“Yes . . . he told me. He had gotten food poisoning the night before.”
“That’s right!” said Jerome, smacking his forehead with his pudgy hand. “He had food poisoning.”
“Yes,” added Wendy. “He had somehow eaten some infected meat—mad cow or something. Luckily Diandra was okay. But I think Arthur had to check into the Carlyle for the night.”
“They couldn’t cancel the party at that point,” said Joan. “Diandra had put too much effort into it.”
“I’m sure your Arthur insisted,” said Jerome. “Pity, though. He missed a great party. Ah, Diandra!” said Jerome, eyes glazing over as if he were reminiscing. “What a woman.”
Melanie felt her blood boiling. Who did this homunculus toad think he was? Did he think she should sit there and take this?
“It’s funny that you think Diandra was so wonderful, Jerome,” Melanie said, trying match his frigid tone. “Because according to our mutual acquaintances, Diandra detested you. She couldn’t believe that you bilked her out of all that money for a few pillows and some ridiculous lighting advice. Now I really must go, in case Sandra has called. It was nice to see you all.”
Before Jerome could rebut, Melanie rose, and with the speed of light she retrieved her coat and hightailed it home. Jerome was left even more mortified and enraged, and Joan and Wendy were aghast. Bullies aren’t used to being stood up to. And when the bully gets bullied, he always breaks.
Where in the heck did that come from? thought Melanie as she walked in her front door. She was audacious, but she really surprised herself this time. It was as if she’d had a flashback to high school and just couldn’t take any more jeering from the rich kids. She had to stick up for herself sometime.
She wandered into her bedroom and found Mr. Guffey steaming out the last of the creases of her duvet, which was already carefully placed on her bed. There would be no errant wrinkles on his watch.
“Hello, Mr. Guffey. Any calls?”
“No, madam.”
“Really? Not Sandra Goodyear.”
“No, madam,” said Mr. Guffey tersely. Didn’t she know that no meant no?
“Weird.”
Mr. Guffey decanted bottled water into cut-crystal carafes on both sides of the bed as Melanie went into her closet and hung up her blazer. She returned and plopped down on the recently ironed bed. Mr. Guffey repressed his frustration that his mistress couldn’t even wait until he was out of the room before she messed it up, and he started his retreat.
“Mr. Guffey, one question?” asked Melanie, flipping off her Manolos.
“Yes, madam.”
“Did Diandra really have . . . you know, amazing, fantastic, blah, blah, blah taste?”
Melanie asked this confidently, her head cocked to the side.
“Yes, she did, madam.”
What? She pays this guy and he can’t even lie to her?
“Um, okay, thanks,” she said, surprised. “That’s all.”
Mr. Guffey left the room, and Melanie lay back on her bed and looked up at the ceiling. Great. Just when she thought she was making progress with those society types and Mr. Guffey, she suffered a setback. Why did they all have to make it so difficult? Melanie was in a depressed mood all night, and drifted off to a troubled sleep.
chapter 22
It takes a tough cookie to ascend out of a life of potential pole-straddling the way Melanie did, but every so often her steely resolve would flicker and then fade to black. While she knew she couldn’t compete with the ghost of her husband’s departed wife, who was supremely beautiful, poised beyond measure, and oozing taste and refinement, she also knew there must’ve been something pretty damn magical about her. So what was this golden ring that lent Diandra this impenetrable aura of perfection? Melanie needed to figure it out. She recalled how Joan and Wendy said Arthur had been steamrolled by her flight down south, and whenever she had broached the topic of Diandra, Arthur swept it under the rug, which Melanie translated as residual lingering heartache.
So what was so enchanting about this broad? The way people gushed about her. Melanie tried to expunge the words of reverence when spoken from the mouths of poseurs like Jerome de Stingol, and yet they hung in the air like a taunting vapor over her head. She wanted to know more about this mystery woman who had so gracefully ensnared Arthur’s heart.
So one rain-soaked Monday morning, Melanie’s curiosity led her footsteps to the New York Society Library on Seventy-ninth Street off Madison. It was the perfect place for a private mission, situated splat in the center of a neighborhood where most denizens had their own private libraries, and even if they didn’t would never deign to “rent” a book. When Melanie entered the subscription reference athenaeum, which was adorned with looming ceilings, exquisite reading chairs, and a large bound periodicals section, she was certain not to run into anyone she knew. That didn’t stop her from taking a few surreptitious glances around the room before she launched into her quest.
After a quick search for Diandra Korn (née Diandra Chrysler), Melanie’s computer spat out page after page of referenced party pictures in WWD and Harper’s Bazaar. She was frolicking with Lee Radziwill on yachts in the South of France. She was in Paris with Susan Gutfreund. She and her bosom buddy Carolyne Roehm were at the Winter Antiques Show. Party after party, Diandra was there. There were other magazine layouts in which Diandra was featured in head-to-toe couture, and photo essays chronicling her love of garden design, and chic little themed dinner parties for thirty. There was even an article she penned herself for Town & Country on global fabric excursions. But what really piqued the second Mrs. Korn’s interest was a Q&A-style interview, ironically in the Palm Beacher, which described Diandra reclining on a chaise, sipping a kir royale, and discussing the matter of offspring with a reporter named Goodie Tattinger.
Yes, this was definitely the little pearl that Melanie had been shucking oysters for. A frank discussion about Little Ones. And this was way before magazines like Vogue did a motherhood issue with Amber Valetta toting her giant putti on the cover and stories of chic yummy mummies filled the glossed pages. No, this was from the 1980s, and children were not yet the It fashion accessory. And in this spectacular find, Diandra, who was notoriously whippet thin, openly condemned tots.
“We women have fulfilled our duties to nature! There are too many people on this planet, what with China and all,” she was quoted as saying.
Melanie raised a brow. Hmm.
“They way I see it, you can be the focal point of your husband’s life, or you can share him,” continued Diandra. “I’d rather have the attention myself. Children are simply too messy. I much prefer peace, quiet, and cleanliness to shrieks and sticky fingers.”
Goodie pressed Diandra, but she stuck to her guns. “I have my dogs,” she said. “Those are my babies.” When Melanie turned the page, she saw a close-up of Diandra’s baby poodles wearing Lilly Pulitzer dresses. Melanie reread the interview over and over until she had committed it to memory. She kept hoping to discover more about this elusive society darling, but the interview was little more than eight hundred words. She squinted and looked hard at the picture of Diandra. She wasn’t that great. Nothing really glamorous or captivating. And getting up there in the age department. At least Melanie had that on her.
As Melanie walked home replaying the findings of her research binge, she figured Arthur and Diandra had spoken of children and he obviously didn’t want any. It’s funny, but she and Arthur had never really discussed children in a family-planning sort of way. He had said once he loved kids, but then Melanie never saw him melt when they spied a cute kid in an airport, and now she knew why; he must have shared his ex’s fear of little runny-nosed runts rattling their gilded cage. And in retrospect, she remembered a conversation with Arthur in which she asked him why he and Diandra hadn’t had children and he said there was no way he could do that. Maybe they were right; it would totally uproot their lives and most certainly derail the high-society express train Melanie hoped
to board. But she always had a small tug toward kids and envisioned having one of her own. She’d love a daughter. Although a son would also be nice. Either or. But in her visions of little booties and fatty cheeks, it suddenly hit Melanie: Diandra was on to something; if she had a baby, she couldn’t be the one who was protected and cradled anymore.
Melanie returned home to the whirlwind of hammering, sawing, and drilling that was her work in process. Her baby, if you will. Thanks to the efforts of her new decorators, the Korns’ apartment was getting its much-needed face-lift, and the guts were spewing. There were exposed beams, ventilation tanks, mold removal crews, and demolition men aplenty. The frenzy sent her scrambling to her room to avoid the din and to check her agenda to begin her outfit planning for the evening. She knew she had some tedious dinner with some colleagues of her husband’s, but she couldn’t recall which ones.
She flipped through the pages of her Hermès datebook. Ugh. It was Milo and Roberta Tupelo, the casket distributors. Melanie remembered when Arthur had dragged her to their estate in Bayonne, New Jersey. They had enormous gold gates with swan statues that looked as if they were barfing up fountain water. Gag. The last time they had gone out in the city with them, they’d hit Sette Mezzo and the Tupelos were so incredibly loud that Melanie wished there were a volume knob on the back of Milo’s head. She’d even overheard someone whisper, “Those must be Melanie’s obnoxious bridge-and-tunnel friends—Diandra would never have dined with such . . . colorful creatures.”
Melanie caught her breath as she saw the faxed memo from Arthur’s office sitting on her bed. “Coco Pazzo, 8:30 P.M. Dinner with the Tupelos.” No way. Melanie speed-dialed her husband’s cell. He was already en route home.
“Arthur, there is no way we are going out to Coco Pazzo with Milo and Roberta.”
“Hon, what’s the problem? We have to go out. The house is under construction. It’s like a tornado hit it.”
“I don’t feel comfortable squiring them around at our neighborhood places, if that’s okay. She looks like Carmela Soprano.”
“Nice.”
“Come on, Arthur, it’s not that I’m a snob. It’s just that everyone else is. I just . . . don’t want to give anyone any more ammo against me. The Tupelos are so noisy, it’s like they have microphone implants in their larynxes. Please. Let’s just make it a quiet night at home. I have Wayne here and everything.”
“I thought you said Wayne wasn’t a real chef; he was just a cook and not good enough.”
“Milo and Roberta don’t know the difference! They’ll love the food. Come on, pleeease?”
“Okay, okay. I’ll call Milo now.”
So much for a quiet night. As Arthur’s elevator rode up to his vestibule, he was greeted by hard hat–clad men covered in sawdust carrying panels, and the rattle of buzz saws making ear-splitting grinding sounds. Just as he plopped his heavy briefcase on the bench in the foyer, Melanie turned the corner in a semifrazzled huff.
“Watch out for my pillows, sweetie,” she admonished. “I just had them redone; I heard Brooke Astor has this same fabric in her living room!”
Arthur picked up his stuff and looked around for a secure place to put his briefcase. Lately he felt a little uncomfortable in his own apartment. Everything was so fancy; he knew his wife wanted so badly for it to look “proper.” The chair in the front hall where he usually placed his briefcase now had a little rope around it so no one could sit on or put anything on it. That was after the curator of some museum in Philadelphia came by for an appraisal and was horrified to see Arthur’s somewhat plump (okay, really plump, but she was trying) sister Elaine sitting on it. Apparently it was from some important era—Louis something—and there were about two left in the world. After that Melanie forbade him from putting his briefcase on it. And Melanie had taken away the candy cane–striped bench in the front hall to be refurbished or something and wouldn’t allow him to put his things on the floor because it would make them “look like the Bunkers.” These days he didn’t know quite what to do with it. So finally he just stood there clutching his briefcase and looking at Melanie helplessly.
“Melanie, you gotta give me a place to put my stuff,” implored Arthur.
“I have found you a perfect place, darling. Follow me,” said Melanie, leading him down the plastic highway that was protecting the hall rug from errant paint splatter. They passed a series of Saran Wrap–covered Matisse collages that had been hung symmetrically on the beige walls and continued past several arched doorways, which led into Melanie’s office, Arthur’s office, the breakfast room, the dining room. They finally arrived at the area of the apartment that Melanie now referred to as “the servants’ quarters,” where the kitchen and maid’s rooms—and of course Mr. Guffey’s suite—were located (she’d heard it called that in a BBC series and thought that’s what rich people called them). There was a small closet just before the bar in the pantry, which Melanie opened, beaming. One side of the closet housed mops, brooms, and buckets, which had obviously been recently pushed together to make the other side of the closet appear empty.
“You can put your things here till the construction’s finished, sweetheart,” said Melanie.
Arthur sighed deeply, knowing full well that it was useless to fight Melanie on decorating issues.
“Thanks, but if I have to walk this far, I may as well just put it in my office.”
Arthur’s office was the one room of the apartment that Melanie had no control over. She had tried, but he had held his ground. Arthur doubled back to chuck the stuff in there and have a quick cigar before the company arrived, but only minutes after he lit up, the doorbell rang.
“Hiiii!” Roberta squealed at the Korns’ door, and hugged Arthur and Melanie.
“Come on in,” said Melanie. “Sorry for the chaos. We’re redecorating.”
“Gotcha!” said Milo. “Some operation ya got here!” he added, smacking Arthur, his old pal.
Of course the Tupelos insisted on a tour, and although the house was in disarray Melanie was actually pleased to indulge them. It would be practice for when important people came. So as Melanie led them around the apartment she made sure to point out every priceless artifact and mention how much it had cost and if any other distinguished people had previously owned it. Milo and Roberta kept nodding, not quite sure who “the Steinbergs,” “the Paleys,” or “Jayne Wrighstman” were but knowing they must be important by the flourish in which Melanie mentioned their names.
As the group sat down to dinner and talked about “the industry” (i.e., the death biz), Melanie’s animation left her and her eyes glazed over. These brute creatures from across the river troubled her with their accents and big gold watches. She’d picked up a lot in New York and somehow knew now that their over-the-top, garish look wasn’t refined. And it was true, Diandra would never have spent time with people like this. Melanie felt bad for thinking such snobby, evil thoughts—after all, she was from Nowheresville herself—but somehow these hairsprayed heathens threatened her. They were like a cracked-open time capsule instantly transporting her back to her own days of tawdry style, and she didn’t like the journey.
“That Bobby Silverstein, he’s some frickin’ character!” Milo practically yelled across the table while pounding it with his fist. Mr. Guffey came around to each person with the filet mignon, and Melanie could see he was visibly put off by her crass guests.
“That fucking guy! He kills me,” Milo continued, screaming. Melanie shifted in her seat uncomfortably as Guffey ever so subtly bristled. Melanie wondered why Milo was so loud.
“You know, Bobby Silverstein has this big business with the chain of funeral homes in South Jersey. And his brother, Gordy Silverstein, has a company making draperies—you know, window dressings and shit. So I says to Roberta, ‘Hey, with these Silverstein brothers, either way, its curtains!’ ”
Arthur belly-laughed as Roberta cackled up a storm. She had her mouth full of scalloped potatoes, which came flying out in little bits the
harder she guffawed. Melanie sipped her champagne and had a full-body cringe as Guffey exited for the kitchen, clearly disgusted. Melanie desperately hoped Guffey knew these were her husband’s imports, not hers.
“So, Mel!” squealed Roberta in a Fran Drescher–esque nasal foghorn of a voice. “What’s the deal with kids? It’s been two years now! Oh, I gotta show you the pictures of the gang. Milo junior is ’uge!”
Melanie hated it when people didn’t put the “h” in huge.
“And little Jordan is twelve—can you believe it? Top of his class. And Jared is ten . . . little Madison is so sweet—she’s my angel—she’s seven now, and baby Hudson is four! Time flies, ya know? So when’re you getting on the kiddo wagon?”
“Oh, well . . . we don’t want kids,” said Melanie.
Arthur sat up, looking surprised at his wife’s cavalier announcement.
“We just think, you know, our life is very ordered,” she added calmly. “I prefer peace and cleanliness to shrieks and sticky candies.”
That was news to Arthur. He shrugged and looked at Melanie, feeling suddenly very far away from her.
“Really?” asked Roberta, astonished.
“Yup,” said Melanie. “We prefer white couches to bean bags.”
“But they’re little slices of heaven,” began Roberta, about to argue her case until Milo had the wits to shoot her a look.
“Next case!” Melanie said cheerfully, knowing she was squashing down the truth about her feelings toward wide-eyed little nugget faces and chunky baby feeties. But a clamoring brood was decidedly unglamorous. Exhibit A: the Tupelos. A new topic was in order.
“Milo,” Melanie said with all her summonable enthusiasm, “tell us about your trip to Taiwan!” Not that Melanie truly cared; she wondered why anyone would ever want to go to Asia.
Milo happily plunged into their odyssey in the Orient and as Melanie nodded, pretending to pay attention, out of the corner of her eye she looked at the mall-frequenting mom across the table from her. Roberta was listening to her Milo with rapt attention and a doting gaze. Melanie suddenly realized how sweet and unaffected the Tupelos were. Yes, Roberta was loud and obnoxious and garish, but there was love there; for her husband and her five kids, there was love and pride bursting from her size-twelve seams. That was pretty impressive, thought Melanie. And odd. Here Roberta was in the Korns’ palatial palace on Park, and it was glaringly obvious that Arthur was the much better catch, but she was still happy with her life and her hubby. You don’t see that often. She suddenly felt extreme guilt for harboring such secret condescension. So they were cheesy and would make the 10021 set call central casting for the next Scorsese flick, with their Sopranos-esque getups, but they were good, loving people.
The Right Address Page 14
