“What is your pleasure, the usual?” asked Jerome, realizing that he’d gone home with the bartender after last year’s costume ball. There was nothing better than Glorious Food cater-waiters. He could eat them on toast points hourly.
“You know what, Jerome? I think I’ll go a little crazy tonight—why not? How about a Bombay Sapphire martini?” said Cordelia, surprising even herself. She’d just seen an advertisement for the beverage, and everyone seemed to be having such a delightful time as they sipped it.
“There’s my girl, steppin’ out!” he said, and ordered the drinks, giving the young bartender a secretive nod.
“So, dearie, just you and me. We’d better have fun tonight!” said Jerome.
“Let’s!”
Most people made the mistake of underestimating Cordelia, but not Jerome. He was aware that she could be aloof and appear absentminded or even medicated to others, including her own husband, but he knew that underneath the elusive exterior was a very clever and alert woman who actually had a great sense of humor. Jerome walked many ladies, but Cordelia was his favorite. They shared a common bond and were true confidants. Although Jerome never revealed his darker, kinkier side to her, and Cordelia would never ask, there existed a love between them, and a genuine friendship.
Wendy and Joan watched the curious pair from across the room.
“Wonder where Morgan is. He hasn’t been around lately,” said Joan.
“Uh-oh. She’s been walked by Jerome for the last five benefits. He’ll have to resole his patent-leathers.”
“He’s up to no good.”
“Dirty bird.”
“Look at Olivia Weston. She looks gorgeous.”
“Stunning comme toujours . . .”
“But she’s kind of yawn pretty, in a way. We’ve seen it all before.”
“You’re so right,” agreed Wendy. “I’ve seen it all before.”
“Did you see that article in Avenue?”
“Of course.”
Arthur had also resumed checking Olivia out, and when she offered up a small wave he dropped his drink.
“Arthur! I can’t believe you’re so clumsy!” said Melanie, embarrassed.
“Uh, sorry,” he mumbled.
“Look, I just studied the seating plan,” whispered Melanie to her husband. “And we’re at a total junior varsity table. What do you think happened? You think they didn’t get our check?”
“Do you think they did it on purpose?”
Melanie shot Arthur a look. “I’m not taking any chances.”
Suddenly Arthur felt nervous. He didn’t want Olivia to see him at a junior varsity table. He felt like a loser.
“Well, if we’re being snubbed, then let’s just get out of here. I’m tired of wearing this monkey suit. Why don’t we head over to Three Guys on the way home, grab a burger?”
Melanie nixed it. “We just have to suck it up. Just laugh and smile a lot. Pretend you’re having the best time.”
“Okay.” Arthur nodded. The best time.
“Also, Guff says that if you lean in and talk in a low tone, a whisper even, people think you’re saying something really important.”
“Melanie, you’re serious that you want me to take my cues from our butler?”
“He may be a butler, sweetie, but he has been around these people longer than we have. I think we should trust him on this one.”
Arthur was about to disagree until he saw Olivia lean in to her friend and say something softly. Maybe Melanie and Guffey were right.
“All right,” said Arthur, twisting his tie uncomfortably. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“The bathroom.”
“I don’t want to stand alone. I’ll go with you.”
“To the men’s room?”
“The ladies’ room, silly,” said Melanie. “Wait for me after.”
Cordelia, although determined to enjoy herself, was having a hard time feeling festive. She could imagine her exchange with Morgan when she got home: “How was the party?” he would ask. “Fine,” she would respond. “How was the meeting?” “Fine.” Then they would both return to silence and retire early. It was so predictable.
Cordelia couldn’t understand why the parties weren’t satisfying to her anymore. All of the events were starting to blend together: same people, same band, same food. What would it say in her obituary? “Attended loads of charity balls”? And she wasn’t even sure where the money went. Africa? Opera? Diabetes? Republicans?
Jerome watched Cordelia’s face and could see she was in pain.
“You know what, sweetie? Why don’t we do something radical? Why don’t we blow this joint and head over to some greasy diner and have a cheeseburger?”
Cordelia looked at him gratefully. “Let’s go!”
Arthur watched Cordelia and Jerome leave with envy. If only his wife didn’t give such a shit. But at least he and Olivia were in the same room, albeit a cavernous one.
Throughout the evening, Joan and Wendy could not stop conjecturing on what had caused Cordelia and Jerome’s sudden departure. There was endless speculation. Olivia spent the evening listening attentively to her dinner partner and stressing about her novel. Only Melanie truly enjoyed herself, after switching her place card and seating herself next to the Halseys.
chapter 17
As Morgan got dressed the next morning, he caught sight of his tired face in the mirror. He was wan and old-looking; he remembered when he always felt dashing and handsome. He felt his entire world had been hit by a cyclone and his whole universe was whipped into an anguished frenzy that he had started but could not stop. The night before, his wife had tried to offer her solace after his irritating day of “meetings,” and he had just blown her affection off. Poor thing. What had he become? After twenty-eight years of marriage, he had deceived Cordelia, lied to her, and sent her out into the night with some escort while he fucked his whining Mexican mistress. All this was not worth it—all the lies, the growing pit in his stomach, the emotional ulcer eating away at his deteriorated, bleeding conscience. He robotically put on his Hermès tie and kissed his wife goodbye, this time with a sincere “I love you” as he headed for the door. On the elevator ride down he knew he wanted his old life back. He had to put an end to this charade with Maria. He felt his world plummeting slowly, mirroring the paneled elevator’s descent.
Downstairs, another solar system was about to be hit by catastrophe.
“Madam, the Quest has arrived,” said Mr. Guffey, placing the glossy society magazine on Melanie’s walnut desk. Melanie scrutinized the cover, which was a picture of Cass Weathers and a headline that read: FUNGAL WARRIOR: CASS WEATHERS AND HER BALL TO ERADICATE THE MISERY OF ATHLETE’S FOOT.
“Oh! I was on that committee. I know they took a picture of all of us. Do you think . . .” Melanie was too nervous to finish her sentence. Would this be the moment she lost her party picture virginity? Was this the issue in which she finally entered her own race to eradicate misery, the misery otherwise known as Diandra? She didn’t even want to go there mentally, but Guffey was hovering.
“I believe this could be your moment, madam,” said Mr. Guffey with assurance.
Melanie carefully flipped open the magazine and hesitantly turned the pages. “Oh, there’s Pamela, and there’s Joan and Wendy,” she remarked, her eyes gliding over the pictures.
“I believe the cover story is usually featured in the middle, madam.”
Melanie turned the page and froze. There was the picture of the committee: Cass, Meredith Beringer, Mimi Halsey, Regina Bates, and . . . Melanie’s arm!
“Oh my god,” said Melanie.
Mr. Guffey leaned in. “You’ve been cropped out.”
“I know.”
“That’s definitely you. I recognize the gold lamé sleeve.”
“I know.” Melanie didn’t know what to say. “Is this really bad?”
“I will be frank with you, madam. Yes.”
“Oh my gosh—do you think
I should have worn the Dior? Was it because I didn’t wear the Dior?”
“I doubt that very much.”
“Perhaps they didn’t have enough space?”
“That picture is almost a full page. They could have sized it to include you.”
Melanie felt nauseous. “Okay, so um, tell me again—why is this so terrible?”
“If I may be frank—”
“Please!”
“Well, madam, in the society that you swirl in, having your photo featured in this sort of publication makes you validated; it confirms your existence. It’s the way of the world, the fifteen minutes you get. It used to be that you had to be special to be famous, and now you have to be famous to be special.”
“And, like, every who’s who is in them, right?” said Melanie, knowing the answer. Every who’s who, meaning Diandra. She had to get in if Diandra got in! She didn’t want anyone to think Arthur had married down. Then someone would tip him off and he would get his wheels turning, and some sexy younger woman would come along and snatch him up. Melanie shuddered to think. There were so many reasons she wanted—needed—to be photographed.
“Correct. You see,” Mr. Guffey said, warming to his topic, “by omitting you from these pages, they are erasing you from society. Burying you alive.”
Melanie gulped. She was dead to society. As soon as Mr. Guffey left the room, she burst into tears. This whole thing sucked! Why the heck did she have to worry about this crap? On the one hand, she wanted to be everything for Arthur and make him proud, but, on the other hand, she just wanted desperately not to care. But there was no possible way to escape.
Juanita, who barely spoke English, came in to dust and found herself consoling Melanie. She could not fully understand what Mrs. Korn was talking about, but she clearly looked upset. Something about a magazine.
“No worry, Mrs. Melanie. No worry.”
Melanie inhaled and exhaled mini-Lamaze breaths. Juanita was right. She shouldn’t worry about this. Thank god she had someone as level-headed and astute as Juanita around to talk some sense into her.
“Well, next case. What can I do? I’ve done everything I think I can. They’ll see . . .” she paused, pensive.
“They see,” agreed Juanita.
“Thanks for listening, Juanita,” Melanie said, gathering herself together to get dressed for the day and finish the rest of the mail. Hopefully Mr. Hunt would soon put and end to this misery and get Melanie her money’s worth. And next week she was meeting with the new decorators to turn her house around. Things were about to start happening.
chapter 18
Cordelia had an extremely busy day planned for herself, so she asked her driver to meet her one hour earlier than usual to “get the ball rolling.” She was “doing Madison,” that is, popping into all of the most chi-chi boutiques and having “a look-see” at their fall collections. Unlike last autumn, when chrome and slate motifs were favored, burgundies and cobalts were the preference du jour; therefore, Cordelia had to rethink everything in her closet. Unfortunately Jerome was unavailable to shop, so she had to make do on her own, which always made her a little anxious and indecisive.
“Let’s see. Shall I go with the black or white?” she asked the saleslady at Manolo Blahnik, who told her that silver was also in this season. Cordelia asked to see the look-book, and after flipping through decided to take all three colors. Armani was next, then Valentino, Carolina Herrera, and even Chloé—just out of curiosity. (Jerome had made her promise she wouldn’t do Chanel without him.) There were so many stores to see, and most of them close together, so Cordelia just kept dipping in and out of them. Her driver followed her in the car so that she could throw her purchases in on the leather seats whenever she felt like it.
“Mommy, that’s pretty!”
“That is pretty. You know what? That would be perfect for Aunt Tina’s wedding.”
“Yes! Yes!”
Cordelia turned around to see an elegantly dressed, very attractive woman in her thirties with her flaxen-haired six-year-old daughter, who was clad in a pressed green Chapin uniform. They were looking at a cotton candy and butterscotch smock dress on a mannequin in the window of Bonpoint.
“Shall we go inside and try it on?”
“Yes!”
Cordelia stared as they went into the store, the girl skipping with delight and the woman smiling with maternal pride. Something about the scene made Cordelia freeze. She glanced back at the window. She watched the mother and daughter talk to the saleswoman and point to the outfit, and she watched the saleswoman nod and lead them to a rack of clothing. She was riveted. It was like watching a couple fight, or a car wreck, or a really good episode of Frasier. She simply couldn’t turn away. She had always wanted a daughter.
She got into her car. “Julio, we’re going to Tiffany’s.”
“Yes, Mrs. Vance.”
Tiffany’s was not a venue that Cordelia or her friends frequented, unless they were purchasing something off of someone’s bridal registry or buying lesser acquaintances holiday gifts. (They had the most delightful trinkets such as silver key chains, money clips, and Elsa Peretti earrings that were perfectly appropriate for household staff and the secretaries at Morgan’s firm.) Cordelia was aware that only amateurs would buy jewelry there (even the engagement rings were meant for the out-of-towners who didn’t know enough to buy estate or go to a diamond dealer to have the perfect bauble made). But there was something that she adored about the place, so she often stopped by.
Cordelia’s driver opened the door for her on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street and watched as she walked to the revolving doors. She glanced back at him as she made her way in and watched him pick up the car phone. He really shouldn’t be making social calls on my dime, she thought.
“Hello, Mrs. Vance. How are you today?” greeted a salesgirl.
“Fine, thank you, Hilary.”
“What can we do for you today?”
“I’m just looking around. Perhaps something for my niece, or my housekeeper. We’ll see.”
“We have a lovely new collection of diamond earrings in,” said Hilary, leading her over to a counter. “Simply gorgeous.”
“Let’s have a look-see,” said Cordelia.
While Cordelia browsed the $100,000 and up counter, she did not notice, nor would she have, that Maria had entered the store. Maria pushed through a group of Arkansas tourists and elbowed her way past some Osakans to get to the counter that displayed sterling silver rattles. She tapped her finger along the glass, smudging the recently Windexed vitrine until she found a rattle that would be perfect for her little Schuyler.
“Excuse me!” she yelled at a saleslady across the counter. “Excuse me!” she continued impatiently.
“I’ll be right with you, ma’am. I’m just helping another customer.”
Maria plopped her logo-covered Louis Vuitton handbag down on the case with a bang, and the saleslady looked over.
“Please be careful, ma’am,” chided the saleslady.
Maria sighed deeply and loudly, and whipped her wrist out of the folds of her enormous fox-fur coat. She looked at her watch and sighed again. She glanced around impatiently. This was a fucking joke. They were treating her like scum. Did they not know who she was? She was more bling-bling than any haggy bitch in the joint! If only her brother was here—he’d demand some attention. She watched the salesladies effusively tending to other customers. What was so much better about them? Look at that old weather-beaten blonde in the corner, whom three salesladies were obsequiously throwing themselves at. You couldn’t even tell what designer made her clothes. Maria moved closer to see what the big deal was.
“And this one, Mrs. Vance, is my personal favorite . . .”
Mrs. Vance? No. Fucking. Way. Was this Morgan’s ball and chain? She was as old as Mrs. Roper.
Maria watched as Cordelia examined the diamond and sapphire earrings. Another customer called to the salesgirls, who dispersed, leaving Cordelia alone with the jewels.
Maria was about to approach when she saw something that made her stop dead. Cordelia discreetly took one of the rings and put it in her pocket. No way! So this is what she’s all about, thought Maria.
“Hilary, I’m just going to leave these. I don’t want anything today,” said Cordelia, raising her voice so the salesgirl would hear her.
“Okay, Mrs. Vance,” said the salesgirl, returning and sweeping the jewels onto a velvet mat without even looking at them.
“Thank you.”
Cordelia lingered a minute, casually staring at another case as if nothing were amiss. Maria decided to make her move.
“Cordelia Vance?”
“Yes?”
“It’s me, Maria Garcia. I used to work at Brown Brothers. We met at the Christmas party.”
“Oh, of course. It’s nice to see you again,” responded Cordelia, who had no recollection of this woman whatsoever.
“It’s very nice to see you. How’s your husband?”
“He’s fine, thank you. Working hard as ever. How have you been? You left to . . . ?”
“I had a baby.”
“A baby! Terrific! Congratulations. Boy or girl?”
“A girl. Schuyler.”
“Beautiful name. Well, you are very lucky.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I always wanted a little girl.”
“You did?”
“Well, yes. Of course I love my boys, but they grow up and find their own families. There’s nothing like a little girl. They never leave you.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
“I really must be running, so please take care.”
“Thank you. Send my best to Mr. Vance.”
“I shall.”
“Goodbye.”
Maria smiled. She turned back to the salesladies. “Excuse me, can I get some help here?”
The salesgirl gave her a withering look. “I’ll be right with you.”
Maria banged her fist on the glass. “I said I want service!”
“I’m assisting someone else. I will help you when it is your turn.”
“What, I don’t look rich to you? You don’t think I could get you a sales commission? Well, I saw Pretty Woman—did you? And that is me! Without the hooker part. So you better get your saleslady ass over here and do a little song and dance for me now!”
The Right Address Page 11
