon will fight it. And he's a lawyer. They know all the tricks and they close ranks. You'll never win. At the very least he'd get custody of Clara."
Patricia must not have realized what was happening with me right then. Though the word "divorce" had never been uttered, the subject of how miserable I was with Brand had always been a favorite topic. Always before her arguments had supported nicely my reluctance to act.
This time was different. This time he was in love, with something other than his dreams and ambitions. The pain was clarifying my thinking; this time I'd been pushed past my limits. And I knew what to do.
"I want the phone and address of your cousin Franklin. And I want your promise to say nothing about this, to anyone."
She didn't answer, merely looked distressed.
"Please promise me," I repeated.
"Franky doesn't do divorce investigations. He's not much more than a document hound for city councillors' aides."
"I want someone I can trust not to talk to Brand. Someone not connected in any way to Douglas, Mannerly."
"You're making a mistake."
"I'll call you when I get home. Have the information ready, all right?"
She bit her lip, looking forlorn. "I can't. George will kill me if he finds out I helped you find a PI to incriminate Brandon."
I shook my head. "Your name need never come into this. I'll tell Brand I had the information from the Yellow Pages, or something. In fact, if you won't help me I'll get the information that way anyhow, so you might as well help me. I promise I'll never tell."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She sighed, and lifted her eyebrows in a shrug. "I still say you're making a big mistake. But OK."
***
I got the number, all right. I must have dialled it six times over the next day. And hung up before the first ring, each time.
***
Brand got home after eleven, smelling of perfume and sweat. We barely spoke a word to each other. Wednesday morning I feigned a headache to escape an excruciating breakfast.
That night he came home at his usual time, and after dinner he played with Clara for a while. Then he retreated to his office.
The photographs from his party had arrived in the mail that day. Clara had been pestering me for a snapshot of Papa for her scrap book; I had promised Clara a photo of Brand from his promotion party. But when I went through them after dinner, most of the ones with recognizable shots of Brand had Marilyn in them as well.
Seeing them made me behave rather terribly to Clara. I shut the photos up in the rolltop desk, snapped at her when she asked for her photo, and put her to bed without a story. Which made Clara cry, which made Brandon spank her. Poor little dear.
So I sneaked in and rocked her till she stopped crying and promised her a better photo of Papa than those nasty old photos from the party. We'd take a snapshot of him for Father's Day in a couple of weeks. She seemed comforted; she stuck her thumb into her mouth and fell asleep in my arms.
Then I listened in on Brand's phone calls from the bedroom extension.
***
"Brandy." I'd have recognized the voice anywhere; I'd heard it in dozens of movies. "I've missed you terribly today."
"My darling." His voice quavered, for heaven's sake. I thought I'd be sick.
"Can you get away tonight?"
"No. She's getting suspicious."
"Poor woman. I feel bad for her."
"Don't bother. She's a bitch. Shallow and stupid."
"I wish you wouldn't talk that way about her, dearest. It makes me feel bad."
"Believe me, she won't care about us. All she cares about is whether I have enough money and power to keep her in designer clothes and the right social circles."
"Do you - really - think she knows?"
"Mmmmm. Don't know. It may just be a snit, but I'd best spend the evening here. And I have a business call at ten."
"I see." A pause. "Tomorrow, then. At Cafe Reggio, at four?"
"At the Reggio at four."
Another long pause.
"I love you," he said.
"Sweet Brandy. Not being able to hold you is torment."
I'll give you torment, I thought. Slut.
But she hadn't said she loved him. He'd said "I love you" and she hadn't said it back. She's using you, Brand. She's using you.
"Tomorrow," he whispered. I slid the receiver back onto its hook.
***
"He's perfect for our needs," Dr. Rudo was saying. Brand's "business call." I scribbled furious notes at my bedside. "One of our inside people at the Jokertown Clinic tagged him immediately as a Man with a Mission. Seems he's into mind control, and hunted up Tachyon to see if he'd teach him some mentat tricks. Tachyon turned him away, of course, so he turned to the Rosicrucians."
"He sounds like a certified loon."
"By no means. I've had my people do a thorough check. He's intelligent, well-educated, dedicated, and has contacts in the Middle East - which should muddy the investigative waters nicely. He also has his own good reasons for volunteering, so no one is likely to come looking for us, if he talks."
"I don't like this. How can we trust him?"
<
br /> "We don't have to trust him. How can he hurt us? Once you give him the schedule and hotel layout, pay him off, and turn him loose, all he'll know is that some man in a parking lot gave him money to do something he wants to do anyway. That's all he'll ever know."
"I still don't like it. He might be able to finger me later. We could use an underling just as easily."
"It's quite simple," Rudo replied. "You want to move into the upper tier. We need proof that you're willing to risk all before we allow that. Your reputation. Even your life. Consider this a rite of passage."
A pause. "If you insist on this, I suppose I'll have to do it. But if I go down, you'd better make sure of this: I'm taking you and a lot of other people with me."
"Look. It's up to you. You can do the payoff and come play with the big boys. Or you can refuse and stay right where you are, in the cozy middle of the organization, with the little boys.
"Don't worry; it's in our best interests to keep our people happy. The risks are minimal. And we'll protect you if anything goes wrong. But for now, it's your turn to prove yourself."
A longer pause. Brand sighed again. "When and where?"
"I'll give you the details tomorrow at lunch."
***
Thursday morning at breakfast, while Clara played with her oatmeal and blueberries and Brand read the New York Times Business section, I cupped my coffee mug in both hands and sipped at it, stared with burning, red-rimmed eyes out the window.
The housekeeper had put fresh-cut tulips in glass vases on the end tables in the living room, straightened up a bit, and opened the windows. Fresh air and sunlight streamed in through the picture window; the hyacinths and lilies-of-the-valley in the flower box outside were in full, fragrant bloom.
Too beautiful a spring morning can amplify one's misery.
Clara tugged at Brandon's arm and stepped on Frou Frou's, our Llasa Apso's, tail, as he was lapping up the last of the oatmeal she'd dropped on the floor for him. Frou Frou retreated under the table, yelping.
"Papa, will you take me to the zoo on Saturday?"
Brandon didn't answer right away. Clara tried to scramble up into his lap, and in so doing tore a page of the Business section. Brandon scowled and started to chide her, but caught my warning glance. To assuage my own guilt, I had chewed his ear for quite a bit the prior night, over how he'd brutalized Clara.
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