The Right Address

by Carrie Karasyov

  “Michelin, like the tires?”

  “Yes. But not.”

  “So I should get a four-star guy from France or something?”

  “Three stars.”

  “Mr. Guffey, has it escaped your attention that we’ve got a ton of dough? We can afford the best, so we should get a four-star guy. I mean, what the hell? Do you think I can’t tell the difference or something—I don’t have the palate? Because, trust me, I know good food.”

  Poor Melanie, thought Mr. Guffey as he bent down to pick up some discarded outfits off the floor and put them on hangers. He knew her defensive mode. She switched it on like a chameleon abruptly changing hues to avoid becoming chomped prey on a greater beast’s molars. Sometimes he felt like he was watching an episode of National Geographic Explorer when he watched her quake, then rage—as if a stern, solemn voiceover would accompany her actions. Here we have a native in her local habitat. Watch as she flits about trying to avoid humiliation and scorn. Her eye twitches as tension mounts, and she preens in the mirror to reinforce her fading sense of territorial safety . . .

  “Madam. Michelin has only three stars. That’s the highest.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “I shall go check on the caterers’ arrival then, and see to Juanita’s straightening up.”

  “Thanks . . .”

  Melanie sat listlessly at her vanity and took a sterling silver hairbrush to her head, combing out the snarls more and more violently while really trying to comb out the snarls of her life. There was so much out of her control, spinning away at Mach speeds: people she couldn’t win over, pedigrees she couldn’t buy, vocabularies she couldn’t match. She wished life offered a version of John Frieda Frizz Ease that she could apply to all the coarse elements of the world and smooth out all her journey’s kinks. Or if only the universe was like The Matrix and she could download all useful information in nanoseconds and be instantly shielded from derision. Then she’d be safe. But the only armor her new milieu offered was by association. Sitting on the right boards, having the right friends and the right taste, belonging to the right clubs, being invited to the right parties. Each entrée was a score for her suit of armor—a gauntlet here, a breastplate there—and she fortified herself with every new rung she attained. But just when she felt she was encased and bulletproof, something or someone would come along and undermine her and her carefully amassed coats of protection would vanish into the urban air.

  Melanie felt like she was playing catch-up. If only she had consulted Mr. Guffey sooner! He seemed to know everything—how to dress, behave, entertain. She had been too scared of him at first to even dare ask his advice. Because, really, who would have thought that she, Melanie Sartomsky, would have a real British butler in her house! (When she wrote her cousin Dotty Hix—the only person in her past with whom she kept in touch—that she had an actual manservant from England with an accent like that guy from My Best Friend’s Wedding waiting on her, well . . . Dotty freaked.) But now was her opportunity to exploit Mr. Guffey. He had to lead her in the right direction so she could turn a new page and get the respect she deserved.

  An hour later the doorbell rang. Mr. Guffey answered it and led the first arrivals, Joan Coddington and Wendy Marshall, into the Korns’ living room. Earlier Mr. Guffey had hastily removed most of the offensive furniture with the help of the doormen, shoving it all into the library and locking the door. In order to compensate for seating, he had pleaded with the Aldriches’ butler to allow the Korns to surreptitiously borrow some of the Aldriches’ beautiful gold-leaf ballroom chairs from their bin in the basement. It took some coaxing and bribing, but the old stiff had finally relented and the chairs were now understudying for the rest of the Korns’ furniture.

  In order to avoid any scandals, Mr. Guffey strongly advised that Melanie refuse all requests for a house tour by pronouncing the apartment “under construction” and promising a future unveiling at a later date.

  Melanie rose from her seat in the barely furnished room to greet her guests.

  “Melanie! How exciting to be here,” said Joan enthusiastically. She was genuinely thrilled and couldn’t wait for a tour. She and Wendy had been salivating for weeks at the thought of getting a glimpse of Casa Korn. They had been joking the entire elevator ride up about what the place would look like. Wendy had even kidded that they should both be wearing Depends in case they peed in their pants.

  “Yes, Melanie—we’d love a tour,” said Wendy eagerly. Her eyes darted across the room, taking inventory of every single nook and cranny. Unfortunately, there was only a pair of sofas in toile—yawn—and several ballroom chairs and a low coffee table. Nothing disastrously offensive for them to catalog. Damn.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, ladies, but the house is under construction. I’m actually between decorators, so we’re starting from scratch.”

  “Oh,” said Wendy, disappointed. She glanced over at Joan. “But couldn’t we just see the progress? We’d love to give you our thoughts.”

  “Yes, Wendy actually took a decorating class, so she knows a thing or two.”

  “After my divorce I thought I might dabble. But, really, who wants to wait on indecisive housewives? No, thanks.”

  “So, come on,” said Joan, gently touching Melanie’s arm to lead her into the hall.

  Melanie was about to concede, but suddenly Mr. Guffey appeared with a tray of Pellegrinos.

  “I apologize, madam, but the contractor has insisted that no one move about the apartment. It’s simply too precarious with all of the scaffolding and beams about,” said Mr. Guffey, handing each lady her drink. “He assures me, though, that in a few months’ time all will be ready for display.”

  “Well, that’s that, then. Sorry, ladies,” Melanie sighed with relief.

  “Just a peek?” asked Wendy one more time. She’d be furious if they left without a visual.

  “Yes, Melanie. You must give us a tour, or we’ll think you have something to hide,” added Joan harshly. There was no fucking way she was leaving without a glimpse.

  “You heard the man,” said Melanie, shrugging her shoulders.

  After all the ladies had arrived (Pamela Baldwin, Meredith Beringer, Fernanda Wingate, LeeLee Powell, and, of course, Mimi) and formal tea sandwiches had been set out, the meeting commenced. It actually all went quite smoothly, thanks in great part to Mr. Guffey, who somehow managed to appear from nowhere whenever Melanie was at a loss for the appropriate thing to say.

  At quarter past four, after every detail had been dissected, the final guests—Joan and Wendy—were ushered out. Melanie, ecstatic that she had been able to pull off the meeting, retired to her room with a big bowl of Orville Redenbacher and the latest Danielle Steel. Joan and Wendy, meanwhile, were in a huff.

  “What the hell was that all about?” fumed Wendy.

  Joan looked out the window of their cab. “I don’t know. I’m stunned.”

  “Didn’t you think we’d get the tour?” asked Wendy.

  “It’s some sort of freaky game she’s playing.”

  “You think she did it on purpose?” asked Wendy, wide-eyed.

  Joan turned to her friend and gave her an I cannot believe you are so retarded look. “Wendy, it’s a snub.”

  “No!”

  “Of course it is. That little Floridian bitch has something against us. It’s maddening. We’ve never been anything but nice to her . . .”

  “We’re literally Mother Teresa to talk to her at parties.”

  “I know. She’s just got a vendetta or something. I knew she was evil.”

  “Evil,” murmured Wendy.

  They both shook their heads.

  “Well, what can you do?” asked Joan, with faux resignation.

  “You’re right. Plus, who cares?” feigned Wendy.

  But the ire and venom that bubbled under their nipped-and-tucked skin was sizzling to the surface. That’s it, they both thought in unison. Revenge.

  chapter 12

  After supervising the kitchen st
aff’s post-dinner cleanup and making sure that there were fresh towels in the master bathrooms, Mr. Guffey retired for the evening. His room was off the kitchen and was decorated quite simply and specifically. Mr. Guffey abhorred knickknacks, irrelevant details, and anything personal or cutesy, so the primary features in the room were a bed, a desk (with a quill pen and blotter), and a television set.

  Most of his evenings were spent in a manner that Mr. Guffey considered quite indulgent: he would imbibe one Boddington’s beer and watch Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? which he had recorded on TiVo. He would never want anyone to know that he watched such pedestrian fare but couldn’t resist the smug feeling he got when he beheld those foolish midwesterners struggling with elementary geography questions.

  In terms of romantic attachments, Mr. Guffey left them for the layfolk. He considered himself sexual preference–free. Both sexes were repugnant to him (they were divided into two categories: smelly, hairy men and silly, narcissistic women). Not to mention that he considered sex so frivolous and beneath him that he couldn’t be bothered. There were other ways to obtain pleasure. Yes, indeed. Currently, playing Mr. Higgins to his present mistress—Eliza Doolitle’s hideously gauche American stepsister—was beyond amusing.

  As Mr. Guffey drifted off to sleep under his starched sheets, he thought of the thousands of ways to improve Melanie. It was as big a feat as penetrating a celebrity wedding on Neckers Island, but possible. Yes. Possible.

  Meanwhile, Melanie was sitting in her dressing room, maniacally rubbing Crème de la Mer all over her skin. Arthur had fallen asleep hours ago, but she was excited. Things were starting to happen. She just needed an extra effort to parlay herself into the top echelon of her world. Then the unflattering comparisons between her and the first Mrs. Korn would have to stop.

  She glanced at the 10021 cover featuring Olivia Weston. Now that was press. Melanie could imagine the buzz she’d feel being complimented if she turned up in the occasional party picture—they would certainly justify the expense of the $5,000-plus getups she’d sport. Many women of the Upper East Side had no ambition other than to be photographed in magazines as clotheshorses or socialites, only because that was the only kind of fame they could ever hope to achieve. They couldn’t ever be known for anything else, so they worked the scene to get more and more clippings of themselves. Some, Melanie had heard, even sent the social editors of magazines like W a cashmere sweater every time they were featured.

  She remembered Mr. Guffey once saying Diandra Korn could never walk into a party without having her photo snapped incessantly, her style was so superlatively unmatched. He had also mentioned she was in Vogue’s Best Dressed issue “year in, year out.” Plus, he had said in passing that she was close friends with many editors all over town. Melanie wondered how she could befriend these types. All it would take was one breakthrough piece and all her detractors would be forever silenced, she felt sure. Then Arthur could be not just attracted to her but proud of her too.

  chapter 13

  It was a typically packed night at the Upper East Side’s bustling rich people’s cafeteria, Sette Mezzo. Two of Ralph Lauren’s kids swung by for takeout, Wall Street CEOs dined alla famiglia, and eager social observers could not walk down the street without stealing a glance through the large vitrine to see which boldfacers were dining there. Installed front and center were Arthur and Melanie, enjoying a quiet night together. Melanie, opting out of her usual order of fish, stabbed a potato dumpling as she stared at Arthur, twirling his spaghetti. Arthur noticed her wide, zoned-out eyes.

  “How’s the gnocchi, honey?”

  “Oh, fine,” she said, with a blasé air. “But I’m really looking forward to dinner tomorrow night at Cresta. It’s opening night and, you know, they already have a three-month waiting list—”

  “If it’s opening night, how do you know if the food’s any good?”

  “Hello? It’s Pierre Mancelle’s first stateside effort. He’s only been hailed as the best chef in the galaxy. Don’t you remember, we went to his restaurant in Monaco?”

  “Right, right. Cost an arm and a leg. Six hundred and seventeen dollars—American dollars,” he said proudly. “That’s half the price of a Steely Van coffin. The full price of a Harbor Island pine box—the second series.”

  “Arthur,” she said, cooing his name sweetly, “don’t be gauche.” She paused and took a deep breath, ready to unload her thoughts. “So, sweetie, I have a fantastic idea.”

  “What’s that?” he said with a mouth full of pasta pomodoro.

  “I’m going to hire a publicist.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I’m tired of being anonymous. You work so hard and we give so much money away. You deserve respect. People should know how charitable you are.”

  “You think so?”

  “What’s the point of giving to charity if nobody knows?”

  Arthur put his fork down, incredulous but smiling. That Melanie. At least she was honest. “How about to make the world a better place?” he said.

  “Obviously,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But is it so wrong to inform the world of your generosity?”

  “I guess not. But why a publicist? Don’t you think that’ll just make more people come knocking for handouts?”

  “Not if it’s done correctly. We’re philanthropists! The real thing!”

  “Don’t you think people know we’re the real thing?”

  “I know, but I want people like Olivia Weston to know that as well.”

  Just the sound of her name triggered the happy pain of Cupid’s arrow in his heart. Arthur considered this. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to let people know they had open wallets. They should know! The Korns were generous people! They gave away their money! They spread the wealth! Melanie was right. These society people would need the information shoved down their throat. They were not good with subtlety.

  “I trust your judgment,” he said. Melanie’s smile grew wider. “But be careful. The press can twist anything around, and they hate rich people. Especially ones who made their own money.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, touching Arthur’s sleeve teasingly. “Any press is good press.”

  “We’ll see,” he said, taking his wife’s hand in his. “Just get the best publicist to handle you, then.”

  “Thanks, honey,” replied Melanie excitedly.

  She leaned across the table for a sweet kiss over the flickering votive candles, met halfway by Arthur, for all curious eyes on Lexington Avenue to see.

  “Why hello, Arthur. Melanie,” said Joan Coddington, waltzing up to the table with her husband, Phillip.

  “Hello, Joan. Hi, Phillip,” said Arthur, rising to shake their hands. He turned a shade of purple at the thought that they may have heard their conversation.

  “Hi, Joan—where’s your better half?” asked Melanie.

  “He’s right here—oh! You mean Wendy,” said Joan with a tight smile. “She’s at home with her children. We’re joining the Weatherses for dinner.”

  “I was looking for you the other night, Korn. I wanted to invite you to something,” said Phillip, in a rare conversational mood.

  “Oh? What’s that?” asked Arthur, surprised.

  “I want you to be on the committee for my charity. It’s for the Scottish Historical Society. I’m chairing a fund-raiser at the Waldorf, and I want you to be involved.” The Scottish Historical Society was Phillip’s passion in life, and he truly felt that he was endowing Arthur with a great honor by inviting him to be a part of it. Phillip was in total control of the little Park Avenue fiefdom, and he had installed all of his relatives in honorary positions (archive manager, editor of the Monthly New York Scot newsletter, etc.) so that they were all on the payroll. They answered to no one, received money through donations, and had complete discretion as to who used the building and when (and had been known to capriciously exercise their right of refusal to virtually everyone outside the inner circle, even members and nosy tourists). Bas
ically Phillip used the office on the top floor as his personal space for reading historical novels when he was tired of Joan and didn’t want to make an appearance at “work.”

  “Oh, well, I’m not exactly Scottish,” said Arthur, thrilled to be asked. He just wanted to make sure it wasn’t a mistake.

  “Doesn’t matter. We’ve got a special category for friends of the Scottish Historical Society.”

  Arthur looked across the table at Melanie, who suppressed an ecstatic smile.

  “That sounds like a very worthwhile event,” said Melanie. “The Scots have such a wonderful heritage . . . it’s really important to preserve it. I mean, what would happen to golf without the Scottish, right?” Melanie realized was rambling, but only because Joan’s piercing eyes made her nervous.

  “The benefit is for the society’s building, here, not in Scotland,” said Joan, with the slightest hint of a sneer.

  “Right, right, of course. But, I mean, I’m sure you do stuff for Scotland, right?” asked Melanie, taking a gulp of her water.

  “Yes, we do lots of things. That’s why this fund-raiser is really important,” said Phillip.

  “Super! So when’s the meeting? We can have the board to our apartment . . .” interjected Arthur.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do anything. Just buy a table. Actually, I’ll put you down for two tables, Arty. I know you can afford it. Think how many people will retire or die in the next two months!” said Phillip, laughing and slapping Arthur on the back.

  “We’ll do three tables!” added Melanie excitedly.

  Arthur turned and gave Melanie a quizzical look.

  “Fantastic!” said Phillip.

  “Come on, honey—let’s not interrupt the Korns’ dinner any longer,” said Joan, guiding her husband to the back. “Bon appétit!”

  Melanie waited until they were out of earshot before leaning in to Arthur. “Can you believe this? I mean, the Coddingtons want us to be on their committee!”

  “It’s kind of ironic—me, a Jew from Queens, supporting an event that protects one of the last standing fortresses of WASPdom in this city.”