The Right Address

by Carrie Karasyov

  “Versace, usually no, unless they have a conservative-for-them pastel. And wear it wisely, like to a theme party, not to some country club event.”

  “Got it,” nodded Melanie.

  “Valentino, always. Be careful with Armani—he has a penchant for appearing too much like Talbots of late. And you don’t want to dress like your cleaning woman.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Carolina Herrera, flawless. Gianfranco Ferré is grand I suppose, yet I’ve yet to know one person who shops there.”

  “That could work to my advantage.”

  “Or disadvantage, if you run into a grandmother wearing the same frock. Michael Kors, perfection. Stella McCartney—”

  “Love her!”

  “You’re too old, I’m afraid, madam.”

  “I’m thirty-five!”

  “Sorry. La Perla is noxious. Cheesecake Factory, if you will. Victoria’s Secret for the rich.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Chances are if the general public has heard of them, so have the ladies of the night.”

  Melanie made a mental note to trash her entire top drawer.

  “Prada! You can’t tell me they’re bad.”

  “The hoax of the nineties.”

  “Really?” said Melanie, with sadness.

  “Yves Saint Laurent is magnificent, but try not to wear something that some starlet has been photographed in. You can afford to demand exclusivity.”

  “Yes, I can,” said Melanie earnestly.

  “Buy only estate jewelry. Give monogrammed silver frames from Tiffany as small gifts. Don’t purchase wedding presents from somebody’s registry. Buy something more extravagant than what they are registered for. Asprey and Garrard is good for that. You also can never err with a silver tray. Baby gifts should come from Au Chat Botté. And if need be, pregnancy outfits from Veronique.”

  “Oh, that will never be an issue,” said Melanie confidently.

  “Mr. Korn should not appear on a beach unless he is clad in Villbrequin trunks. They’re very smart.”

  “Yes, smart, okay—”

  “No to Frette—go around the corner to Porthault. Smythson is grand for everything. You could purchase anything there and you wouldn’t go wrong, but it’s Mrs. John L. Strong for monogrammed stationery.”

  “Got it.”

  Guffey turned to look at his adept student. He was excited. She really, truly seemed to be getting it.

  “You’ll do well, madam.”

  Melanie turned and looked at him gratefully. “Thanks, Guffey.”

  chapter 25

  Jerome had bumped into Joan and Wendy at Nello’s and was escorting them home. It was a beautiful afternoon, and he had little else to do.

  “So did you hear that Mrs. Korn has been buying up a storm at the auction houses?”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” said Joan.

  “The funny thing is that she is outright purchasing collections. She bought Penelope Mayhew’s baby rattle collection, Bill Blass’s shrunken staircase collection, and Monique Burden’s tea caddies. She’s in such a rush that she won’t even take the time to collect. She just goes about buying up other people’s lifelong passions.”

  “Pathetic,” said Wendy.

  “So sad,” echoed Joan.

  They walked along, shaking their heads at Melanie’s idiotic ways. Just as they passed Seventy-second Street, an elderly homeless man thrust a coffee-stained paper cup at them.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentleman. What’s the richest nation? A donation! What’s the richest city? Generocity. I’m not being greedy. I’m just a little needy. You don’t have to be a Rockefella to be a Good Fella!” he said, the routine down pat.

  Jerome turned to Joan and Wendy. “Here’s my good deed for the week,” he whispered. He gently kneeled and smiled softly at the man, whose eyed widened at the scent of Jerome’s aftershave and the sight of his gleaming white teeth aligned in a perfect smile.

  “Everyone goes through hard times, and it’s at those times that we need a little extra help,” began Jerome.

  The man’s face brightened with hope. Was this guy about to hand over a crisp twenty? A fifty? He’d scored a fifty once in front of St. James on Christmas Eve.

  “But you have to be a fighter. And get off your ass and do something!” said Jerome, handing him an envelope. He wagged his finger at the man and motioned for Joan and Wendy to continue on with him.

  “Wow, Jerome, I’m amazed. That was sooo generous!” said Wendy, gloved hand on her heart.

  “How much did you give him?” asked Joan.

  “Money? No, no, no, no, no, ladies,” said Jerome, laughing.

  “What?” asked Joan and Wendy, confused.

  “It’s a McDonald’s application,” Jerome said with a flourish, as if it were a satchel of gold ingots. “A job is a better start than some cash he’ll blow at the next crack house, do you not agree?”

  “What?” asked Wendy, floored.

  “He needs to get up and get a grip! It’s not as if he’s that quadriplegic in front of DKNY. This guy has full limbs and everything. He can work.”

  “But, Jerome . . . it’s freezing and he’s homeless!” said Wendy.

  “He had all summer to walk to Florida. Besides, I didn’t see you doling out the bills.” Jerome sneered in their faces. “Now let’s carry on. It’s getting nippy.”

  chapter 26

  “Yes!” said Melanie, shrieking with delight as she hung up the phone.

  “What?” asked Arthur, who was slumped in his dimpled leather club chair, totally engrossed in The Honeymooners.

  “We just got asked to be on the committee for the Dysmorphia Association.”

  “Aren’t you already on that committee?”

  “No, silly. That’s dysentery.”

  “Geez. What do we have to do?”

  “Just buy a few tables.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know, Arthur,” said Melanie, irritated. “Why do you always ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Well, what do you care? We have the money.”

  “I know we do. I just don’t even know what the hell dysmorphia is, and so I’m wondering how much I have to pay to help cure it.”

  “I’m sure it’s something pretty bad. I think she said it’s something like when you see your body different from how everyone else sees it.”

  “What? You mean like when fat people wear skimpy outfits ’cause they think they look good?”

  “No, silly, the opposite! Like when anorexics look in the mirror and see Roseanne Barr.”

  “Jeez,” said Arthur, shaking his head. “Who knew there were all these crazy diseases. I love it—the richer you are, the more diseases you’re surrounded by.”

  “It’s true,” Melanie said, laughing. “And a little odd that some are more fashionable than others. I had no idea that the Myopia Association is the thing to go to, but the Myopia Network is for total losers. It all depends who has myopia and which charity they give to and then who they rope in to donate. It’s complicated.”

  “Right—well, it all depends on which high-profile person has it. I bet there’s not a long line supporting the Syphilis League.”

  “Right.”

  “Listen, sweetie, by the way, speaking of money . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m just asking, so don’t get all broily. But how come your AmEx bill this month is for sixty grand?”

  “Oh, that,” said Melanie, getting up to stretch. “I had to buy new clothes.”

  “You look great! What did you need new clothes for?”

  “They were all wrong, Arty,” said Melanie with loving condescension. Men could never understand what it cost to look good in this town.

  “They looked all right to me,” he said, rubbing her knee.

  Melanie pecked him on the forehead. “I love you for saying that. But, sweetie, it’s work to keep up with all the trends and stuff. Apparently, my clothes were a
little . . . tacky I suppose. My hemlines were totally inappropriate.”

  “Who said that?”

  “I heard murmurs, and then Guffey confirmed.”

  “You’re taking fashion advice from the butler?” asked Arthur, finally looking away from the TV.

  “Yes,” said Melanie, fluffing up the pillow her buttocks had just flattened.

  “Isn’t that a little weird?”

  “No. He’s actually provided me with some valuable insight.”

  “I don’t know, Mel. I thought you were doing fine.”

  “So did I. But he really made some valid points.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know, like silk is meant for curtains and wedding dresses, not sheets.”

  “What’s wrong with silk sheets? I like them.”

  “They’re very Mafia-esque.”

  “I don’t know, Mel. Everything hoity-toity is so goddamn uncomfortable! Those new chairs in the dining room don’t even fit my fat butt!”

  “Come on.”

  “I guess that’s the point,” said Arthur, teasing. “To keep you from lingering over your dinner. God forbid you stuff yourself.”

  “I thought you liked the improvements I made.”

  “I trust you. If they make you happy, and this is how we’re supposed to look, then I like them.”

  “Thanks, babe.”

  “Just don’t go crazy following everything the butler says. It’s like reverse Jetsons, where you’re the robot.”

  “Okay,” said Melanie, smiling. “I won’t follow.”

  “’Cause if he’s so damn smart, why is he still a butler?”

  Arthur had a point. He was still a lowly domestic. Yes, he’d given her a few tips, but she was the one who was out there making it happen. Time to listen to her gut a bit more. Hell, it had gotten her this far. Melanie vowed that she’d trust herself and not waver anymore. After all, her instinct had always been her best weapon.

  chapter 27

  At ten-thirty at night, the line outside of Dorrian’s was already wrapped around the block all the way down Eighty-fourth Street, but Drew and John Vance ignored it and went straight up to the entrance.

  “Hey, man,” said Drew, high-fiving the three-hundred-pound African-American bouncer.

  “Yo, what up, Drew?” answered Steve. “Who are you with?”

  “Him, him, her, and her,” responded Drew, pointing to his brother, Chester Winthrop, Whitney Coddington, and Cynthia Whitaker.

  “Come on in,” said Steve, opening the door for them as the cold and envious New Jerseyites watched them prance up the stairs and into the restaurant.

  “It pays putting Steve on your Christmas list,” said Drew over his shoulder to Cynthia. “I gave him a Burberry scarf.”

  “I’m friends with Jimmy Dorrian, so I never have to wait,” said Cynthia, immediately swiveling her head from left to right to survey the crowd.

  From the scene inside one would think that boarding schools and small liberal arts colleges had dumped their preppiest, richest, most socially connected students off for the night. Blond waifs in Seven jeans with small Gucci bags hooked over their shoulders and tucked tightly into their armpits mingled with baby-faced boys in Brooks Brothers oxfords clutching large pints. Small klatches of friends sat at a smattering of tables adorned with red-checkered tablecloths and were digging into french fries to cure their “munchies.” The music was loud, the crowd was attractive, and pitchers of beer were being poured throughout the restaurant. It was a holiday weekend.

  “Look, Whitney snagged a table,” said Cynthia, pointing to the corner, where Whitney had already installed herself at the prime spot by the window. She waved, urgently motioning them over so she didn’t look like a loser sitting alone.

  “That girl can get a table in record speed,” said Drew, impressed.

  “Thank God,” said Cynthia. “Get me a chardonnay, please.”

  “Chardonnay?” repeated Drew. “What are you, forty?”

  “Ha, ha,” said Cynthia, who turned and made her way over to her friend.

  “Dude, check this out,” said Chester, who was leaning against the bar with his arm extended and a twenty in his hand, trying to flag down the bartender. “Remember that chick I told you about last weekend? Well, she’s here again.”

  “Where?”

  “Down there, end of the bar,” said Chester, tilting his head to the right to point in her direction.

  Drew peered down the bar and saw a Latina woman sipping some sort of pink concoction through a straw. She appeared to be alone, and older than the crowd. Her eyes were darting around.

  “Nasty!”

  “What are you talking about? She’s hot.”

  John came up behind Drew. “Who’s hot?”

  “That skank at the end of the bar,” said Drew. “Chester’s the one who thinks she’s hot.”

  “You can’t deny she’s got that Salma Hayek thing going on,” said Chester.

  “So what? I don’t think Salma Hayek is hot.”

  “You’re whacked, man.”

  “Oh, come on, it’s just really PC these days to pretend you think chicks like Salma Hayek and Penelope Cruz are hot. They’re fugly.”

  “This girl is smoking.”

  “Gross, man. Who knows who’s dipped his prick into her? She looks dirty, dude,” said Drew.

  “No way, man. She’s sexy,” insisted Chester. “What do you think, John-o?”

  John stared at her carefully. She could go either way. She was definitely exotic-looking, with dark, cascading hair and thick lashes, and she did kind of look like Salma Hayek. But she also looked a little beaten down.

  “Naah, not my type,” he said, grabbing his drink.

  “You guys are wrong.”

  “If you think she’s so great, you can have her.”

  “I will, dude,” said Chester, grabbing the two pitchers of beer. “Oh yes, she will be mine.”

  The hours flew by at Dorrian’s, as they always did. Throughout the night various people joined the Vances’ table and then moved on. Whenever anyone left, everyone air-kissed the person goodbye, even though they would see each other tomorrow. It was a subtle mimicry of their parents’ societal movements. By three-thirty, Drew had left with Stephanie Morissey, Whitney had gone home, Chester had struck out with the Latina and was hitting on a seventeen-year-old Nightingale student, and John was left at the table with Cynthia and some geek named Mike, who was hitting on her.

  “I know an underground off-hours place that’s just jamming. Any interest?” asked Mike, addressing Cynthia more than John.

  “Where is it?”

  “The meatpacking district.”

  “The meatpacking district? I don’t want to go all the way down there.”

  “Why not? It’s rocking.”

  “Rocking with who? Triple-pierced headbangers and runaways? No, thank you.”

  “Well, do you want to come back to my house? My parents are in the country,” asked Mike.

  “I don’t know . . .” said Cynthia, looking at John before she’d commit. John got the hint.

  “I’m going to get another drink—does anyone want anything?” asked John, rising.

  “No, thanks,” said Cynthia and Mike in unison.

  John wandered over to the bar. The place was only about a quarter full, but there were still people determined to make it until last call. Chester was now playing backgammon with the girl, but she kept glancing over at her girlfriend, imploring her to pick up on her ESP SOSes.

  “What’ll it be?” asked the bartender.

  “Sam Adams,” said John. He put money down on the bar and glanced around.

  “Hi,” said the Latina, who had sidled up to him out of nowhere.

  “Hi,” said John, surprised.

  “I was hoping I would get to talk to you,” she said, dipping her eyes down and taking a sip out of her straw.

  “Me?” asked John, surprised.

  “Yes, you.”

  �
�Do I . . . have we met?” he asked.

  “Not yet. But I was hoping.”

  “Oh, I’m John.”

  “Just John?” she asked, teasing him with her accent.

  “John Vance.”

  “John Vance. Nice name. Can I sit?” she asked, sliding onto the bar stool next to him.

  “Sure. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Do you want to?” she asked, batting her eyelashes.

  This was weird. This chick was coming on to him. At least, he thought she was. But since he’d had about six beers, he realized he was wrong about her. She was his type. With fun bags like that, she was every man’s type.

  “Of course I want to,” he said, assuming a deeper voice. It was hot when chicks made the first move.

  “Then let’s have champagne. To celebrate,” she said, crossing her legs so that he could see the slightest hint of a garter belt on her thigh. She must be cold.

  “What are we celebrating?” he asked as he motioned to the bartender. “A bottle of champagne, please,” he asked, then turned to the Latina.

  She leaned in so that her large bosom brushed against his hand, and whispered in his ear. “It’s a secret.”

  “A secret,” said John. “I like secrets.”

  “You do?” she said, flirtatiously swirling her straw around in her glass.

  “I do.”

  “Well, we should have a secret together, no?”

  “I think that sounds like a good idea,” said John, chugging the bottle of Sam Adams while the bartender uncorked the champagne.

  “You didn’t even ask me my name,” she said, pouting.

  “Do I need to know?” asked John, smiling crookedly. He knew chicks dug him. And this one was definitely in heat.

  “Not if you don’t want to . . .” she said, turning and picking up her champagne flute.

  “Just kidding, of course I do. What’s your name?”

  “Now I no tell.”

  “Come on, I was just teasing.”

  “No,” she said, frowning. She took a sip of her champagne, then ran her tongue along her lips.

  “Please?” he asked, smiling. She was fun. First eager, then hard to get. He knew the drill. Chicks wanted to be appreciated, at any age.

  “Why should I? You don’t care.”