Scruples Two

by Judith Krantz

  It was the fucking maid-of-honor dress that had been the final straw. Leave it to Tatiana Nevsky to dictate, from three thousand miles away, the dresses that she and the bridesmaids, who included Josh’s daughter, were going to wear! Talk about interference! This surpassed, in sheer undue influence, anything any bride’s grande-dame mother had pulled at Voyage to Bountiful, Gigi thought wrathfully, as she drove her shocking pink Volvo to Josh’s condo in a new high-rise on Wilshire Boulevard, to which the dress had been air-expressed.

  Gigi had never seen a maid-of-honor dress she didn’t loathe. There was some sort of collusion in the fashion industry which dictated that all female members of a wedding, except the bride, must become martyrs. Something constipated the designers of these garments so that they were never what any woman would willingly choose to wear, particularly anyone with a sense of her own style. They were as predictably stiff and ceremonious as costumes from a grammar school historical pageant, without the excuse of tradition. Perhaps the designers, like the schoolteachers, knew that they could get away with it, since they counted on the indulgence of the audience. Personally, she’d rather come as Pocahontas.

  Gigi left her car with the parking attendant and took the elevator up to Josh’s luxurious apartment, where Sasha opened the door for her so quickly that she must have been listening for the sound of the elevator door to open.

  Grumpily, Gigi gave Sasha a kiss. “Where’s the masterpiece that we couldn’t have found right here? Does your mother think there are no decent stores in Beverly Hills?” she inquired.

  “You’ve always had a sour attitude about my darling little mother,” Sasha said, far more merrily than the situation warranted.

  “And you didn’t? Spare me. You disguised yourself every time you were destined to fall under her eye. She’s going to get the shock of her life when she gets out here and discovers you in full flower, unless you’re planning to wear your usual ‘Look, Ma, I’m invisible and flat-chested’ drag on your wedding day.”

  “You worry too much,” Sasha said airily, with a lack of any sympathy, as if Gigi had no right to worry even a little, even with all the things going on that depended on her, from the fashion show to the wedding. Sasha had absolutely insisted that Gigi come to try on her dress today, of all days, the day before the press was descending, pointing out, incontestably, that the dress would need alterations because Gigi was so short, and, what’s more, she knew that Gigi was so organized that she’d have nothing left to do at this late date and would need to be distracted.

  “Let’s see it,” Gigi said with resignation, as she spotted the large carton sitting on a table in Josh’s large, modern living room. Sasha opened the box and took out a dress that had been packed in dozens of sheets of tissue paper.

  “At least it’s lavender,” Gigi said, circling it warily.

  “My mother said that the color would set off your hair. Oh, for Pete’s sake, go into the bedroom and put the thing on, don’t just sniff at it suspiciously like Marcel does at Josh. Will you hurry? I can’t stand this suspense!”

  “He still shedding?” Gigi asked over her shoulder, as she took the dress away from Sasha and moved reluctantly toward the bedroom.

  “No, he’s resigned himself, except for the odd nasty glare. His visit to you cured him. The poor thing came back home pathetically happy, you didn’t give him enough attention. Will you go? I tell you I’m shaking!”

  “Sorry about that,” Gigi laughed, and disappeared. In the bedroom she stripped down to her panty hose, took off her boots, and exchanged them for the pair of silver slippers she’d brought so that they could measure the hem. She stepped carefully into the cloudlike mass of lavender chiffon, not sure where some unseen zipper might be lurking. It went on lightly, in spite of its many layers of skirt, and zipped up surprisingly easily. Gigi turned to look at herself in the full-length mirror inside the closet.

  Well. Maybe Tatiana Nevsky wasn’t as bad as Sasha had led her to believe. Maybe the woman was even a genius, Gigi thought excitedly, as she wrapped the wide velvet sash, in a deep shade of Parma violet, around her waist and expertly tied it in a large bow. The dress fit perfectly. It was a good six inches off the ground, the off-the-shoulder neckline hit her at exactly the right place, as low as humanly possible but snugly enough not to slip. The simple bodice was as slender as the skirt was full, the softly pleated sleeves were perfect, widening from the neckline to the wrist, so that they’d fall back in a graceful line when she held her bouquet at waist level. And, wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, that was all there was to it, no trim, no sequins, no paillettes, nothing but a bell-shaped flutter of dozens of yards of chiffon that anyone could see immediately belonged on a ballet stage. A dress without time or place or season, with no excuse for existing but beauty. Gigi whirled around and around, her freshly streaked hair flying upward in a silken web, and watched the skirt rise and fall, forgetting Sasha, who seemed to be outside waiting for the verdict in tactful silence. She looked.… she looked.… like a Balanchine-inspired butterfly?… a flower with wings?… an ideal version of herself?

  “Oh, Sasha, I take back all the awful things I’ve ever said about your mother,” she cried as she rushed back into the living room.

  “I’ll tell Ma,” Zach said, standing in the center of the room, squarely facing her.

  Gigi stopped dead, teetered on her high heels, and barely regained her balance, too shocked to move or speak. She turned so frighteningly pale that Zach took two hasty paces forward and grasped her by her arms so that she wouldn’t fall. “I told Sasha to warn you, but she thought—”

  “You’re early,” Gigi heard herself say with lunatic logic. “The wedding … it’s weeks away …”

  “That’s not why I’m here,” he said, putting one of his fingers under her chin and gently turning her face up toward him.

  “Zach … oh, Zach …” she whispered, opening her arms wide and stretching them up to him, utterly bewildered but suddenly entirely certain that whatever was happening was right. Gigi was overwhelmed by a thunderous wave of welcome. This was far more than right, it was inevitable. Necessary, as nothing else had ever been.

  “Do you have any idea how much I love you?” Zach asked her anxiously, not daring to kiss her until he’d heard her answer.

  “So I’ve heard,” Gigi managed to reply. “So I’ve been informed … reliably informed.”

  He kissed her then, holding her delicate body close to his splendid bulk, kissed her until the lavender dress wilted and their entire beings were abandoned to each other, hearts and souls overcome, astonished by perfect wonder, yet somehow deeply unsurprised.

  “You’ve never told me you love me,” Zach demanded at last, leaving her lips for an instant.

  “I don’t think you ever asked,” Gigi answered. “Not exactly like that, not in so many words.”

  “Do you love me?” he asked, his voice more humble than she’d ever heard it. Gigi hesitated for a moment, savoring what she knew was doomed to be only momentary uncertainty in Zach Nevsky.

  “Yes,” she said finally, wholeheartedly giving up reluctance.

  “That’s good enough for now.” He looked down at her and laughed his unguarded, triumphant laugh. “ ‘Yes’ … that’s all I wanted to hear.”

  The front door opened in the hall and was closed with a loud slam as Marcel strolled pompously into the room, his tail in the air.

  “That’s Sasha, trying to be discreet,” Zach said. “I made her go out to do some grocery shopping. She wanted to wait in the kitchen, but I wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Is everything all right in there?” Sasha called, still not coming into the living room.

  “Go away and shop some more,” Zach answered.

  “I will not,” she said indignantly, as she entered the room. “You’ve had plenty of time. I just sat in the lobby, I never go grocery shopping, Zach, for your information. Gigi, are you okay?”

  “I think so,” Gigi said shakily, peeping out from the m
assive barrier of Zach’s arms.

  “Oh, my God, Gigi! You’ve wrinkled the dress! I knew I should never have left you two alone!”

  Although John Prince had not accepted Billy’s invitation to spend the fashion show weekend as her houseguest, preferring the convenience of a hotel switchboard, she had sent her plane to bring him to Los Angeles, and her car and driver to transport him to the hotel, wait while he checked in, and bring him back to her house for a private dinner. They’d both be so busy over the weekend that Billy thought they might never see each other except in a crowd, and she wanted to discuss the introduction she was going to make before he began to narrate the show.

  She waited for Prince in front of the fireplace in one of the twin living rooms. Although it was May, the nights were still cool enough to make a fire inviting. Billy heard Prince’s familiar rumble as he entered the house, and she walked quickly forward to greet him with the biggest smile she could muster and kisses on both cheeks. Just the sight of Prince in his tweedy glory made her feel a little less woebegone. He scrutinized her face as she led him toward the couch in front of the fireplace, and seemed reassured by what he saw.

  “Well, ducky, I’m glad you’re ignoring this,” Prince said, tossing a copy of Fashion and Interiors on the coffee table. Billy looked at him in surprise. “Ducky” was ominous, that was his term of greatest affection, ten times more meaningful than “pet.” She eyed the glossy magazine with concern. Somehow they must have gotten wind of Scruples Two and broken the surprise in “P.D.Q.,” their notorious front-of-the-book column. “P.D.Q.,” anonymously written, and lavishly illustrated with deliberately embarrassing photographs, could be counted on to be an unapologetic fount of the latest and most malicious gossip of the worlds of society and fashion. It was as juicy and flavorsome as a perfectly ripe melon, and since its inception it had established itself as far and away the liveliest, nastiest and most titillating section of the influential magazine. “P.D.Q.” was the first thing every subscriber turned to when the magazine was delivered.

  “My copy hasn’t arrived yet,” Billy said. “What am I ignoring?”

  “I brought this from New York. It came late yesterday. Ducky, there’s an unfortunate ‘P.D.Q.’ story. I was hoping you’d seen it and managed to ignore it,” Prince said.

  “Damn! After we’d managed to stay top-secret for months! I should have known. It couldn’t be worse timing, they’ve scooped everybody,” Billy wailed.

  “No. It’s not about Scruples Two,” Prince said somberly.

  Alarmed, Billy picked up the glossy magazine and scanned the cover. “P.D.Q.’s Special: Billy Ikehorn’s Romantic Caper.”

  “What the devil …?”

  “He’s the right one to ask.”

  With suddenly trembling fingers Billy turned to the “P.D.Q.” pages and scanned the story while Prince poured himself a drink and stood with his back to her, studying the fire.

  You’ve all heard the one about the pathetic Poor Little Rich Girl who didn’t know whether she was loved for her money or herself? “P.D.Q.” has discovered that Beverly Hills’s own Billy Ikehorn has been trying desperately to find out while leading a double life in Paris.

  Pay attention, MI-5! Would you believe that our fabulously well dressed Billy managed to pass herself off for almost a year as a simple schoolteacher from Seattle? (A French teacher, of course. What else?) Yes, one of the world’s richest women actually convinced the handsome San Francisco sculptor, Sam Jamison, that she was a poor but honest working girl during their long idyll in his Marais studio. Sorry, Sam, but did you ever get a wrong number!

  Checking with the Paris Ritz, “P.D.Q.” learned that Billy officially occupied their Windsor Suite all of last year, but Henri Legrand, of the Galerie Templon, where the sculptor’s work made a sensation last fall, told “P.D.Q.” that he knew our Billy only as one “Honey Winthrop,” Jamison’s very much live-in inamorata of many months’ duration.

  Would this make it the first time that a blue-blooded Boston Winthrop (our Billy was born Wilhelmina Hunnenwell Winthrop, lest we forget) used the venerable family name to cover up a secret love affair?

  Isn’t it passing curious that only by pretending to be someone she is not, can Billy seem to find a man? Everyone remembers her short-lived second marriage to film producer, Vito (The WASP) Orsini, quickly interrupted by his big-time affair with Maggie MacGregor. Maggie dumped Vito when it was clear that The WASP was going to be the disaster of the decade, quickly replacing him with Fred Greenspan, her married boss, who soon decided that show-biz news queen MacGregor’s show was worthy of an additional half hour of the network’s time. Maggie, as everyone knows, got to the top professionally by knowing how to use the right men at the right time. Shouldn’t Billy beg smart Maggie for tips on picking men who can do a girl good? Since Billy lost Vito, there has been no one in her life except duped Sam Jamison. It would seem to “P.D.Q.” that no amount of money, (worse, not even the lack of it!) can buy our Billy lasting love.

  How did it end? Many eyewitnesses saw our intrepid heroine make the mistake of being caught with all her diamonds on one gala night at the Opera. (Well, not all of them, of course, but enough to blow that schoolteacher story.) Sam Jamison recognized his Cinderella-in-reverse and made a very public scene, followed the next day by his giving Billy the “cut direct” chez Lipp, where she had tracked him down.

  Our Billy decamped in a hurry, fleeing Paris for forgiving Beverly Hills, her old stomping ground, where she remains in mysterious, but understandable (n’est-ce pas?) seclusion. Tennis pro, anyone? “P.D.Q.” ’s advice for our unlucky-in-love, Poor Little Rich Girl: Next time; “Honey,” try to get a man with his own money. To Tell the Truth, will the real Wilhelmina Hunnenwell Winthrop Ikehorn Orsini please stand up? Or isn’t there one?

  “Well, ducky, at least the photographs are good, particularly the one of you in that bikini,” Prince said, turning when he heard Billy throw the magazine down. “And they spelled your name right,” he added as he measured the raw bleakness of her face. “Billy, I know it’s bad, but it’s not life-threatening.”

  “No.”

  “What did you ever do to Harriet Toppingham to arouse such vileness? This is lower than they ever get.”

  “I met her once … only once … at a party,” Billy answered with difficulty, through stiff lips. “Cora de Lioncourt did this, she’s the only one who could have put the pieces together.”

  “Then what did you do to her?”

  “Nothing … nothing I know of,” Billy said in a voice as white and rigid as her face.

  “Ducky, I know it’s a bromide, but when something like this happens, you just have to face it down, get right out there and pretend it never happened. It’s not as if you’ve done anything to be ashamed of.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I won’t kid you, Billy, of course people will enjoy this, they’ll dine out on it for a week or two, but they’ll forget it by the time the next issue comes around.”

  “No, they won’t. People never forget stories as good as this. Never, not as long as I live.”

  “Well … maybe,” he admitted, knowing she was right. “But realistically, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “No one,” Billy said slowly, “literally no one I’ve ever met or will ever meet won’t have heard about this and remember it when they see me … I’ll always know what they’re thinking. I’m a laughingstock, someone to be pitied.”

  “Oh, ducky, please try not to take it so hard. So they laugh, so what? They can’t take away all the things they envy about you. Just look in the mirror, just look around you. Billy, you have a triumphant life.”

  He couldn’t understand, Billy realized numbly, he couldn’t possibly understand that throughout every day of every week of the formative years of her life she had suffered from being a laughingstock. No matter how high and mighty she seemed today, her deepest perceptions of herself had been formed by the neglect of her parents, by t
he endlessly cruel mockery of her schoolmates, by the pity of her aunts and the contemptuous rejection of her cousins. She tried to tell herself that it was a familiar story for a lot of people—maybe everyone’s self-esteem had been damaged in their youth—but this story in “P.D.Q.” was the pure, distilled, poisonous essence of the nightmares that woke her up in the middle of the night, worried about the reception of Scruples Two. Each sickeningly pointed word was burned into her mind. It was too accurate to deny. She felt as if she’d tumbled backwards for decades, she felt the way that fat freak, Honey Winthrop, had felt year after year after year.

  “Prince, I can’t … I’m simply not capable of facing the media this weekend. Spider can introduce you. I’m staying right here. I won’t leave my house, I don’t care what anyone says … I just can’t do it.”

  “Billy, that’s the wrong way to handle this,” Prince said sternly.

  “There’s nothing else I can do. Prince, I’m sorry, but I have to be by myself.” Her austere conviction was unanswerable.