The Right Address

by Carrie Karasyov

  “Now those look interesting . . . Oh, look at those coconuts. And the little umbrella is darling. What are they?” asked Pamela.

  “Coconut breezes. Our speciality.”

  Melanie was getting impatient. “Just have one, they’re great.” She grabbed two and thrust them in Pamela’s face, eager to be rid of the waiter. “So you were saying?” she prompted. Pamela put her finger up for Melanie to wait as she took a sip of her drink.

  “Yuck,” said Pamela. “This isn’t very good. He should have said it had Kahlua in it. I always get a rash from Kahlua.”

  Could she get to the point for the lord’s sake? “Yeah, you shouldn’t drink it,” said Melanie, grabbing Pamela’s coconut out of her hand and dumping the contents down her throat. She then took a large swig of her own drink. She rarely imbibed at these sort of events, but if it would expedite her torture she was more than willing.

  “Be careful—mixed drinks can be sneaky!”

  “I’ll risk it. So, was there someone who didn’t want me near the dance floor?”

  Pamela sighed deeply. Melanie looked into her cracked–China doll blue eyes and realized she was face to face with the stupidest woman alive. All that WASP inbreeding had produced this Pine Manor dropout who was unable to fill her own gas tank or have a normal conversation.

  “Yes, Melanie. You know . . . well, Chauncey Goodchild, my cochair, is very tight with some of the other ladies, and I don’t know why but they just don’t like you.”

  Melanie felt numb. She took another gulp of her coconut breeze before she could respond.

  “So, what, they made sure I sat in the Urals?”

  “What’s the Urals?”

  “You know, they made sure I had the worst table?”

  “Oh!” said Pamela, still not getting it. “Yes. Shall I tell them you’re upset?”

  “No, please, definitely do not.” Melanie took another sip and continued with determination. “I’m here to have a good time, and I will.”

  “You have such a great attitude!” Pamela waved at someone across the room. “Gotta dash. But I am so impressed that you are such a great sport.”

  “Yeah, maybe it will win me an award one day.”

  Pamela scurried across the room in a flash as Melanie took her seat next to Arthur.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Bullshit,” said Melanie. A mixture of anger, humiliation, and frustration was bubbling under her skin. Sometimes this social hike was so tiresome and childish she felt like opting out. Despite all her social ambitions, her desire to parallel and exceed Arthur’s first wife in society, this was the kind of gut-churning snub moment that made her want to give up and pull the rip cord. She wanted to escape and float back down to the real world, landing in some unchallenging, rectangular M state in the middle. But if her life in a small town taught her anything, it’s that the social jungle has vines everywhere. There were probably even social hierarchies in face-painted pygmy tribes and stuff. It was everywhere. Even in rectangular states in the middle. Look at Nellie Olsen and her rich, store-owning family ruling the roost on Little House, she thought. Class and climbing and desperation for acceptance were global phenomena. But, like Sinatra said, if she could make it here . . .

  “Thank you so much for having us. What an event!” squealed Lil Broady, the wife of one of Arthur’s Addams Family–esque go-to guys. “Did you see who’s here? That’s Sarah Parker!”

  Melanie realized she had been zoning out with the poor Laura Ingalls school-supplies-in-a-bucket reverie. She still had guests to entertain and had to at least pretend she was having a good time. But she was in such a crushed mood that only lots of alcohol could help her through this event. She was already feeling a bit buzzed as she took another gulp.

  “Who?” asked Melanie.

  “Sarah Parker! From that HBO Sex in the City program! We love that program. Don’t we, Bob?”

  “Love it,” her remote-controlled hubby answered while staring at the taut thigh of a dancer like a starving Ethiopian would behold a bucket of KFC drumsticks.

  “Sarah Jessica Parker,” Melanie corrected, agitated. Did these people know anything? “I mean, that’s like saying ‘Michael Fox.’ ”

  “Who’s that?” asked Lil.

  “Exactly. It’s all about the J,” said Melanie. “Michael J. Fox.”

  Just then the chairwomen took the microphone to do their endless laundry list of thank-yous—to corporate sponsors, the faaaaabulous dancers, the florists, director Peter Martins, and so on. Melanie examined her newfound nemesis closely. Chauncey Goodchild was a sexless, bland, middle-aged woman. She had her little note cards for her speech—so prissy and perfect. How in hell did she get to be a chair? Melanie wondered. She could easily answer her own question. It was because she wolfed down muffins every morning at Payard with that bitchy coffee klatch that included the likes of Joan and Wendy. They all had too much time on their hands and too many enemies. After the tenth and final burst of mechanical applause for so-and-so’s boundless generosity, Melanie addressed her table.

  “That Chauncey Goodchild makes me ill.”

  “Uh, sweetheart—” Arthur tried to calm his visibly wounded wife.

  Melanie knew she was tipsy and probably shouldn’t continue, but she was not in the mood to feel charitable to anyone.

  “No, Arty, do not edit me on this one. That woman sucks.”

  “Why?” asked Polly Puccini from across the table. “She seems nice.”

  “Nice? NICE?” asked Melanie. “Let me tell you about nice. Her husband’s estranged trust-fund cousin bit it on some adventure-travel freak accident in rural Hawaii, and Arty kindly offered to take care of all the unpleasantness through one of his subsidiaries, fully absorbing the cost of the casket and funeral and flying the body back and everything. And those assholes barely said thank you.”

  “Wow, that is nice, Arthur,” said Lil.

  “Wait,” continued Melanie, with a silencing jeweled hand. “Then, after we eloped, we decided to have an intimate wedding reception at Doubles.”

  “Oh, that was such a lovely evening! Your dress was spectacular,” said Lil, swooning.

  “I had it copied from Stephanie Seymour’s in the ‘November Rain’ video. Anyway, guess what the Goodchilds got us as a wedding present? Just guess. And keep in mind, they are loaded.”

  “Melanie—” Arthur shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His wife was really on a rampage this time.

  “Babe. Don’t Melanie me. I want everyone to know how lame they are.”

  “So what did they give you?” asked Polly.

  “We literally got an e-mail saying, Dear Melanie and Arthur, In honor of the momentous occasion of your marriage, as a wedding gift for you to cherish, Chauncey and Frick Goodchild have adopted a goat from a rare South American breed that is tragically facing extinction. Funds have been set aside in your name to raise the goat at Hacienda Las Cabras in the hills of Peru, and one day it shall breed . . .”

  “No,” said Lil.

  “Yes. I mean, is that not a Fuck You or what?”

  “That’s the kind of gift you give to someone you hate,” Polly thought out loud.

  “No shit,” said Melanie. “I mean, that was a five-hundred-a-head seated caviar dinner. And they give us a goat we’ll never meet from near Lima?”

  “Well, hon, would you have rather had them ship it to our apartment?” Arthur asked teasingly. He knew Melanie was drunk, and he wanted to lighten the subject, but Melanie tossed him the glare she had used on the airline when lowlife shower-curtain salesmen pinched her butt.

  “Obviously not. But I’m saying big whoop if some goat croaks in another country. Plus, that’s not the point. The point is, you helped them in their time of need, shelling out thousands for that idiot who died swimming with sharks. Which was his own stupid fault.”

  “He was swimming with sharks?” asked Bob Broady, suddenly tuning in after removing his face from the salmon appetizer.

  “Yes
. Courting death. It’s a Greenwich thing.”

  “Greenwich, like . . . Connecticut?” asked Lil.

  “Yeah. You know, all those kids of privilege that kick the bucket doing these insane rich-people sports? Like there aren’t enough problems and dangers in the world—they have to cough up ten thousand dollars to go charter a skydiving plane.”

  “Why, are there a lot of Greenwich deaths with extreme stuff like that?”

  “Polly, where have you been?” asked Melanie, exasperated. “The Goodchilds’ cousin, he was in that massive heli-skiing avalanche three years ago that wiped out, like, half of Round Hill Road! And THEN, after looking the Grim Reaper in the face, he gives it the finger and swims with sharks!”

  “The Grim Reaper doesn’t have a face,” said Arthur. “He has that cloak thing.”

  This time Melanie didn’t even dignify Arthur’s observation with a comment.

  “I mean, there were literally snowballs rolling by, packed with the severed limbs of his Hobart pals, and he still went heli-skiing up until he was chowed by Jaws. It’s just a cavalier sense of entitlement, like they’re all untouchable.”

  “That’s amazing. How awful that there is this trend,” said Lil.

  “Whatever,” said Melanie. “I’m not shedding any tears. Feel bad for people who get diseases, not for those who who plummet off bridges with bungees on purpose. I think the feng shui in Greenwich is all screwed up, ’cause no one’s happy there. That’s why they seek out this adrenaline crap, to wake themselves up from their spoiled comas. Anyway, it’s all very Darwinian. Those inbred kids wouldn’t have done anything anyway.”

  “Honey, why don’t we dance?” Arthur suggested, trying to put an end to his wife’s wild theories and impassioned rants. It worked.

  “I’d love to dance! That’s a great idea.”

  Melanie loved a dance floor. And she had all the moves. She used to practice in front of her mirror and knew in her bones she could outshimmy any crappy Dance Fever contestant. Arthur took her hand and led her to the crowded floor and she coiled coyly around him and giddily tossed her head back with laughter.

  “Babe, have you had, maybe, a little too much to drink?” asked Arthur.

  “Maybe.” Melanie giggled.

  “Just be careful. You don’t want to say anything you’ll regret.”

  “I have no regrets now! But if you want, I’ll dance it off.”

  Arthur and Melanie danced up a storm, until he had to hit the john.

  “Oh come on—I love this song,” she cried in protest.

  “I have to go, Mel—”

  Just at that moment, a stunning star of the company, Albert Evans, walked by and overheard.

  “Well, I’d be happy to cut in,” offered Evans.

  Melanie’s face flushed—he was a celeb. And wanted to spin her around!

  “I’d be honored,” said Melanie.

  Evans gracefully dipped her and spun her around the floor as onlookers gathered. A photographer from PartyPicturesOnline snapped their photo, and more and more heads began to turn. As Melanie realized the pairs of eyes were on her, she bumped it up a notch, shaking her moneymaker and sexily sliding down Evans in a full-on Solid Gold move.

  Needless to say, Joan and Wendy were aghast.

  “Look at what we have here,” Jerome de Stingol mused, arching a brow at Melanie and the statuesque dancer. “She’s really pouncing on that sexy African-American gentleman. She’s writhing in ecstasy! Look at her.”

  “Jerome, he’s gay,” said Wendy.

  “I know it. But clearly she is loving the ride.”

  “She’s loving the attention,” added Joan. “It wasn’t enough we had Chauncey put her table in Antarctica. She had to march back into the limelight and take it.”

  “Well, she sure is having the time of her life,” said Jerome, dying of jealousy.

  She was. Melanie felt like a million bucks. And it drove everyone nuts. Until the next morning, that is, when Melanie awoke with an aching head and an overwhelming sense of panic about what she might have said. It took six phone calls to Arthur to assuage her fears, and seven Advil to eliminate the pain. She swore never to drink again.

  chapter 31

  The line at Clyde’s Pharmacy was ridiculous, and Joan was in no mood to wait. She was in the throes of a crisis, a real-life crisis, and all these Upper East Side ladies refilling their Valium and Vicodin prescriptions needed to move aside and let her through. Things were so bad she had even enlisted Wendy to hop over and keep her company in line before she fainted from impatience.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” said Wendy, reassuringly patting her arm.

  “I’m in agony, Wen. Agony,” moaned Joan.

  “Why don’t you let me wait? You go home,” offered Wendy.

  “No, thank you, dearie, but I absolutely cannot be forced to wait another second after this damn prescription is filled to pop those babies in my mouth and smooth that cold cream on my face.”

  Joan had gone for her usual Monday morning swim at the Colony Club. The procedure—her acid skin peel—had been on Friday, and she had been certain it would heal by Monday. She was wrong. Some sort of sixth-grade science lab chemical reaction had taken place between the peel and the chlorine, and the result was a horrifically red, blistery, scaly face. It was a disaster, and an agonizing one. She needed that face cream and those painkillers. Now.

  Wendy decided to distract her friend. A nice pure dose of gossip was always the best medicine.

  “It’s so thirdhand . . .” began Wendy.

  “What?” said Joan, immediately sliding down her dark glasses and peering over her nose at her friend. “What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. It’s . . . it’s merely, and again, very he said, she said.”

  “Wendy,” said Joan in a singsong, reprimanding voice. She loosened the Hermès scarf knotted under her chin.

  “I’ve heard more rumblings about the”—Wendy leaned in and whispered—“salsa girl Morgan Vance is seeing.”

  “Really? From whom?”

  “Meredith Beringer said her husband said he thought he saw Morgan with what he called a ‘hot little red pepper.’ See, I’m not sure it sounds plausible.”

  “It doesn’t. And besides, it would just be too juicy. It’s like out of a movie, no one would believe it. Plus it would be around by now.”

  “You know, there have been a lot of situations where things happen to people in our little world that no one would believe if it wasn’t true.”

  “You’re right,” said Joan, thinking. “Like when you-know-who’s husband caught her cheating with the black governor.”

  “Or when you-know-who married the former prostitute,” added Wendy.

  “And how about the time when you-know-who was caught in the Pierre with you-know-who?” said Joan, nodding.

  “Don’t forget about you-know-who gallivanting all over Europe with that much-married woman,” said Wendy.

  “Or what about when you-know-who’s husband married his children’s nanny?” said Joan.

  Wendy froze. “Joan, that was me.”

  Joan froze. She was right. That was Wendy. Oops. “Oh, Wendy, don’t be silly, I’m talking about the Cosgroves, from Chicago.”

  “Oh,” said Wendy quietly. “I don’t know them.”

  As sore and raw as Joan’s face was from her chlorine-tainted acid peel, Wendy’s tiny little feelings with regard to her husband’s departure several years ago were rawer.

  “Wendy, seriously, I’m not talking about him.” Wendy didn’t even like her ex’s name to be mentioned in front of her. “He’s not even important enough to be a you-know-who.”

  Wendy remained silent. It was just so depressing! She never ever thought she would be divorced, living alone, and relying on female friends for a social life. It was so pathetic. And her poor children had to live with the fact that their skunk of a father married that harlot named Tracey. And was breeding with her! And she was using his money to buy houses
in Quogue! To go to Bali!

  “I think you’re next, Joan,” said Wendy, dropping the subject.

  “Wendy, thanks for coming to wait with me,” said Joan, hoping to cheer her. “You’re a great friend.”

  Wendy put on a smile. “Thanks, Joan.”

  Wendy waited with Joan while she got her prescription filled. She was a great friend. And she was a great mom. So screw Tracey. Joan turned to her.

  “Lunch, on me at Daniel?” she asked.

  “Deal,” said Wendy.

  chapter 32

  “Mr. Guffey!” said Melanie, slamming the front door with excitement. “Mr. Guffey?”

  Her faithful servant appeared out of the shadows. “Madam?”

  “Oh, Mr. Guffey, you won’t believe it! I am walking on air. Guess what?”

  “I have no idea, madam.”

  “Guess!”

  “I’m . . . unable. It appears to be positive news . . .”

  “The best.” Melanie cleared her throat dramatically, as if bracing her manservant for the ultimate relaying of good fortune and blessing from heaven, sent down by God himself in a radiant bolt of lightning. “My picture is in WWD!”

  Melanie thrust the trade paper in his face. “ME! Dancing with Albert Evans!”

  Mr. Guffey took off his dusting gloves and peered closely at the picture. “Wonderful, madam. A step in the right direction. Up.”

  “And that’s not all. Just this morning I got a handwritten letter from Meredith Beringer asking me to be on the Fighting Irritiable Bowel Syndrome committee! Can you deal? I’m part of FIBS! It’s only one of the most glamorous committees in the city.”

  “Things are happening for you, madam.”

  “They are, aren’t they?” gushed Melanie, overjoyed. Her name would appear next to Condé Nast fashionistas and celebs alike on the invitation. She had the world’s most sought-after decorators doing a carte blanche tune-up on her apartment, she had the best charities chasing her ass for dough, and with her publicist busy in the trenches, she’d soon burst on to the scene and be in everyone’s surgically enhanced, cheekboney face. This was a blast.