“Well, well, at least you’ve been hanging out in the right places since I left. Not bad.”
“Expense account.” She grinned with her pixie look and ordered a double martini straight up. That was new too.
The reunion between Peg and Samantha at the hotel had been boisterous and joyful and ours had been scarcely less so. She looked better than ever, and her tongue was even sharper than before. She squeezed Sam in a vast hug, and then called me names while we pushed and shoved and giggled. It was so good to see her again.
I glanced around the restaurant as she sipped her drink, and marveled at the clientele. The cream of the cream. Moneyed New York was out for dinner. And so was I.
In terms of dress, San Francisco alternates between acute hippiedom and 1950s stock brokerage, with almost no middle ground. The women are conservative and still wear pastel wools, sleeveless and knee-length, hats, gloves, the whole scene. But New York offers a rainbow of looks that overwhelm the eye. Intense funky, quietly elegant, outlandish chic, a myriad of looks and colors and styles. Just as I had noticed as the taxi stopped at Yellowfingers on the way in from the airport, in New York people dare. And how.
The table next to us consisted of heavily bejeweled “Nyew Yawwwk,” successful garment center wearing chic Paris, rich silks and creamy satins, hair fresh out of the hairdresser, and manicures that made me want to amputate my arms. At the bar were a slew of fifty-year-old men with astounding-looking models, statuesque-looking young women with elaborate eye makeup and closely cropped hair. It surprised me to see that short hair was “in” again. In California they were still wearing it long and straight, but in New York the natural look was dead, it had no charm at all, and proved only that you weren’t trying.
The room itself was dark, and the tablecloths were so starched they looked as though they could have stood up on their own. Overhead hung a vast array of toy cars and airplanes. All you had to do was look at the ceiling and you knew you were at Twenty-One. The discreet sounds of good silver, fine china, and paper-thin crystal mingled with the soft buzzing of conversations, and the entire room seemed to come to life.
“Whatcha looking at, you hick?” Peg looked amused as she watched me.
“That’s about the size of it. I’d almost forgotten how New York looks. It’s so weird to be back. I feel as though I have to learn the language all over again, and get myself together.”
“You look like you’re doing okay to me. You haven’t lost your touch yet.” I was wearing a white wool dress, the pearls my ex-mother-in-law had given me, and had pulled my hair into a tight knot at my neck. “That guy on your right looks as though he’s got the worst case of the hots for you I’ve ever seen. You’re looking good.”
“Thanks, but you’re full of shit.”
“Mrs. Forrester! Such language at Twenty-One. Gawwd! I can’t take you anywhere.”
“Oh shut up!” I giggled at her over my Dubonnet. “Not until I hear what brought you back to New York. I smell a rat.”
“Come on, Peg.” I averted my eyes and looked around the room. I didn’t want to talk about Chris. I just wanted to enjoy the evening.
“That confirms it. Okay, close-mouth, you want to tell me now or later?”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Oh yeah? Didn’t your mother ever tell you the story of Pinocchio, Gill? You should see your nose . . . it’s growing longer, and longer, and. . . .”
“Peg Richards, you’re a pain in the ass. I just came back, that’s all.”
“I’m insulted. I thought we were friends.”
“We are.” My voice got small, and I started on my second Dubonnet.
“Okay, I’ll let it go. What do you want to eat?”
“Something light.”
“You sick?” Peg eyed me seriously then, and I reached quickly into a mental grab bag of possible excuses, and then gave up.
“Nope. Pregnant.”
“What? Holy shit! So you came back for an abortion?”
“No. I moved back.”
“What about Chris? Does he know?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I moved back.”
“Did he walk out on you, Gill?” Fire kindled in Peg’s eyes; she really was the most loyal friend I had.
“No, we just decided it was best this way.”
“We? Or he? It doesn’t sound like your style.”
“It isn’t important, Peg. He doesn’t want to get tied down just now, and I can see his point. He’s not ready. It’s really better this way.” But I could see I wasn’t convincing Peg. I wasn’t even convincing myself.
“You’re out of your mind. You’re going to have the baby, Gill?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I love him. And I want to have the baby.”
“That’s a hell of a big decision. I hope you know what you’re doing.” Peg looked as though she had just been hit with a bucket of ice water.
“I think I do.”
“How about another drink? I don’t know about you, but I think I need one.” She looked up at me with a rueful smile and I shook my head.
“Look, don’t let it put a damper on our evening. Everything’s okay, I’m fine, and I know what I’m doing. Honest, Peg. So relax.”
“That’s easy for you to say. I enjoy worrying. Besides, you’re only the mother! I plan to be the godmother, and that’s a big responsibility.” I laughed and she raised her drink to me in a toast. “To you, you goddam nut. Sonofabitch. I never expected this. What happened to your upbringing for chrissake?” We both laughed at that and then we ordered dinner. The subject never came up again, but I knew Peg was rolling it around in her mind and I’d hear more about it at a later date. She’d let it go by too easily, for Peg, and she wasn’t going to feel right about it unless she did what she thought was her duty by me at some point and gave me hell. Maybe she thought I couldn’t take it just then. Maybe she was right.
We stayed at Twenty-One until after eleven and were just getting ready to ask for the check when a tall, attractive man stopped at our table.
“Hello, Peg, can I offer you two a drink?” He was speaking to Peg, but smiling straight at me.
“Hi, Matt. What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question, but I won’t.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. This is Gillian Forrester, Matthew Hinton.”
“Good evening.” We shook hands over the table and Peg looked pleased about something.
“How about that drink, ladies?” I was about to refuse but Peg gave me a filthy look and accepted.
We sat and chatted with him for half an hour. He was a lawyer, worked on Wall Street, and belonged to the same tennis club as Peg. He looked as though he were in his early thirties and had an easy-going manner but a little too much charm for my taste. I felt as though he were looking me over, like a large hunk of meat he might or might not want to buy, and I resented it.
“How about if I take you two ladies to Raffles for a drink and a little dancing.” But this time I beat Peg to it.
“No, really I couldn’t. I just got back from California last night, and I haven’t caught up on my sleep yet, but thanks anyway.”
“She’s my best friend, Matt, and the biggest pain in the ass I know. Party pooper.”
“Why don’t you go, Peg? I’ll take a cab home.”
“No, I’ll pass too. Sorry, Matt.” He made a mock tragic face, threw up his hands, and we all paid our various tabs, or rather he and Peg did. I cringed, thinking what she must have paid for the dinner, but it had been a lovely evening.
Matt offered to drop us off at our respective homes in a cab and Peg accepted. And in a few minutes we were at the Regency. And I noticed that Matt seemed to like what he saw. I kissed Peg on the cheek, thanked her for dinner, and tried to stop her from saying anything. Whatever she could have come up with would surely have been mortifying. Matt was patiently waiting on the sidewalk as the doorman
stood by.
“You like him?” she whispered in my ear as I disengaged myself from her hug.
“No, goddam you! And don’t you dare start any matchmaking! But thanks for dinner.” My response was spoken in a hoarse whisper like her own, and I punctuated it with a stern look. But she didn’t answer, which is always a bad sign with Peg. I had visions of her setting up a whole scenario for Matt while he took her home.
“Goodnight, Matt. Thanks for dropping me off.” I shook his hand coolly as we stood on the sidewalk and started toward the revolving door with a last wave at Peg.
“Gillian!” It was Matt.
“Yes?” He reached my side in two long strides.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Oh.” But he was already gone, the taxi door slammed, and the cab pulled away and was instantly lost in the city’s eternal traffic.
16
The telephone rang while I was struggling with my second cup of coffee the next morning, and I reached for it absentmindedly, holding the paper in my other hand.
“Hello?”
“How did you like him?”
“Peg! You’re a bloody nuisance. Will you cool it, please? I told you how I felt about that last night. And I meant it.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” She sounded immensely irritated.
“For one thing, I’m still in love with Chris.”
“And that’s not going to get you anywhere. He dumped you, remember?”
“Okay, Peg, that’s enough. Let’s just drop it. Last night was really nice.”
“I thought so too. And . . . oh hell. Okay, Gill. I’ll lay off. I’m sorry. Except I wish you’d go out with him. It would give you a good start back here. He’s very social.”
“I’m sure he is, but that doesn’t turn me on anymore.”
“Okay, so I’ll find you a hippie, ya nut.” She laughed briefly and I felt better. “Well, I just thought I’d put in a good word for Matt. Gotta go to a meeting now. I’ll call you.”
“Okay, Peg. See you soon.”
I no sooner hung up than the phone rang again, and this time I suspected who it would be. And was right.
“Gillian?”
“Yes.”
“Good morning. This is Matthew Hinton.” So what else is new?
“Good morning.” Now what? I really wasn’t in the mood.
“I was going to ask you to dinner, Gillian, but something else has come up.” It seemed an odd way to start, but I waited for him to go on. “One of the senior partners in the firm just offered me two tickets to the opening of the opera tonight. How does that sound?” I was ashamed of myself for the sudden change of heart, but that sounded too good to miss.
“Wow! That would be lovely, Matthew. I feel very spoiled.”
“Don’t be silly. The opera starts at eight and we can have a late dinner afterward. I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty. Sound all right to you?”
“Sounds fine. I’ll see you then. And thank you.”
I looked at myself in the mirror and felt briefly guilty for accepting his invitation just because of the opera, but what the hell, it would be a real treat.
Matthew arrived promptly at seven-thirty and gave a long, slow whistle which almost swelled my head. I was wearing a cream satin dress which set off the remainder of my California tan, and I had to admit that I’d been pleased myself when I looked in the mirror before leaving the room.
He was looking very precise and rather handsome in a dinner jacket, with small sapphire studs, and for a moment he reminded me of my ex-husband. I was stepping back into the sedate, establishment world again, even if only for an evening. And it was a million light years from the world I had shared with Chris.
The cab pulled up to Lincoln Center, and the fountain rose in graceful, erratic leaps in the plaza. Little clusters of well-dressed opera-goers headed in the same direction as we, and I ignored Matt in favor of the bright dresses and beautiful people. It was obvious that this was an Event.
Photographers leapt out from oblique angles and invisible corners and flashed lights in the darkness as people went inside. You could tell who would occupy the boxes—they were even more elaborately dressed than the others, and the jewels were blinding.
“Mr. Hinton, just a moment please.” Matthew turned his head to the left to see who was calling him, and I followed his gaze, just as a light went off in our faces and a photographer snapped a picture.
“May I ask who the lady is?” a lithe-looking black girl at the photographer’s side inquired. She was dressed in brilliant red and was wearing her hair in a natural. She raised a small notebook and took my name with a smile, while I looked on in disbelief. It was quite a scene. Pandemonium seemed to reign everywhere, and people were attempting to filter through the assembly of reporters and photographers.
Matthew shepherded me up the flight of stairs to the boxes, and an elderly usher smiled at him. “Good evening, Mr. Hinton.” My, my.
“Do you come to the opera often, Matt?”
“Once in a while.” But something was beginning to smell fishy.
The opera was Lucia di Lammermoor with Joan Sutherland, and the performance was breathtaking. During the intermissions, the champagne flowed like water, and the photographers continued their field day.
“I ordered dinner at Raffles, since you wouldn’t do me the honor last night. Is that all right with you?”
“Lovely.”
And at Raffles we were besieged with “Good evening, Mr. Hinton’s” from every waiter in sight. Peg was right, he was very social.
But the evening was pleasant, the conversation was superficial, and he had a nice sense of humor. He had ordered smoked salmon, roast duck, and a souffle au grand marnier. We drank more champagne, and danced for a while in the muted, gaiety of the club. The decor was done by Cecil Beaton and lacked warmth, but the crowd was obviously New York’s elite.
We arrived back at the Regency at one, and I shook his hand in the lobby as the evening came to a close. It had been precisely what I’d expected. The opening of the opera. It meant no more to me than that. Until I saw the papers the next day.
The phone rang once again at nine the next morning, but this time I was asleep.
“I thought you said you didn’t want to go out with him.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me.” It was Peg. “How was the opera?”
“Very nice, thanks.” I struggled to wake up and then a question came to mind. “How did you know I went to the opera? Did Matt call you?” The possibility irritated me, like a ninth-grade report to the “gang.”
“No. I read it in the papers.”
“Bullshit. He called you.” I was sitting up in bed by then.
“He did not. I have in hand today’s Women’s Wear Daily, and I quote ‘Who is Playboy Matthew Hinton’s latest love? Mrs. Gillian Forrester, of course. They attended the opening of the opera last night, which was . . . etc., etc. They occupied his father’s box, Q, and were later seen at Raffles, private discotheque where the B. P. congregate. They sipped champagne and danced till dawn.’ ”
“For chrissake, I was home by one!” I was stunned, “Playboy Matthew Hinton’s latest love”? Oh Christ.
“Shut up, I’m not finished. ‘Mrs. Forrester wore a gown of cream-colored satin, off the shoulders, and it looked like last year’s Dior. But she is a most attractive young woman. Right on, Matt.’ ”
“Thanks a lot. As a matter of fact, the dress is six-years-ago’s nobody. For God’s sake, Peg. That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard. I’m mortified.”
“Console yourself. The Times only ran a picture. You looked pretty good. Now . . . do you like him?”
“Of course not. Oh hell, what do I know? I was excited about going to the opening of the opera, and he’s about as colorful as papier-mache. He’s stereotyped and terribly proper. And frankly, I don’t enjoy being smacked all over the newspapers as some playboy’s ‘latest love.’ Jesus!”
“Don
’t be a bore. Enjoy it.”
“Bullshit.”
“Well, at least go out with him for a while.”
“What? And have all the papers analyzing what we had for dinner. It’s not worth it, Peg. But thanks for the introduction.”
“You’re a creep. But maybe you’ve got a point. He is a little dull. Anyway, I’ll put these in my scrapbook. My friend, Gillian Forrester, latest love of playboy.”
“You jerk.” And this time I hung up as I broke into a laugh. It really was pretty funny. It would have almost been worth sending the clippings to Chris.
An immense bouquet of roses arrived as I ordered breakfast. The card read, “I’m so sorry about the newspapers. Hope you can weather the storm. Next time dinner at Nedick’s.” And it was signed “Matt.” Weather the storm was right. And that wasn’t at all what I had in mind for myself. I put the flowers on a table and answered the phone. Probably Peg again.
“Gillian? Have you forgiven me?” It was Matt.
“Nothing to forgive. That’s quite a coming-out party for my second day in New York. It would appear, however, that you’re rather notorious, Mr. Hinton.”
“Not nearly as much as Women’s Wear seems to think. How about dinner tonight?”
“And confirm the rumor?”
“Why not?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t make it, Matt. But I had a lovely time last night.”
“I’m not sure I believe you, but I’m glad if you did. I’ll give you a call at the end of the week and see what else we can think up to tantalize the press. How do you feel about horses?”
“In what sense? As a meal or for transportation?”
“As entertainment. In terms of the horse show. Does that appeal?”
“As a matter of fact, it does, but I’ll have to see, Matt. I have a lot of organizing to do.” And I had no intention whatsoever of letting myself into a press-inspired romance.
“All right, busy lady, I’ll give you a call. Have a nice day.”
“Thanks, and the same to you. And thank you for the roses.”
Wow! Three days in New York, and I had roses on my table, had had two pictures in the social columns and dinner at Twenty-One and Raffles, and had gone to the opening of the opera. Not bad, Mrs. Forrester. Not bad at all.
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