The Rich Are Different

by Susan Howatch

  Sensing my uneasiness, Alan became increasingly obstreperous. “I want to come too!” he wailed when I told him I had to go out that evening, and I remembered how Steven Sullivan had extended the invitation to include him. However, I had already decided that although American children might be invited to adult parties and be permitted to run wild at all hours of the night, my child was going to be bathed, kissed and tucked up in bed by six o’clock at the latest.

  “I’m sorry, Alan,” I said firmly, “but it’s a grown-up party.”

  “I want to come!” he howled, and lay on the floor as he kicked his little legs at the ceiling and enjoyed his tantrum. My head began to ache. I supposed I ought to spank him, but it was too much effort and I felt incapable of coping afterwards with his heartbroken sobs. Finally Mary appeared, said severely, “Naughty boy!” and bore him off to eat ice cream.

  By the time Terence telephoned from the foyer to announce his arrival I felt exhausted before the evening had begun.

  “Who are your friends!” I asked, glancing through the glass doors to the young couple sitting in a smart green Studebaker.

  “Bruce and Grace Clayton.”

  “Bruce Clayton! Elizabeth’s son!”

  He smiled wryly. “They don’t know who you are—I just told them you’re someone I met in England and that you’re in New York on vacation. Elizabeth Clayton probably knows all about you, but Bruce and Grace never read the society columns and Bruce never discusses Mr. Van Zale with his mother.”

  The Claytons were a good-looking couple. Grace wore cobweb-sheer silk stockings which must have cost a fortune, but her dinner frock, though knee-length and waistless, needed a fringe to make it truly fashionable and I did not think her evening wrap in metal brocade was as smart as my silver-embroidered wrap in black crepe with the chiffon and lace inserts. However, she had an enviably slim figure and her fair hair curled without the aid of a permanent wave, so no doubt she looked more striking than I did. Her husband, who emerged from the car to shake hands with me, was tall and distinguished. His dark hair was prematurely gray at the temples, and although he wore glasses I saw he had intelligent light eyes.

  “Miss Slade, how are you?” They both spoke with plain expensive American accents, each vowel flat as a pancake, each consonant mercilessly articulated and all hint of an ill-bred drawl studiously avoided. Even though I was a foreigner I was aware of being in the presence of some native aristocracy. Yet they were not aloof; unlike their English counterparts they were immediately friendly and informal. Surnames were soon discarded, and by the time we were crossing into Queens Grace was asking me if I were interested in women’s rights. When I said I wasn’t (inwardly shuddering as I always did at the thought of my mother’s death) she looked disappointed, but it never occurred to her to ask me if I had a job. After discovering that I was unmarried and had come to New York to visit a friend, she obviously decided I was hopelessly frivolous, a society girl who had come to America instead of India to search for a husband.

  “And who’s your friend here in New York, Dinah?” asked Bruce kindly at last.

  “Paul Van Zale.”

  They both swiveled to look at me. The car nearly careered off the road.

  “For God’s sake!” exclaimed Terence as Bruce grabbed the wheel.

  “Sorry—stupid of me.” He was too stunned to say more.

  “Land’s sakes!” said Grace, boggling at me. “How did you meet Paul?”

  “I’m his client. He financed my business.”

  When Grace recovered she bombarded me with questions, but throughout our conversation I was immensely aware of her husband’s silence.

  “And just wait till I tell Caroline!” exclaimed Grace, “Have you met our hostess, Caroline Sullivan? She’s much older than us but really modern in her outlook.” And she went on talking about modern women as she described the girls who had been to college with her at Vassar. When I revealed that I too had been to a university I could see she regarded our friendship as irrevocably cemented.

  We reached the town of Great Neck and drove out along the road where the palaces of the rich faced Long Island Sound and the distant shore of Connecticut. Thinking of Paul again I told myself Sylvia was just a nice old trout who reminded Terence of his downtrodden mother.

  “Ah, here we are at last!” exclaimed Grace as the car passed some wrought-iron gates and swept up a long drive.

  The Sullivan mansion was set in five elaborately landscaped acres and bore a small but telling resemblance to the Taj Mahal.

  “I always forget how vulgar it is,” murmured Bruce, breaking his long silence. “Every time I come here I’m surprised.”

  “Oh, darling, you’re not going to plunge yourself into Chekhovian gloom already, are you? I know how you hate this sort of party, but I absolutely promised Caroline—”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Have a couple of martinis, Bruce,” said Terence, “and you’ll soon be enjoying the vulgarity.”

  “I detest drinking to excess!”

  “You drank enough vodka last weekend with that crazy Russian Krasnov!”

  “That was different. I wanted him to feel we were brothers, although I confess I don’t really agree with his views on Trotsky.”

  “Oh, don’t let’s talk about politics now—I couldn’t bear it!” begged Grace. “My, look how many other people are already here, and I thought we’d be among the first to arrive! Oh, there’s Caroline.”

  We had been escorted into a ballroom which led onto a vast terrace. A band was already playing energetically, but it was too early for people to consider dancing and most of the guests had wandered outside to the marble fountains and manicured lawns. Numerous Negro servants, all in livery, were circulating with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres and silver pitchers of cocktails. The chandeliers glittered wickedly as if beckoning decadence to emerge from the shadows.

  A very smart woman with sleek short black hair, a tanned face and scarlet lips jangled briskly towards us.

  “Bruce—Grace—Terence—darlings, wonderful to see you!” she cried as the band swung into a spicy version of “Tea for Two.” She kissed Grace fleetingly and then eased Terence aside to look me in the eye. “Miss Slade! I’m Caroline Sullivan. How are you? Did you bring your little boy?”

  Behind me I heard Grace gasp. “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Sullivan,” I said pleasantly. “It was so kind of your husband to invite him, but he tires easily and I thought it would be best if he stayed at home with his nanny.”

  “Well, he must come out some other time to play with Scott and Tony! I’m sure they’d just love to make a new friend and— Well, hello there! Wilma darling, lovely of you to come! Excuse me, Miss Slade …”

  “Drink, Dinah?” murmured Terence.

  “Thanks.” I turned to accept a sea-green cocktail.

  “How old is your little boy?” asked Grace in a voice which suggested she was on the verge of expiring with curiosity.

  “Three.”

  “You did say—I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood you. I thought you said …”

  I had long since become accustomed to coping with other people’s embarrassment. I smiled reassuringly at her. “No, I’m not married,” I said. “I don’t believe in marriage, but that’s just my own personal philosophy which I wouldn’t dream of imposing on other people, so I hope you won’t find it intimidating.”

  “Why, no, of course not. But …” From the glint in her eye I could see she was about to raise the subject of emancipated women again, and it was a relief when Terence offered to introduce me to some people he knew.

  “Dinah Slade!”

  I spun around. It was Steven Sullivan.

  “You look great!” he drawled, looking me up and down with his hot blue eyes. “Come down to Willow and Wall sometime and let me negotiate your next loan!”

  “Not while you look at me as if I’m a cow in a cattle market!” I retorted. “Have you any idea how offensive it is to be treated like a lump of m
eat?”

  “Some meat!” he said laughing. “Some cow!”

  “Oh!” I would have thrown my cocktail at him, but at that moment his wife called sternly, “Steven!” and he padded away to attend to some other guests.

  “Don’t pay too much attention to Steve,” said Terence soothingly, “He acts that way with every woman he meets. He means to be complimentary.”

  I looked skeptical, but Terence, refusing to take my complaint seriously, embarked on the task of introducing me to as many people as possible, and soon I had forgotten Steve Sullivan. Inevitably I became separated from Terence, and I was just thinking in panic that I could remember no one’s name when a kind stranger claimed me, introduced himself and provided yet another example of American friendliness. English people may well scoff, “But Americans are so superficial!” but all I can say is that if I had to be on my own at a large party I would be only too glad to discover that the other guests exuded easygoing courtesy and New World charm.

  The Americans loved my accent, demanded to know all kinds of extraordinary facts about England (“What does the royal family eat for breakfast?” “Has London changed since Dickens’ day?”) and asked proudly what I thought of their magnificent country. Had I read about the Teapot Dome Scandal? What did I think of President Coolidge? Would the League of Nations work? I began to feel like the Delphic Oracle and had great fun giving the ambiguous replies demanded by classical tradition. It was such a relief to go to a party and not hear someone whispering behind my back, “She’s Harry Slade’s daughter, you know,” while someone else muttered darkly, “All that Norfolk inbreeding …” Here no one was the least interested in my antecedents and everyone accepted me, for better or for worse, exactly as I was.

  I drank another cocktail (a pink one this time), nibbled some hors d’oeuvres and was glad I had come.

  Dusk fell. The floodlighting was switched on and the Americans complained how cold it was although to me it seemed just another spring evening, perhaps a little warmer than it would have been in Norfolk. The center of the party began to shift as people drifted across the garden towards the house, and it was while I too was wandering across the lawn that I saw Terence standing by the biggest of the marble fountains below the terrace.

  He did not see me. He was talking to a woman I did not know, and as I drew closer I wondered who she was, for she was beautiful. She wore a sheer floating gown in one of the new Paris shades with the fashionable gossamer-thin fringe, and her dark unshingled hair, worn up in an Edwardian style, gave her a mysterious air of timelessness. Yet the obsolete style suited her, emphasizing her delicate features and her long slender neck. Her skin was so fair that I looked at her hair a second time, and suddenly realized it was not brown but auburn, rich and glowing in the dim evening light.

  I turned to my companion of the moment. He was a young bond salesman who lived in Manhattan.

  “Craig, who’s that woman over there with Terence O’Reilly?”

  He glanced towards the fountain and looked surprised. “Gee, I thought someone said she and her husband were out of town this weekend! That’s Mrs. Paul Van Zale, the banker’s wife.”

  I stood quite still. Someone laughed behind me, a bat swooped overhead and a servant flitted past with a tray of empty glasses. Far away in the ballroom I could hear the wail of the saxophone as the musicians careered headlong into the Charleston.

  “Dinah? Something wrong?”

  “No, nothing. Craig, would you mind fetching me another drink? Thanks so much.”

  Having got rid of him, I backed away into the shadow of a marble nymph and sank down on the edge of the plinth. I felt insignificant, defenseless, ugly.

  When I eventually nerved myself to look at the fountain again Terence had gone but she was still there. Some friends of hers paused beside her and she smiled, murmuring a few words. Her smile was warm and natural, and as she stood there on the fringes of that noisy modern party in front of that rich vulgar house her lack of artificiality was as dazzling as her simple effortless elegance.

  Tears sprang to my eyes. I went on staring, the lump in my throat swelling until I could hardly breathe, until at last it occurred to me to wonder why she was lingering by the fountain when everyone else was moving indoors.

  I backed away quickly, but not quickly enough to escape seeing what happened next.

  Paul ran up the steps of the far lawn at the side of the house. He moved gracefully, just as he always did, and when she saw him her face lit up and her lips formed the first letter of his name.

  He smiled at her. I had never thought I would see him give that special smile to any woman but me. When he reached her he slid his arm around her waist and said something which made her lean against him fractionally as she looked up into his eyes.

  She was radiant.

  Tears spilled down my cheeks. Unable to watch any longer, I turned away and ran as fast as I could across the lawns to the distant waters of the Sound.

  II

  The beach was narrow, and the Sound, reflecting the afterglow of the sky, glistened with copper lights. Halting at last I leaned against one of the trees which fringed the sandy shore, but when I was unable to stop my tears I stumbled down to the beach, sank onto the sand and wept without restraint. I was just wondering dimly if I would ever be able to stop crying when a voice said shocked, “Dinah!” and a man’s hand, firm and gentle, restrained me as I tried to struggle to my feet.

  Bruce Clayton squatted beside me. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Take me home!” I sobbed, my pride in ruins, and clung beseechingly to his sleeve.

  “Certainly. I’d be glad of the excuse to leave.” We were silent while he passed me a handkerchief and I tried to mop myself up. At last he said, “You didn’t know Paul and Sylvia would be here?”

  “Did anyone? They were supposed to be in Connecticut!”

  “Paul canceled that this morning, apparently. I was talking to Sylvia just now.”

  “But they were going last night!”

  “No, he took Sylvia out last night. We were dining at Voisin’s with friends of my mother’s, and later the Van Zales came in— I’m sorry, you don’t want to hear this, do you?”

  “Oh yes I do!” I said fiercely, dashing away the last of my tears. “Go on. Why was the Connecticut visit canceled?”

  “Sylvia said Paul felt too exuberant for a quiet weekend in the country. He thought it would be more fun to turn up at the Sullivan party and take everyone by surprise. Didn’t you tell him you were coming here? No, don’t bother to answer that. Have another handkerchief.”

  “It’s silly, but I can’t stop crying.”

  It was another five minutes before I was dry-eyed again.

  “I’m so terribly sorry, Bruce.”

  “So am I! What’s a nice girl like you doing mixed up with a bastard like Paul Van Zale?”

  “Don’t you like him? But he’s so fond of you! He often talked about you when he was in England.”

  Bruce took off his glasses and stared at them. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

  Halfway back to the house I remembered Terence and Grace. “How will they get back?”

  “There are plenty of people who can give them a ride. Terence won’t mind, and Grace and I agreed long ago that I could feel free to walk out of a party like this any time I liked. She won’t be surprised.”

  He led me to the green Studebaker parked among the crowd of other cars in the drive, and leaving me in the front seat he returned to the house to find his wife. Ten minutes later we were on our way to Manhattan.

  After several miles of silence he said, “I’m going to stop for gas,” and we swung off the road into the forecourt of a petrol station. As we waited he remarked to me neutrally, “I guess you hope to marry Paul.”

  “I don’t really care about that so long as he comes back to Mallingham with me and doesn’t belong to anyone else.”

  “Dinah, Paul doesn’t practice monogamy. He’s incapable of it.”


  “That’s not true! He was faithful to me in England. Of course I knew he found someone else as soon as he got back to America, but …” The shock of discovery overwhelmed me again, and I squeezed my eyes shut to ward off the pain. “I never imagined—never dreamed … Oh, God his wife! To think he really loved her all the time and I never knew! But why, why, why did he send for me? I don’t understand, nothing makes sense, what the hell’s he doing sleeping with both of us?”

  “My God,” said Bruce, “you’re very young.”

  “You don’t understand!”

  “I’m afraid I do. My mother was Paul’s mistress on and off for over twenty years.”

  “But I’m different! I’m special!”

  “So was my mother! She was beautiful, intelligent, well-educated, steeped in a knowledge of the classics—”

  “Stop it!” I screamed at him.

  “Pardon me, sir,” said the freckle-faced petrol-pump attendant, “but that’ll be a dollar twenty-five.”

  Bruce gave him a couple of bills. “I’m sorry,” he said to me. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sure Paul does think you’re special if he invited you to come all the way from Europe to share his convalescence. You know about his illness, I guess?”

  “Of course.” I gathered together the shreds of my dignity.

  “If Paul thinks I’m going to share him with someone else he’s made a very big mistake,” I said. “I have my pride and I have my self-respect, and I’m not sacrificing it for anyone, not even him.”

  “Then you will be different,” he said smiling at me. “Then you will be special.”

  I did not answer. I was staring towards the distant lights of Manhattan while I planned exactly what I was going to say to Paul.

  III

  I lay awake half the night planning brilliant dialogue and finally fell into an exhausted sleep sometime after four. At seven o’clock precisely the telephone rang at my bedside.

  I was deep in unconsciousness and could hardly open my eyes. “Yes?” I whispered into the mouthpiece.

  “Dinah, it’s Paul. I’m downstairs in the lobby. I’m coming up,” he said, and hung up before I could gasp.