Scruples Two

by Judith Krantz

  Now, Billy realized, as sleep resisted her completely, she’d worked herself into a state of horrifying clearheadedness. Her mind felt like a bare plain, scoured by wind and rain and a blazing sun, a plain on which no grass could possibly be expected to grow. She seemed to live both on and somehow in that plain, where only one thing was absolute: in the matter of men and money she was damned.

  Her grief was not a storm of blind emotion. She would have welcomed hours of tears if they had helped to give her some relief, but tears wouldn’t come. Something held her mind clamped hard to the facts that had brought her to this place in her life. Obsessively, without forgetting a detail, Billy had been reliving her nine months with Sam and her year with Vito, trying to turn over and examine every detail of her relationships with them. When she separated their very different personalities and considered only the facts, the fatal truth was plain. She was a rich woman, and no man could manage to love a rich woman.

  She had stopped being human to Sam the moment he learned she was rich. He had blocked her out, the woman he knew, at that second, or he couldn’t have been so uncharacteristically angry, so unkind, so unwilling to even listen. He could never have said that she disgusted him—Sam, whom she had known in such direct passion and the sweet intimacy of love—if she hadn’t become another, transformed instantly because of wealth. He had refused to acknowledge her, stamped on all the honest emotion she had for him, because he felt insulted, suspected, not trusted. His pride hadn’t survived that blow, and his pride was more important than his love.

  Vito had resented her money from the beginning. He’d never stopped believing that it gave her an upper hand, a power he wouldn’t be able to fight. All her actions had been judged against that power. And he too had turned against her. Had he ever seen her as a plain, unadorned female who loved him? The aura of riches, from which she’d tried to protect Sam, had been inescapable.

  Vito had accused her of being an imperious queen bee. Sam had accused her of not considering him an equal. Would they have believed these things of her if it weren’t for the money?

  Even if she knew the answer, even if she knew exactly what a Billy Ikehorn was like without money, she could never be that person to anyone but Jessica and Gigi and Dolly. Only another woman could think of her as a human being like herself. They shared being a woman with her, they knew that no amount of money could change that essentially vulnerable condition. A woman with money has as great a need for love as any other woman. Why couldn’t a man see that?

  Billy burrowed into her wrinkled heap of pillows and faced the fact that there was no satisfactory solution for a woman with her kind of problem—the kind of problem a hundred women out of a hundred probably believed that they’d like to have, the kind of problem for which many women would trade their own lives without a second thought. She had so much. What right did she have to want more? She should give the whole bloody, impossible search up once and for all, she should train herself not to hope for love. She should expect nothing more from any man than she would from a trip to a foreign country: novelty, new food, new scenery, new customs, the sound of a new language. Then when she’d had enough, she would be able to return home untroubled at heart, as she had intended to from the start. That way she couldn’t be hurt. Lowered expectations—wasn’t that what they called it? Or just reality?

  A sound of stealthy voices came from behind her bedroom door. It must be Mademoiselle Hélène, Billy thought, trying to get into her room. She’d put nothing past the woman, including taking the door off its hinges, to make sure her charges were all right. God damn it to hell! Was nothing sacred in the Ritz?

  She jumped out of bed and staggered angrily to the door in the darkness, listening to hear what they were up to outside.

  “I bet it’s a hangover.” Billy recognized the voice of one of the chambermaids.

  “Or else she’s on a binge. There’s enough in the minibar to keep you drunk for days,” the second chambermaid calculated.

  Billy hastily retreated to her bed and looked at the large clock on the wall. It said either noon or midnight. The room was too dark to give her a clue. She went swiftly to a window and tugged impatiently on the heaviest of the three layers of curtains that covered every Ritz window, a vast expanse of green brocade thickly lined and interlined, made more weighty by its four rows of braid in four contrasting shades of green and its trim of fat puffs of green and rose ball-fringe. The curtains parted enough for her to reach the elaborate, rose-colored silk undercurtains. She opened them and peered through the last layer of gauze curtains, outside of which were tightly closed, white-painted metal shutters that rose and fell at the touch of a button on the wall by the window. She pressed the button and immediately streaks of daylight entered the room. Noon. Thank God, Billy thought as she went to the phone to order a large breakfast. She called housekeeping to make up her room, unbolted her doors, and disappeared into the bathroom for a long shower. She washed and dried her hair, brushing it carelessly back from her face, and quickly, automatically put on her makeup, forcing herself through these motions out of an instinct of self-preservation.

  When she emerged, still in her pink toweling robe, Billy found the curtains of every window in her suite pulled back, her bed made, vases of fresh white roses standing on every table and bureau, and her covered tray waiting with a copy of the International Herald Tribune. Startled, Billy discovered that it was Saturday. No wonder she felt so dizzy and so hungry. She must have taken more pills than she’d meant to—but what suspicious minds those chambermaids had! Too many years at their trade, no doubt, had made them expect the worst. She ate everything on her tray and called down for more croissants and coffee. While she was waiting she looked at the sunlight falling on the floor, that rare, fragile, precious light that sometimes comes to Paris in the winter, reminding Parisians that their city is on the same latitude as Helsinki. Billy’s mind floated away from herself and her pain, and with a start she remembered that the opening of Sam’s show had taken place the night before. In an instant she found herself on the phone with a concierge.

  “Monsieur Georges, could you do me a favor, please? I’d like you to call the Templon Gallery on the Rue Beaubourg and ask if any of the pieces of sculpture from yesterday’s opening were sold. Please don’t say who you are.”

  She hung up to await his return call. Surely, after Adam and Eve, God had invented the Ritz concierge.

  The phone buzzed within minutes. “Oh no! Five pieces! Yes, yes, Monsieur Georges, it is good news! Thank you.”

  Billy’s head whirled in surprise and dizzying joy. Five pieces the first night! Who had ever heard of a success like that for an American who had never shown in Paris before? Sam must be triumphant beyond triumphant. He must feel.… he must.… no, she, she must seize this opportunity, she must write to him immediately, before his flush of victory could fade—she must make him understand all the things that he hadn’t let her explain to him in the shock of discovery. Surely he would be receptive now—more than receptive—he must be dancing on the ceiling, his fears forgotten, his artistic insecurities thrown off—his mind must be open and ready to let her in!

  He had already forgiven her! Billy was suddenly convinced of it. And he didn’t know how to find her, he hadn’t the least idea where to look for her! If she didn’t write to him he’d never know. He could be tearing his hair out trying to imagine where she was, desperate to see her, remorseful, hating the words he’d said … oh yes! Busy finding pen and paper, she could see him so clearly, see the look on his face as he realized that she’d disappeared, that he’d lost her. Quickly, she must write quickly, for she couldn’t approach him again until he’d read her letter.

  The idea took complete possession of her and carried her along as she scribbled page after page, vividly describing what it was like to meet every man with the fact of her wealth invisibly pinned on her dress like a price tag. She hadn’t been insulting him, she wrote, Sam had to see that, she had merely been waiting for the ri
ght time to tell him the truth. She had been tempted to be honest with him so many times, but at first she’d been too happy just being Honey, reveling in being loved for herself. Yes, that delight had been too important to her. She’d been weak with herself—she admitted that freely, but never had she suspected him of any of the loathsome things of which he’d accused her. There had been such delicious novelty at first in putting on a mask, an innocent charm that did no one any harm. Then, by the end of the summer, he’d become so deeply involved with the show, growing more and more concerned about it. How could she have disturbed him then, during those four difficult months of mounting nervousness before the show had opened? Oh, surely he must know that she’d believed totally in his success! But he had to prove it to himself—so she’d made herself wait until after the exhibition. She saw now that she’d been totally wrong, horribly misguided, but it had been a miscalculation created by the depth of her love. Couldn’t he make allowances for her stupidity, based on her past experiences with other men, and couldn’t he forgive her for it? Stupidity was her only crime.

  How could he not believe her, Billy asked herself as she sealed the letter, shaking with the speed and conviction with which she’d written. How could Sam fail to understand the reality of what had happened once he’d read her explanations? Wasn’t truth unanswerable?

  Billy called downstairs to have a messenger sent to hand-deliver the letter by taxi to the gallery, where it would be sure to reach him. The minute it was gone and the activity of the past hour abruptly stopped, she was besieged by the doubts she hadn’t let herself think about while she was writing. She bent her head, closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her hands, picturing Sam opening the envelope and reading the pages. Had she left anything out, anything that would be conclusive, anything that should have been added to her plea? She couldn’t leave this room until he’d had a chance to call, until he’d had a chance to read and reread the letter, and think about it. And call. Such a letter could not be left in limbo—no one could be that cruel. There would be an answer soon.

  In frantic agitation she looked at the clock again. Saturday, not quite two-thirty. She had no way of knowing where Sam was. He could be out for a hasty lunch with Daniel or Henri, or he could be deep in discussion with gallery-goers. Saturday was the prime day for art collectors to make their rounds, and except for the lunch hour, when most galleries closed, Sam would be expected to remain rooted to the exhibition space, ready to answer any questions that people might ask. The gallery might stay open late tonight, taking advantage of the troops of art lovers who crowded the busy neighborhood of the Beaubourg Museum. The invitations for the opening yesterday had been from seven till ten—Daniel could easily decide to stay open equally late again tonight if the drop-in traffic warranted it.

  When would Sam be able to slip away and read her letter? Surely there would be time for that, surely he would find a free minute and take the letter into Daniel’s office—by four—or five. Oh, surely by five o’clock! But what if he put the letter away into a pocket and resolved not to read it until he got home? Was it even possible that he would tear it up unread? No, no, that couldn’t be. That was a crazy thought. People only did that in movies. Yet if Sam didn’t read the letter until the gallery closed …

  She had to get out of here, Billy realized. She was filled with too much savage uncertainty to stay in any one place. The familiar visual continuity of her suite was nightmarish, reminding her of the past nine months of happiness. Every tall white rose, every pompous cluster of ball-fringe, every settled sign of luxury and placidly well arranged surface irritated her heart as if they were iron filings, scraped into her agony. She was filled with too much wild conjecture, too many unanswered questions, to remain in these quiet, undisturbed rooms. She lived in a world of dread. She had endowed that letter with such importance that she’d drive herself mad, she’d explode with her longing for Sam to understand and forgive her, she’d tear herself up with her irrational hope that happiness was just a phone call away. She couldn’t last another fifteen minutes, waiting here like this. When he called, of course he’d leave a message with the concierge and then she could go to him.

  In seconds Billy changed into a dark green velvet jumpsuit and pulled on high, black suede, low-heeled boots. She thrust her arms into a double-breasted, dark mink coachman’s coat that buttoned with antique gold coins. It fit tightly to the waist and then whirled wide to mid-calf. She grabbed a bag and a watch and automatically put on the pair of huge cabochon emerald earrings she always wore with Sam because the irregular, unfaceted stones didn’t reflect light and could easily be taken for fakes.

  Where? Where? In less than a minute Billy had reached the first-floor lobby, flown across it, and crossed the Rue de la Paix. There, on the other side of the Place Vendôme, lay Van Cleef and Arpels. She pushed into the store quickly. It was empty for the moment and a salesman immediately stepped forward.

  “Good afternoon, Madame. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Yes, yes, I’d like to see.…” Billy halted. She had no idea what she wanted, only that she wanted, needed, had to have something, anything, but immediately, right away for God’s sake, couldn’t he understand that? She looked at the salesman in angry confusion. Idiot, she thought, he’s a complete idiot.

  “Is it for a gift, Madame?”

  “No, no—for me—something unusual, different, exceptional.…”

  “Something in diamonds, Madame? No? Sapphires, emeralds, rubies—”

  “Yes,” she almost stuttered as he was about to run on and on, “yes, rubies, Burmese rubies.”

  “The most difficult stones to find,” the salesman said, glancing appreciatively at her earrings. “As it happens, we have several superb examples that have just arrived for Christmas. Madame has come at an excellent time for—”

  “Go and get them,” Billy said, cutting him short. The fierce look in her eyes informed him of five of the most welcome words in the jewelry business. Rich. American. Woman. Impulse. Shopper.

  As he hurried away to search out the few fine pieces set with rare Burmese rubies, he left Billy alone in the small, private, gray velvet and gilt room to which he had led her, as quiet as if it had been soundproofed, a room that had been designed for serious buyers, a room that shut out the bustle of the city. As she waited, tapping one boot in fretful eagerness, Billy met her own eyes in the round mirror that stood on the table next to the black velvet pad on which the jewelry was to be displayed. Stunned, she peered closer. Jesus Christ Almighty, was that the way she looked? She held her breath in shock at the mad avidity marked so clearly on her features. A furrow she didn’t know existed had appeared between her eyebrows and her lips were tightened in an impatient grimace, as if she were holding herself back from springing at a piece of raw meat. She was ugly with covetousness and greed. Inside she felt choked by the diffuse cloud of turbulent anticipation that threatened to strangle her with its deadly combination of fear and unreasoning hope, a cloud that she could try to disperse with the soothing ritual of handling, trying on and eventually buying jewels, as in the Middle Ages men opened their veins in an attempt to relieve their fevers.

  No! She jumped up and was out of the shop in an instant, taking a deep breath as she hit the frosty air. She was insane, she told herself as she almost ran along the sidewalk in the direction of the Seine. Insane to buy jewelry she didn’t want to hold herself together, insane to use this old method of plastering a temporary lid on her need to hear from Sam.

  Did she believe that buying hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of stones could put her back in control of her life? Was this what it took to give her strength? If so, she was the sum of what she bought. And, damn it, she had to be better than that! She couldn’t be only what she wore, she couldn’t be only the glittering things she could pile on herself in the finest shops in the world. She wasn’t just that expensive package wrapped in white satin and hung with diamonds that Sam had seen at the Opéra, she wasn’
t merely that woman all-but-panting for a quick fix that the unfortunate, now-disappointed salesman had encountered in Van Cleef.

  As she passed Cartier and Bulgari, Billy imagined all the stock of the jewelry stores within a two-minute walk of the Ritz, imagined tray after tray of blazing wares dumped in a heap at the foot of the Vendôme column, forged from the bronze of twelve hundred cannons captured at the Battle of Austerlitz. How high would the heap become before it equaled her net worth? Eventually, there would be enough of those colored bits of rare mineral, to which men had decided to assign intrinsic value, to equal the Ikehorn holdings. And then what? What words could the stones speak, what actions could they take, what emotions could they feel? All those rich chips of fire wouldn’t be worth a damn on a cold night when only a fire of wood or another human being could keep her warm.

  Billy came to the vast Place de la Concorde, its eternal nobility of proportion dwarfing the worst traffic jam in Paris, and skirted the Grecian façades of the Jeu de Paume and the Orangerie, crossing to the Left Bank at the Pont de la Concorde, loping along as swiftly as she could among the loitering crowds enjoying the unexpected brightness of the day. She had no destination, no agenda, nothing to do with herself except keep moving until she could make that phone call to the Ritz that would give her a message from Sam. On the peaceful Left Bank she walked a little more slowly, along the bulk of the Palais Bourbon, until she found herself in the small square directly behind the Palais where her florist was located.

  Outside Moulie-Savart, covering the street and overflowing into the square itself, was the brilliant, multicolored, pre-Christmas surprise of a garden of flowering plants backed by a tall assortment of green potted plants. Billy stopped dead, her eyes focused on the startlingly gay vision of temptation that had sprung up against the gray stones. Then, unwaveringly, she followed along the perimeter of the square on its opposite side. She didn’t intend to be tempted to buy so much as a single amaryllis in a pot.