February 26. 9:14 a.m. I am writing these notes while sitting on a bench at the Hamilton Train Station. The subject, who I will henceforth refer to as the Elephant, is standing at the window, gazing onto the track. When I arrived ten minutes ago she was already here. She went into the bathroom once since then, but otherwise has just stood with her ticket in her hand.
11:20 a.m. Arrived in South Station. The train ride was without incident except the Elephant received attentions from a young man that she rejected outright. Not surprising. I changed in train bathroom into slacks and blazer, fake glasses, hair in bun. Want to seem businesswoman-ish. Want to avoid detection.
12:40 p.m. At uppity restaurant on Newbury St. Followed Elephant from South Station. Arrived thirty minutes ago but the Elephant walked around block four times before entering. She gave the maître d’ her name, and they sat her at a back table near the kitchen. I am sitting alone at the bar, within earshot of Elephant’s table. Prices outrageous. Ordered a cranberry and soda. Cost $3.
12:48 p.m. Sharp-dressed man (SDM) enters and sits with Elephant. (Father?) Seems surprised at her appearance. Happy. Yells at maître d’ to move them away from “Siberia.” Knows maître d’ by name. Must be regular. Elephant and SDM move to table at front. I request a seat near window. Will have to order something. Soup $14. Outrageous.
Conversation btwn Elephant + SDM. (transcribed from recording on voice recorder in pocket of coat hanging on hook near table)
SDM: I’ll admit it. When Crotchett said I’d be surprised to see how you’ve changed, I didn’t think it would be for the better. But you look marvelous, Doreen, just marvelous. It’s hard to believe it’s even you.
E: Thanks. Yes, Chandler has been good to me.
SDM: I can see that! Let’s get a drink. What would you like? A white wine maybe? Go on. It’s an occasion, isn’t it? Waiter! Waiter! Another Macallan for me, please, and be sharp about it. What would you like, dear?
E: Hm. Oh, a glass of champagne, I suppose. (Snobby French name) if you have it.
SDM: My, my. What a sophisticate you’ve become. And I love what you’re wearing! You look like you’re ready for high society. What happened to that embarrassment I picked up from the airport?
E: Oh. Well, Biz (Ref: E G-B) is very generous with her closet.
SDM: Biz? You mean you had to borrow these clothes from your cousin? (Ref: E G-B is E’s cousin? Too bad.) Oh no, no. That won’t do. Listen, let’s order. She’ll start with the pear and Roquefort salad and then—you like fish, don’t you? The dover sole. I’ll have the Caesar and a chopped steak. Medium well.
Yes. And after we’re done here we’ll go shopping, how’s that? Neiman’s is right down the street, and I don’t want you borrowing clothes from Elizabeth, though I’m sure she has them to spare. My sister has spent a fortune trying to make that girl into something presentable. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve told her to give up the ghost. I tell her, ‘Gloria, what’s wrong with having an intellectual in the family? We can’t all be hostesses and charity mistresses.’ But she embarrasses easily, my sister does. She doesn’t love having an ugly duckling around, she doesn’t like how it looks.
(Note: E appears very pleased and happy during this. Tries to act normal about it, but is beaming from ear to ear. Seems like she might cry. Snapped cell phone pic.)
SDM: Anyway, there’s no reason why you can’t have clothes of your own. Though it’s good she’s been so nice to you. Is it Biz I have to thank, then, for this utter transformation of yours?
E: In part, I suppose. And her roommate, maybe you met her before at Aunt Gloria’s? Her name is Heidi Whelan.
(SDM coughing fit ensues.)
E: Dad, are you okay? Dad?
(SDM continues coughing. Waves to waiter for another round of drinks.)
E: Of course, it was mostly my own doing. I mean, I made a conscious decision to improve myself. To make a positive change.
(New drinks arrive.)
SDM: To youth!
(They drink.)
SDM: Your mother used to wear her hair just like this.
E: I know, I mean, only from pictures. Her hair is short now. And going gray. She dyes it. (E laughs)
SDM: Go ahead and laugh. The privilege of the young.
E: So, Aunt Gloria is embarrassed by Biz? I can totally see that. She is kind of, I don’t know, hopeless? I mean, in some respects. Are you all right, Daddy? Daddy? Everything okay?
3:20 p.m. After Elephant + SDM finished lunch, they moved to the restaurant bar. Had to leave to avoid drawing suspicion. Moved to coffee shop across street. Changed in bathroom to disguise #3: jeans, Harvard sweatshirt, messy ponytail. College girl. What my life would have been before Elephant came in and ruined everything. Been sitting here for some time, transcribing recording above. No action at the restaurant. Not sure what I am doing here.
4:30 p.m. Still nothing. Third coffee. Feeling jittery.
5:15 p.m. Elephant emerges with SDM’s arm around her neck. He is obviously intoxicated. They turn east. Will let them get ahead before following them. Really very drunk. How humiliating. Will take pictures.
6:25 p.m. Mandarin Oriental Hotel lobby. Followed E + SDM on meandering path with stop for SDM to lose his $80 lunch (priceless!). Caught all on camera. SDM wanted to have drink at hotel bar. E convinced him to rest. Went upstairs. That may be it, though am hoping she comes back down. Will stay on for a bit, see what happens.
7:38 p.m. E emerges! Settles into sofa to make phone call. Can’t hear who she is calling. Clicks off. Appears to be waiting. Will get closer.
9:07 p.m. Pink-shirted boy (PSB) enters. E waves. We are going out, folks! Happy I changed to outfit #4: miniskirt, heels, see-through top. I will own you, Doreen Gray Elephant.
Now here is a man, Doreen thought. He slept on his stomach, his arms and legs stretched wide, a man accustomed to taking more than his share of everything, even space on the dorm room bed. The sun came through the window with that brightness reserved for mornings after a fresh snow, and the Charles River sparkled like a girl admired.
Doreen had a slightly stuffy head from the previous evening’s indulgences, but otherwise she felt wonderful. She slid out of his bed, choosing one of a number of balled-up oxford shirts to button up over her naked body and, removing a pile of books from a chair near the window, she sat and looked out over the river. Everything glistened in the new snow. The world seemed full of possibilities.
“. . . Hello?”
“Daddy!” The word tasted like ice cream on her tongue. She wanted it to remain there forever. “Good morning, Daddy!”
“Bianca? Why are you calling me now? I thought you were in Stockholm.”
“No. No, it’s not Bianca. It’s your other daughter. Doreen.”
“Oh, Dorie! I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Hello! Where are you calling from? Are you here at the hotel? What time is it?”
“It’s about ten. I went to a friend’s place.” Her father had mentioned getting Doreen a room at the Mandarin but passed out before he could manage it. No matter. “Anyway, when should I come by the hotel? I can be there in about a half an hour I think.”
“Come by? Here you mean?”
“Yes. We were supposed to have breakfast, remember?” After the bartender had cut him off at the restaurant, when it became clear that he was in no condition to take her to Neiman Marcus or any place, he had told her that they would get a fresh start in the morning. Breakfast, he had said, and then he would really take her shopping. He would buy her whatever she wanted, he said.
“Did I say that? Oh, yes. Of course, only . . . what time is it?”
“It’s ten o’clock.”
“Ten o’clock. No, well, I’m afraid this won’t do. I have to get back to New York. Damn, I’m late already. You see, I’m trying to sell this painting, I won’t bore you with the details, but really I sho
uld have left an hour ago. Please forgive me, my dear girl. Can we do it next time? And I didn’t forget about the shopping, either, but we should do it in New York where the real clothes are. The only things worth buying in Boston are suspenders and snow boots. I can’t imagine that would go over at the next dance.”
Doreen giggled. “No, I suppose it wouldn’t.”
“So, until next time. And you keep up what you’ve been doing. I’m really very proud of you, my darling. What a miraculous surprise.”
Tears of joy streamed down her cheeks. This was just the beginning.
“Peter! Peter!” she said.
“Mmm?”
“Peter, wake up. I feel an incredible need for pancakes. Can you make that happen? Pancakes and bacon and raspberries.”
The boy blinked up at Doreen’s sunlit form. His face was marked with creases from the bedsheet.
“It’s you,” he said, like he was the luckiest man in the world. “Come here, come to bed.”
“But, Peter. Pancakes!”
“Anything, anything, just please, I need to make sure I’m not dreaming.”
Heidi was right. He was adorable.
It was winter; it was New England, but that didn’t stop them from riding with the top down on Peter’s black Jaguar roadster. Doreen’s belly felt warm from their hearty breakfast and she was almost sad to say good-bye. She loved the way she felt with Peter. There was none of the hair-pulling histrionics of the Simon Vale affair, but he was so much more interesting than the weaselly Gordon Lichter or the dull Coburn Everbock. She loved the thick flesh of his hands and the glint in his eye. But more than anything she loved his voice—rich and velvety, confident, full of insight and humor. Doreen thought she could talk to Peter Standish forever.
“Really, this is preposterous. We are already in the car! Why not let me drive you back to campus. We could stop on the way. I know a wonderful diner on Highway 1 that has the tiny jukeboxes on the table. We could go in separately, pretend to be strangers, and then make out in the bathroom. What do you say?”
“Tempting, tempting.”
“Or how about this? We skip the whole thing and go back to mine, spend the rest of the day in bed. The rest of our lives in bed! We’ll have a love-in. Surely there must be some worthy cause. Should I call my mother? She’s very plugged in to all the latest charity fads. Child soldiers in Africa or somesuch. The underfed feline refugees of the Balkans.”
“I hate cats.”
“Do you? Well then, maybe we can support the other side? What about puppies? You can’t possibly argue with puppies, can you?”
“I can’t, no. But I think you might be able to. I have a feeling you could argue with anyone. There, isn’t that South Station? Peter! I’m going to miss my train!”
He drove around the block, pretending to kidnap her, but they both knew he would have to give up and let her out. He couldn’t risk driving her back to Chandler. She knew it and he knew it.
“I should have chosen you from the beginning,” he said wistfully, almost to himself as she was leaving his car.
“Mmm?” she said, pretending not to hear. But she had heard. And didn’t it feel grand?
It’s not like it had happened intentionally. Finding herself stranded at the Mandarin Oriental, she, of course, called Coburn first.
“Doreen! Quick, what, uh, are you wearing?”
“What? No. Coburn. I’m not calling for phone sex.”
“No? Oh. That’s okay. Be tough anyway since my mom is about to get in the car.”
“Your mother? Where are you?”
“San Fran. Didn’t I tell you? My mother made me come out for my grandfather’s retirement soiree.”
“San Francisco! Crap. What am I supposed to do now? I’m basically stuck here in Boston.”
“Wait. What? You’re in Boston? You’re in Boston right now and I’m in San Francisco? What the—why didn’t you tell me? Shit. Shit! How could this have happened? Oh man. This sucks. This sucks so hard!”
“Calm down, Coburn. Oh, never mind. I’ll think of something.”
“Wait. Doreen! Do-do, I miss you so much. Don’t you miss me? Don’t you miss little Cobey? We think about you all the—”
Doreen hung up. She looked around the hotel lobby and tried to think of what to do. She could simply stay there, on the upholstered bench. Who would try to move her? She certainly looked like she belonged. Or should she get a room and put it under her father’s name? Would they let her do that? Even if they did, she couldn’t risk it. Their reconnection was so new and tenuous, one little slipup could ruin everything.
And then she remembered Peter Standish. What gentleman would refuse to help his girlfriend’s best friend? And was Heidi even his girlfriend? Of course, Heidi thought so, and Heidi was Doreen’s friend. But Peter was in college. Surely he didn’t think of Heidi as his one and only?
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” he told her.
“You’re a good friend,” said Doreen.
“I’m sure Coburn was shattered when you told him you were here while he was gone. But I can’t say I’m upset about it.”
“No?” They were walking, huddled together against the cold Boston night. Snow was just beginning to fall.
“Here we go. This is the place.” They entered another hotel. Peter led her through the lobby, past the elevators and down some stairs to a dark lounge.
“Evening, Mr. Standish.”
They settled into a small table. She picked up a drinks menu.
“Don’t bother with that,” Peter said. “She’ll have a French 75. And I’ll do a Macallan. Neat.”
“Thank you very much.”
“It’s a good night to come,” Peter told Doreen. He leaned back on the leather couch with his arms spread. “Not too busy. I despise crowds, don’t you? It makes me feel like I’m spending my time unwisely, to be among loads of people at once.”
“Mm,” said Doreen. Heidi had chosen well. Coburn was prettier, but Peter had magic about him. He was so strong and confident. “You remind me of my father. Is that a strange thing to say?”
“That depends on your father,” he said, a twinkle in his eye.
“It’s a compliment, trust me. He’s a dashing character. I just saw him tonight, in fact. Roland Gibbons? I thought you might know him. You know Addison, right? Addison Gibbons-Brown—Ad-rock—he’s my cousin. I don’t know if you knew that.”
“Ah.” Was he bored? He seemed to be looking around, distracted. “It’s funny that you didn’t call him.”
Doreen flushed with embarrassment. Of course, that would seem odd, wouldn’t it? But she hadn’t seen Ad-rock in a decade or more! Would he even know her name?
“Though, he can be such a tool, no offense. I’m going to show you a much better time.”
“That’s exactly what I thought,” said Doreen. “Cheers!”
“Cheers.”
They had many, many drinks. Doreen could not be sure how many, but she seemed never to be without one. Along the way she moved from her seat across from him to the couch beside him, allowing her thigh to graze his, her fingers tracing the rim of her martini glass.
“Do you love Heidi?” Doreen asked at some point. “I mean, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.” Her tongue felt thick and uncooperative in her own mouth, but it was a delightful feeling, nonetheless, to be drinking like an adult at an adult’s bar with a man.
“Love her? No. Well, I don’t know. She’s very beautiful and smart and everything.” He leaned in secretively. “But she can be a bit calculating, don’t you think? She comes from nowhere—as I expect you know—Irish Catholic Yonkers nowhere. And she’s created this whole image for herself. Out of necessity, I suppose. I know that’s what she believes. I just think it’s hard, need I say it? When one comes from money, one attracts a certain amount of a
ttention from people with ambition. Of course, I know I’m preaching to the choir here.”
“Oh, yes. I know what you mean exactly. You have to be careful.”
Peter nodded. He looked at her with hungry-wolf eyes. Doreen pressed her leg against his and leaned back on the couch, thrusting out her chest. She rolled her head toward him and breathed into his ear.
“Wouldn’t you like to kiss me, Peter?” She played with a button on his pink shirt. “Come on, nobody’s here.”
The bar was more or less empty. Only a few people, the bartender, a girl sitting by herself typing into a tablet. Doreen took Peter’s hand and put it on her hip. “Peter, don’t you want me?”
And he did. He wanted her. Did he ever.
Well, they were young and nobody was married or anything. It was a pity they had to uphold these inane loyalties to people, people like Heidi Whelan. Heidi was only interested in Peter for what he could do for her. But Doreen didn’t need Peter. She had her father now and everything that came with being Roland Gibbons’s daughter.
Doreen gazed out the train window at the passing suburban landscape and considered whether she should change her name back. Gibbons was her rightful surname anyway. Gray. Blech! How much more dreary and lifeless could a name get?
Of course, changing her name to Doreen Gibbons would signal to her mother that she was taking her father’s side against her. She would be heartbroken. People and their feelings—her mother, Heidi. How dull it all was! Peter wanted her, not Heidi. Her father wanted her, not her mother. Was any of that her fault? People will make their own choices in this life, she thought. If they choose her over somebody else, that was up to them.
She wouldn’t say anything to Heidi about Peter. Let him break it off with her if he wanted to—or not. What did any of that have to do with her? She stepped off the train at the Hamilton stop and began her journey back to campus. Everything felt so different now than it had when she’d left the previous day. Yesterday she’d been her father’s burden, his obligation. Now she was his prize. Peter would be lucky to have her. They all would.
Doreen Page 18
