Everyone raised her glass and a few mild here, heres echoed around the room. Arthur watched Olivia walk up to the podium. The slight rustle of her cream-colored skirt was music to his ears, and his eyes narrowed on her delicate hands, which carefully lifted her hem so she wouldn’t trip. She stood at the podium and deftly extricated eyeglasses from a small jeweled case and put them on. She looked so chicly brainy and sophisticated that Arthur gasped. He inhaled quickly, choked, and was overcome with coughs. Olivia squinted to see who was making that noise in the back of the room, and all of the women whipped their heads around to stare at him. Arthur quickly bolted into the bathroom and leaned against the bathroom door, perspiring.
“Thank you all for this unique honor,” said Olivia. “What a special gathering . . .”
The bathroom attendant stared at Arthur as he ran his hands under cold water and splashed some on his face. The attendant handed him a washcloth, and he wiped his hands and mopped his brow. He straightened his tie, threw a five-dollar bill in the tip tray, and took a deep breath and composed himself before exiting. He peered into the room again and stared at Olivia. He felt her eyes lock on his as she was talking, and it was at that moment that he was lost, his head pounding like a philharmonic timpani, his heart racing like weightless jockeys at Saratoga. His vision blurred and swirled like that van Gogh painting of a night sky. He was completely smitten. Maybe even in love.
chapter 9
Morgan looked like hell. He had barely shaved, his clothes—so perfect usually—were rumpled and untucked. And the bags under his eyes—ah, the bags. They were so enormous that they could have monograms slapped on them and be sold at T. Anthony for six hundred dollars. He had—under duress—been at Maria’s beck and call until she got out of the hospital. And as his fantastic luck would have it, she’d had to stay for almost six days due to some sort of infection or blood loss (he had begged to be kept in the dark regarding the details). As a result, he’d had to sneak in and out of the maternity ward in full cloak-and-dagger manner, dodging anyone who looked familiar, making up more lies to evade detection, and digging himself deeper in the gaping hole that he had created for himself.
But this was it, finally: the last haul. He was on his way to fetch his kept woman and his little bastardina, Schuyler. He had brought Maria a beautiful pasta dinner, which she could feast on while he packed her up, and had arranged with the doctors to wheel her out the back entrance into the town car waiting on the corner. As they reached her awning, he planned to present Maria with a generous check and keep his fingers crossed that that was all she was after. After that it would be adios, sweetheart. There were no other options.
So at eleven-thirty at night, Morgan trudged through the halls of New York Hospital with his head down, eyes averted, and swinging a plastic takeout bag from Gino in his right hand. He was rehearsing in his mind the words he would use to get Maria out of his life.
“Morgan!”
He thought he heard his name but he wasn’t sure, so he quickened his pace.
“Mor-gan,” said a woman in a singsong voice.
Shit, shit. Get me out of here.
“Morgan Vance!” bellowed a man.
There was no escape. Morgan turned around. It was Regina and Carl Bates. Shit. They were waving furiously, and he was gloriously lit by the überfluorescent lamps in the hallway.
“Morgan!” they said, approaching. “What are you doing here?”
Morgan took a deep breath and gulped. How the hell could he explain?
“What are you doing here?” he asked, turning the tables.
They were flushed with excitement and bursting to share their news. “Liddy just went into labor! You know our daughter Liddy? It’s her first. We said to absolutely call as soon as her water broke, we absolutely have to be there, so Jeffrey called us twenty minutes ago and here we are! We don’t care if it takes all night—it’s our first grandchild and we will absolutely not miss a second of it!” gushed Regina.
“And at the rate our Preston’s going it might be our last,” said Carl. “Thirty-six and not married.”
“Oh, Carl,” said Regina, jabbing him disapprovingly. “Anyway, we are just thrilled, thrilled. This is so exciting. I mean, of course, we’re not going in the room, because, really, that’s a little New Age, don’t you think? Very California, to have your family and relatives and video camera there waiting for the little head to poke out of the muffin. Not our style.”
“We would never,” said Carl, shaking his head.
“But we just will wait as long as it takes in the waiting room.”
“That’s why we call it waiting room.”
“So we’ll wait.”
“Wonderful, send Liddy my love,” said Morgan, hoping he could get going.
“Now you’re not here . . . ? No, your boys are too young. What are you doing here?” asked Regina.
Their rambling had given Morgan time to think. “Oh, my uh, assistant just had a baby.”
“Oooh,” they said in unison, looking a bit confused.
“She has no family in this country . . . she’s from Mexico, very underprivileged, worked her way up from nothing, really plugs away. So I, uh, came to see her. I just thought it was the Right Thing to Do.”
Those were magic words to people in his set. The Bateses nodded emphatically. It was amazing how good he was getting at this. This lying.
“Morgan, that is so lovely of you,” said Regina solemnly.
“Well, it’s the least I could do.”
Carl touched his arm. “I’m sure her family appreciates it.”
Morgan nodded. “Yes. They’re good people, from what I understand.”
“It must be such a shame not to have family around when you bring a child into the world,” said Regina, shaking her head.
“Tough stuff,” agreed Morgan.
“Morgan, good for you,” said Carl.
They all paused. He could tell that Carl and Regina were itching to get back to their daughter.
“I will let you go and go bring this takeout to my assistant,” he said, motioning to his bag.
“Of course! We don’t want to keep you.”
“Good luck to you and Liddy.”
“And to your assistant,” said Regina.
After they left, Morgan raced into Maria’s room before he could bump into anyone else.
“Where the fuck have you been?” she said as soon as she saw him. She was dressed in the most outrageously inappropriate pink outfit accessorized with six-inch stilettos and a cotton-candy boa. She was brushing her hair furiously and barking orders at the two Mexican women who stood next to her, helping her put on makeup.
“Hello?” Morgan said uncertainly to the women.
“This is Bianca and Lourdes, my best friends. They coming home with us.”
“Wonderful. So nice to meet you both,” said Morgan, placing the plastic bag on the table.
They gave him a head-to-toe checkout and then started giggling. They cupped their hands and whispered in each other’s ear, something Morgan had not seen another human do since he was on the playground when his sons were young. He felt immensely uncomfortable.
“I brought you pasta,” he said, slumping down in the chair next to Maria.
“Give it to me!” she whined. “I’m hungry. The food here is shit!”
Morgan handed it over. She snapped off the lid and started to wolf down the penne. She motioned for her friends to pass her napkins, and they complied. He couldn’t believe this scene: it was as if he were in the makeup room on the set of a Telemundo soap opera. Could this be his life? And how superb, now that his extrication plans were ruined. He couldn’t very well hand Maria a check and ditch her in front of her friends. It would have to wait, and he was at his limit. His noose was tightening. The lies would continue.
chapter 10
The following evening Arthur and Melanie Korn’s sleek gunmetal Bentley pulled up to Sandra and Nigel Goodyear’s legendary maisonette on Park Avenue fo
r their annual black-tie dinner dance. Jackie O’s best friend had been the previous owner, so the former first lady had often been seen coming in and out of the private double-door entrance. As le tout New York entered, staff took their coats as Feasts et Fêtes cater-waiters offered them criss-cut potato galettes with dollops of sour cream and beluga caviar. Patrick McMullan snapped the latest threads that glided by, almost blinding Arthur, who wondered, while recovering from the flashbulbs, why anyone would invite press to a private party. Meanwhile, Melanie, eager to have her new couture Dior captured on film, sauntered by the photographers, but none snapped her. Finally, Happy Renault came up and gave Melanie a half hug and faux-admired her gown right in front of the paparazzi pack. Her greeting to Melanie was simply a ploy to get in front of the legions of lenses.
“Oh, Mrs. Renault! Right here!” one shutterbug yelled, setting off a frenzy of flashes.
“One second, guys!” Happy yelled back with a flirtatious pout as she took her perfected hip-jutting pose. “Here, take this a sec,” she said, thrusting her glass of chardonnay in Melanie’s hand as the cameras snapped away.
“Do you mind?” asked the photographer, making a small shooing motion with his hand so Melanie would get out of the picture.
Melanie flushed and felt at once like a peon. She was left holding Happy’s wineglass, standing alone, cut out from the pictures and literally whisked aside. She looked around in a panic for Arthur or anyone to remove her from her isolation, but she was alone in her Siberia. She finally spotted Arthur and rushed over to him, setting Happy’s glass down on a console table on the way. Melanie clung to her hubby as if his body warmth would somehow melt the perpetual cold shoulder she was used to receiving. They walked along the room, eyes darting in every direction, scanning the frocks and face-lifts in the crowd, all punctuated by the occasional “How are you? How was your summer?” She was hardly feeling festive but attempted to rally. As a result, her words were injected with well-feigned interest, and she flashed a fake smile honed by countless months of pandering to airline passengers.
At first Arthur was thrilled to be at the Goodyears’. It had taken Melanie a full year to cultivate a friendship and wangle an invitation, a feat more formidable than penetrating the Pentagon’s security system. But now he was itching to bail and go home. He wondered if Olivia would even be at this party. Naw, she was too young—this was old fogey–land. He nodded obediently when Melanie addressed him, “Honey, you remember Cass Weathers from the Johnsons’ house?”
“Yes, how ya doing?”
He stuck close to his wife. No one was truly familiar to him. Sure, he’d seen their faces everywhere, but he didn’t really know them. He was still in awe of the blue-blood set, but he felt more at ease around Melanie’s unflappable take-the-bull-by-the-horns approach—all the high-society pleasantries exhausted him. He caught sight of one of his neighbors, Cordelia Vance, staring blankly across the room as her husband looked at his watch. Gee, looks like Morgan wants to blow this party too, thought Arthur. How weird.
“How wonderful—did you hear that, honey?” asked Melanie, nudging him.
Arthur looked at her blankly. He had zoned out, too busy looking around.
“The Weatherses have rented a house in Tuscany for the year,” said Melanie.
“Sounds nice,” said Arthur. He looked at the Weatherses closely. Whenever he was anxious he had the habit of imagining what coffin a person would end up with. Cass was definitely a steel Lincoln Deluxe, red interior, and her husband would be in the charcoal Eternity Cruiser. Although if she died first, he’d probably for only spring the Cinnabar Lincoln One-Star. Men were cheap that way. Unless a man was a philanderer. Then he wanted only the best for his dead, devoted wife, who looked the other way while he schtupped the secretary. But, hey, Arthur was all for their indiscretions, as guilt wrote bigger checks.
Cordelia scanned the crowd for Jerome, who was due to arrive any second. Her hair had been blown out—rendering her ashy blond bob even more lifeless than usual—her makeup applied to perfection, her small frame dressed impeccably in Oscar’s latest, but she felt naked without Jerome by her side; he always gushed about how dazzling she looked. Morgan had offered the obligatory “You look lovely, dear” in his formula monotone, and it no longer packed a punch. He was already checking the time, and it was hardly halfway through cocktails.
Cordelia finally spotted Jerome entering, and her face lit up. After kissing the hostess and a couple other grande dames good evening (and throwing Cord an “I’ll be there in a second” wink over their shoulders), Jerome threw his arms open from across the parlor and came to scoop up Cordelia in a hug.
“Oh, you look divine! Flawless, my dear, sans flaw,” he said, embracing his friend and shaking her husband’s hand. “Morgan, hello . . .”
Morgan looked away, uninterested. He had way more significant things on his mind. Cord smiled at Jerome, who laced his arm through hers.
“Not a soul here is more exquisite than you, my dear. Now, Morgan, I need to borrow your fetching wife for a moment and fill her in on quite an interesting little anecdote I heard today. You will be simply stunned, my dear, stunned . . .” Jerome guided Cordelia over to the Chinese Chippendale daybeds in the corner to fill her in on the latest gossip.
It is a universally known fact that there are certain requirements that a society walker must adhere to. He must dispense effusive flattery toward his walkee, have an endless well of salacious gossip, and put to good use his acerbic tongue by contriving the wittiest malicious barbs aimed at the rivals of the woman he escorts. Jerome de Stingol fit the bill to perfection.
On the opposite side of the parlor, two other expert gossips had just arrived. Joan and her husband, Phillip, had picked up Wendy en route to the party so that she wouldn’t have to go alone. Since Wendy’s divorce several years ago, the Coddingtons had virtually adopted her, always purchasing an extra seat at their table at whatever charity ball they attended, including her at holiday dinners when her ex had the kids, and transporting her around the city. It had inspired some nasty innuendo. Wendy was such a constant fixture at the Coddingtons’ side that many wondered if Phillip even invited her into the bedroom. But that was just talk. Joan was astute enough to know that the upper echelons of society are not very kind to a single woman over the age of forty (even a thirty-eight-year-old starts to inspire a sort of nervous energy), and therefore she made it her absolute mission not to abandon her best friend.
“It’s a pretty good crowd,” nodded Joan to Wendy after she dispatched Phillip to get them drinks.
“Yes, it is. Oh, I see Cordelia! And Fernanda Wingate’s here,” replied Wendy.
“And the Powells . . . oh, and there’s Marie-Josée Kravis. Always a picture of elegance.”
“No one can wear couture like she can.”
“Born for it,” agreed Joan.
They continued scanning the crowd.
“Ugh, there’s Melanie Korn,” said Wendy with disgust. “Look at how she’s practically throwing herself in front of Patrick McMullan’s camera.”
“Tacky.”
“She never learned the art of subtlety.”
“Look how awkward Arthur looks. He already has sweat stains on his tuxedo shirt.”
“Sad. He’s practically panting, he’s so thrilled to have been invited. Now, how did she maneuver her way in?”
“She just gave a bundle to the Robin Hood Foundation, and Nigel’s on the board. It’s his baby.”
“Funny that he has to solicit money for the foundation when he could just forgo this party and send Harlem to school with the money he saved,” said Joan.
“True.”
“But that would be no fun.”
“True again.”
Phillip returned with two glasses of chardonnay and handed them to his wife and her friend. He stood sipping his scotch, quietly listening to the ladies. Phillip was unassuming to say the least—medium height, medium weight, nondescript dark hair, glasses. He said littl
e, allowing his wife to run the show. The only bold personal statement he ever made was that he insisted on wearing his kilt with his family crest to every black-tie event. Joan had begged, pleaded, bribed, blackmailed, threatened, but to no avail. He put his foot down. Kilt Boy was in full effect, right down to the gigantic safety pin.
“Now, Wendy, I heard this from somewhere, and as you know it’s not for sure . . .” began Joan.
“What?” said Wendy anxiously, both surprised and disconcerted that her friend might have some scoop she did not.
“Someone told me that they had seen Melanie Korn in the 741 lobby, signing for a delivery of clothing . . .”—Joan leaned in so that no one else could hear—“from a prison.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, they said it was a delivery, and the guy had a corrections uniform and everything.”
“No!”
“Yes. And I heard once upon a time that her father was a convict.”
“Get out.”
“Yup. Hand to God.”
“This is amazing. What do you think, her dad croaked behind bars or something and they’re delivering his things?”
“Who knows?”
“Was it a good source who saw her getting the stuff?”
“It was—Pamela Baldwin—usually reliable, however, she did just have laser eye surgery, which didn’t go very well. She now sees shadows and can’t drive at night.”
“No!”
“Yes. They’re suing. Anyway, you know I’m no fan of Melanie’s, but this really seems a bit unbelievable.”
“It does. I don’t know . . . Pamela once told me that John Brooks was having an affair with Samantha Peters, when it was really Serena Peterson. She can get it wrong.”
“Yes, she can.” Joan shot her friend a sly smile. “And you wouldn’t want to get a false rumor started.”
“You know how people like to talk,” Wendy replied archly, getting into the spirit. “The next thing you know, the gossip becomes as good as true.”
The Right Address Page 6
