But Park Avenue was far from SoHo. A universe away. And the air was still rich with the last of summer, and the night was filled with smiles.
“Where are you off to, my love?”
“I have to go uptown to do some errands.”
“See ya later.” He wasn’t paying attention to her; he was intent on a gouache.
She kissed the nape of his neck on her way past him and looked around the room with a brief, swift glance. She hated to go “uptown.” It was as though she was always afraid she wouldn’t find her way back. As though someone in her world would suspect what she’d been up to, where she had been, and might try to keep her from ever coming back here. The idea terrified her. She needed to come back, needed SoHo, and Mark, and all that they stood for. Silly really. Who could stop her from returning? Edward? Her father’s ghost? How absurd. She was twenty-nine years old. Still, leaving SoHo felt like crossing the frontier into enemy territory, behind the Iron Curtain, on a scouting mission for the underground. It amused her to fantasize about it. And Mark’s casual way of treating her comings and goings made it easier to float back and forth between both worlds. She laughed to herself as she ran lightly down the stairs.
It was a bright sunny morning and the subway let her out three blocks from her apartment, and the walk down Lexington Avenue and across Seventy-fourth Street was crisp. Nurses from Lenox Hill were dashing out to lunch, afternoon shoppers looked harassed, and traffic bleated angrily. Everything was so much faster here. Louder, darker, dirtier, more.
The doorman swept open the door and touched his cap. There were flowers waiting for her in the refrigerator kept by the building management for instances such as this. God forbid the roses should wilt while Madame was at the coiffeur—or in SoHo. It was the usual white box from Whit.
Kezia looked at her watch and made a rapid calculation. She had the day’s calls to make on behalf of “Martin Hallam,” snooping secretly for tidbits. And she also had the column she’d already finished which she still had to phone in to her agent. A quick bath, and then the meeting for the Arthritis Ball. First meeting of the year, and good meat for Martin Hallam. She could be back in SoHo by five, stop briefly at Fiorella’s for provisions, and still be out for the nightly stroll with Mark. Perfect.
She called her service and collected her messages. A call from Edward. Two from Marina, and one from Whit, who wanted to confirm their lunch at “21” the following day. She returned the call, promised him her full attention at lunch, thanked him for the roses, and listened patiently while he told her how much he missed her. Five minutes later she was in the bathtub, her mind far from Whit, and shortly thereafter she was drying herself in the big white Porthault towels discreetly monogrammed in pink. KHStM.
The meeting was at Elizabeth Morgan’s house. Mrs. Angier Whimple Morgan. The third. She was Kezia’s age, but looked ten years older, and her husband was twice her age. She was his third wife, the first two having conveniently died, augmenting his fortune handsomely. Elizabeth was still redoing the house. It just took “forever to find the right pieces.”
Kezia was ten minutes late, and when she arrived, throngs of women were crowded into the hall. Two maids in crisp black uniforms offered tea sandwiches, and there was lemonade on a long silver tray. The butler was discreetly taking orders for drinks. And he was getting a lot more business than the long silver tray.
The couch and Louis XV fauteuils (“Imagine, eight of them, darling, from Christie’s! And all in one day! You know, the Richley estate, and signed too!”) were cluttered with the older women on the committee, enthroned like heads of state, clanking gold bracelets and covered with pearls, wearing “good” suits and “marvelous” hats, a host of Balenciaga and Chanel. They eyed the younger women carefully, criticism rich on their minds.
The room had a ceiling the height of two floors; the mantel was French, a “marvelous” marble, Louis XVI, and the ghastly chandelier had been a wedding present from Elizabeth’s mother. Fruitwood tables, an inlaid desk, an ormolu chest, Chippendale, Sheraton, Hepplewhite—it all looked to Kezia like Sotheby’s the day before auction.
The “girls” were given half an hour of grace before coming to order, and then their attention was demanded at the front of the room. Courtnay St. James was in charge.
“Well, ladies, welcome home from the summer. And doesn’t everyone look just marvelous!” She was heftily poured into a navy silk suit that crushed her ample bosom and struggled over her hips. A sapphire brooch of considerable size adorned her lapel, her pearls were in place, her hat matched her dress, and three or four rings that had been born with her hands waved her demi-glasses at the “girls” as she spoke. “And now, let’s get organized for our marvelous, marvelous fete! It’s going to be at the Plaza this year.” Surprise! Surprise! The Plaza and not the Pierre. How terribly, terribly exciting!
There was a murmur among the women, and the butler silently circulated his tray at the edge of the crowd. Tiffany was first on line, and seemed to weave as she stood, smiling amiably at her friends. Kezia looked away and let her eyes comb the crowd. They were all here, all the same faces, and one or two new ones, but even the newcomers were not strangers. They had just added this committee to their myriad others. There were no outsiders, no one who didn’t belong. One couldn’t let just anyone work on the Arthritis Ball, could one? “But my dear, you must understand, you do remember who her mother was, don’t you?” Last year, Tippy Walgreen had tried to introduce one of her strange little friends to the group. “I mean, after all, everyone knew her mother was half-Jewish! I mean, really, Tippy, you’ll embarrass the girl!”
The meeting droned on. Assignments were given. Meeting schedules decided. Twice a week for seven long months. It would give the women a reason for living and a motive for drinking—at least four martinis per meeting if they caught the butler’s eye often enough. He would continue his rounds, ever discreet, while the pitcher of lemonade remained almost full.
As usual, Kezia accepted her role as head of the Junior Committee. As long as she was in town, it was useful for the column to do it. And it meant nothing more than being sure that all the right debutantes came to the Ball, and that a chosen few of them were allowed to lick stamps. An honor which would enchant their mothers. “The Arthritis Ball, Peggy? How nifty!” Nifty … nifty … nifty….
The meeting broke up at five, with at least half of the women comfortably tight, but not so much so that they couldn’t go home and face their husbands with the usual “You know how Elizabeth is, she just forces it on you.” And Tiffany would tell Bill it had all been divine. If he came home. The gossip that Kezia was hearing about Tiffany these days was growing unpleasant.
The echoes she heard brought back other memories, memories that were long gone but would never quite be forgotten. Memories of reproaches she had heard from behind closed doors, warnings, and the sounds of someone violently sick to her stomach. Her mother. Like Tiffany. She hated watching Tiffany now. There was too much pain in her eyes, shoddily wrapped in “divine” and bad jokes and that vague glazed look that said she didn’t know exactly where she was or why.
Kezia looked at her watch in annoyance. It was almost five-thirty, and she didn’t want to bother stopping at home to get out of the little Chanel number she’d worn. Mark would survive it. And with luck, he’d be too wrapped up in his easel to notice. If he ever got a chance to notice; at that hour it was almost impossible to catch a cab. She looked at the street in dismay. Not a vacant cab in sight.
“Want a ride?” The voice was only a few feet away, and she turned in surprise. It was Tiffany, standing beside a sleek navy blue Bentley with liveried chauffeur. The car was her mother-in-law’s, as Kezia knew.
“Mother Benjamin lent me the car.” Tiffany looked apologetic. In the late afternoon sunlight, away from the world of parties and façades, Kezia saw a so much older version of her school friend, with wrinkles of sadness and betrayal around her eyes, and a sallow look to her skin. She had been so pretty i
n school, and still was, but she was losing it now. It reminded Kezia again of her mother. She could hardly bear to look into Tiffany’s eyes.
“Thanks, love, but I don’t want to take you out of your way.”
“Hell, you don’t live very far … do you?” She smiled a tired smile which made her look almost young again. As though being out with the grown-ups was just too much for her, and now it was time to go home. She had had just enough to drink to make her begin to forget things again. Kezia had lived in the same place for years.
“No, I don’t live very far, Tiffie, but I’m not going home.”
“That’s okay.” She looked so lonely, so in need of a friend. Kezia couldn’t say no. Tears were welling up in her throat.
“Okay, thanks.” Kezia smiled and approached the car, forcing herself to think of other things. She couldn’t cry in front of the girl, for God’s sake. Cry about what? Her mother’s death, twenty years later … or for this girl who was already halfway dead? Kezia wouldn’t let herself think about it, as she sank into the gentle upholstery in the back seat. The bar was already open. “Mother Benjamin” kept quite a stock.
“Harley, we’re out of bourbon again.”
“Yes, madam.” Harley remained expressionless and Tiffany turned to Kezia with a smile.
“Want a drink?”
Kezia shook her head “Why don’t you wait ’til you get home?” Tiffany nodded, holding the glass in her hand and gazing out the window. She was trying to remember if Bill was coming home for dinner. She thought he was in London for three days, but she wasn’t sure if that was next week … or last week.
“Kezia?”
“Yes?” Kezia sat very still as Tiffany tried to make her mind stick to one thought.
“Do you love me?” Kezia was stunned, and Tiffany looked horrified. She had been absent-minded and it had slipped out. The question again. The demon that haunted her. “I … I’m sorry … I … I was thinking of someone else….” There were tears flooding Kezia’s eyes now as Tiffany brought her gaze from the window to rest on Kezia’s face.
“It’s all right, Tiffie. It’s okay.” She put her arms around her friend and there was a long moment of silence. The chauffeur glanced into the rearview mirror, then hastily averted his eyes and sat rigid, behind the wheel, patient imperturbable and profoundly and eternally discreet. Neither of the young women noted his presence. They had been brought up to think that way. He waited a full five minutes while the women in the back seat sat hugged wordlessly and there was the sound of gentle weeping. He wasn’t sure which woman was crying.
“Madam?”
“Yes, Harley?” Tiffany sounded very young and very hoarse.
“Where are we taking Miss Saint Martin?”
“Oh … I don’t know.” She dried her eyes with one gloved hand, and looked at Kezia with a half smile. “Where are you going?”
“I … the Sherry-Netherland. Can you drop me off there?”
“Sure.” The car had already started, and the two settled back in their seat, holding hands between fine beige kid and black suede and saying nothing. There was nothing either could say: too much would have to be said if either of them ever began to try. The silence was easier. Tiffany wanted to invite Kezia home to dinner, but she couldn’t remember if Bill was in town, and he didn’t like her friends. He wanted to be able to read the work he brought home after dinner, or go out to his meetings, without feeling he had to stick around and make chitchat. Tiffany knew the rules. No one to dinner, except when Bill brought them home. It had been years since she’d tried … that was why … that was how … in the beginning, she had been so lonely. With Daddy gone, and Mother … well, Mother … and she had thought babies of their own … but Bill didn’t want them around either. Now the children ate at five-thirty with Nanny Singleton in the kitchen, and Nanny thought it “unwise” for Tiffany to eat with them. It made the children “uncomfortable.” So she ate alone in the dining room at seven-thirty. She wondered if Bill would be home for dinner tonight, or just how angry he would be if….
“Kezia?”
“Hm?” Kezia had been lost in her own painful thoughts, and she had had a dull pain in her stomach for the last twenty minutes. “Yes?”
“Why don’t you come to dinner tonight?” She looked like a little girl with a brilliant idea.
“Tiffie … it … I …I’m sorry, love, but I just can’t.” She couldn’t do that to herself. And she had to see Mark. Had to. Needed to. Her survival came first, and the day had already been trying enough. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. Not to worry.” She kissed Kezia gently on the cheek as Harley drew up to the Sherry-Netherland, and the hug they exchanged was ferocious, born of the longing of one and the other’s remorse.
“Take good care, will you?”
“Sure.”
“Call me sometime soon?”
Tiffany nodded.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Tiffany looked old again as they exchanged a last smile, and Kezia waved once as she disappeared into the lobby. She waited five minutes and then came out and hailed a cab, and sped south to SoHo, trying to forget the anguish in Tiffany’s eyes. Driving north, Tiffany poured herself one more quick Scotch.
“My God, it’s Cinderella! What happened to my shirt?”
“I didn’t think you’d notice. Sorry, love, I left it at my place.”
“I can spare it. It is Cinderella, isn’t it? Or are you running for president again?” He was leaning against the wall, observing the day’s work, but his smile told her he was glad she was back home with him.
“State senator, actually. Running for president is so obvious.” She grinned at him and shrugged. “I’ll get out of this stuff and go get some food.”
“Before you do, Madam Senator …” He walked purposefully toward her with a mischievous grin.
“Oh?” The suit jacket was already off, her hair down, her blouse half-unbuttoned.
“Yes, ‘oh.’ I missed you today.”
“I didn’t even think you’d notice I was gone. You looked busy when I left.”
“Well, I’m not busy now.” He swept her into his arms, her stockinged feet dangling over his arms, her black hair sweeping his face. “You look pretty all dressed up. Sort of like that girl I saw in the paper while you were gone, but nicer. Much, much nicer. She looked like a bitch.” Kezia let her head fall back gently against his chest as she began to laugh.
“And I’m not a bitch?”
“Never, Cinderella, never.”
“What illusions you have.”
“Only about you.”
“Fool. Sweet, sweet fool….” She kissed him gently on the mouth, and in a moment the rest of her clothes marked a path to his bed. It was dark by the time they got up.
“What time is it?”
“Must be about ten.” She stretched and yawned. It was dark in the apartment. Mark leaned out of bed to light a candle and then snuggled back into her arms. “Want to go out for dinner?”
“No.”
“Me neither, but I’m hungry, and you didn’t buy any food, did you?” She shook her head. “I was in too much of a hurry to get home. Somehow I was more anxious to see you than to see Fiorella.”
“No big deal. We can sup on peanut butter and Oreos.”
She answered with a choking sound and a hand clasped to her throat. Then she laughed and they kissed and they made their way to the bathtub where they splashed each other generously before sharing his one purple towel. With no monogram. From Korvette’s.
She was thinking, as she dried herself, that SoHo had come too late for her. Maybe at twenty it would have seemed real, perhaps then she might have believed it. Now it was fun … special … lovely … Mark’s, but not hers. Other places belonged to her, all those places she didn’t even want, but inadvertently owned.
“Do you dig what you do, Kezia?” She paused for a long moment before answering, and then shrugged.
“Mayb
e yes, maybe no, maybe I don’t even know.”
“Maybe you ought to figure it out.”
“Yeah. Maybe I should figure it out before noon tomorrow.” She had remembered the luncheon engagement with Whit.
“Is there some big deal tomorrow?” He looked puzzled, and she shook her head as they shared a handful of cookies and the last of the wine.
“Nope. No big deal tomorrow.”
“You made it sound like there was.”
“Nope. As a matter of fact, my love, I’ve just decided that when you reach my age very little is a ‘big deal.’” Not even you, or your lovemaking, or your sweet delicious young body, or my own bloody life….
“May I quote you, Methuselah?”
“Absolutely. They’ve been quoting me for years.” And then in the clear autumn night, she laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“Everything. Absolutely everything.”
“I think you’re drunk.” The idea amused him, and for a moment she wished that she were.
“Only a little drunk on life maybe … your kind of life.”
“Why my kind of life? Can’t this be your kind of life too? What’s so different about your life and my life for christsake?”
Oh Jesus. This wasn’t the time.
“The fact that I’m running for state senator, of course!”
He pulled her around to face him as she tried to laugh him off.
“Kezia, why can’t you be straight with me? Sometimes you give me the feeling that I don’t even know who you are.” His grip on her arm troubled her, almost as much as the question in his eyes. But she only shrugged with an evasive smile. “Well, I’ll tell you, Cinderella, whoever you are, I think you’re gassed.” They both laughed as she followed him into the bedroom, and she wiped two silent, unseen tears from her cheeks. He was a nice boy, but he didn’t know her. How could he? She wouldn’t let him know her. He was only a boy.
Chapter 5
“Miss Saint Martin, how nice to see you!”
“Thank you, Bill. Is Mr. Hayworth here yet?”
Passion's Promise Page 6
