The Right Address

by Carrie Karasyov

  “I’m sure it’ll be photographed as many times as the Boardman sisters.”

  She laughed, hoping he was right. What a compliment! She led him across the hall to the grand parlor, decorated by Ann LeConey, who was Diandra’s favorite. She was so proud of the massive renovation she’d had done in less than two months; she’d paid triple the normal rates to rush everything, but what’s money for if you don’t spend it? And while the armies of decorators has been installing, she had been all over town swinging paddles relentlessly at all the auction houses, amassing a new collection of artworks that would make everyone foam at the mouth. She proudly led the way like the Price Is Right girls through a showcase showdown, past the mahogany balustrade of the large staircase into the massive drawing room, swimming in silks and satins.

  “Of course, you may have read that we purchased this chair at the JFK auction. Such a tragedy about the son. And the wife! Caroline Bessette!”

  “Carolyn.”

  “Right. Such a horror. People with real class like that are like an endangered species. There are very few women of taste left,” she said, unconsciously counting them on her fingers.

  “You’re obviously including yourself in the glittering pantheon,” said Crispin, baiting her.

  “Oh, you!” said Melanie, flattered and unsure how to react. Crispin stared at her, waiting for her response. “Well, everyone aspires to be the best,” she offered.

  “You’re absolutely right,” said Crispin, amused. “And I believe Olivia Weston will carry the torch for the future. Doesn’t she live in this building?”

  “Yes, she does. Such a sweetie. I was at her house the other day.”

  “Oh, you two are tight?”

  “No, er . . . no.”

  “But you are friends?”

  “I like her very much,” said Melanie.

  “You seem like such opposites.”

  “Well, I guess . . .”

  “I suppose people are more alike than you think,” offered Crispin.

  “Yes, that’s true!” responded Melanie with alacrity.

  Crispin squinted and scribbled something down on his notepad. Melanie decided to move on by highlighting the exquisite provenance of various decorative objects around the room (“This bar cart was Pamela Harriman’s”; “And this ashtray was Babe Paley’s!”). She guided him into the ornate library complete with the rare leather spines of a bibliophile’s first-edition fantasy.

  “And this, this was Slim Keith’s cigarette case—” She held it up to him, smiling, hoping for a reaction as if to say, “Love me, Daddy!”

  “You smoke?”

  “No.”

  Silence.

  “Um, let’s go into my office!”

  She led him up the stairs, passing a large painting in a gilded frame.

  “This is a Claude Monet. There’s one at the Met just like it, but ours is better, scholars have said.”

  “Lovely. What scholars?”

  “Um . . .” Melanie was flummoxed. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  As they ascended, two cute (but not that cute) twenty-somethings walked down, holding various notebooks and invitations.

  “Oh, Billy, this is Susie, my assistant.”

  Susie nodded politely.

  “And this is Emma, Susie’s assistant.”

  At the top of the stairs, there was another large entrance hall with eagle sconces she and Arthur had bought at auction for four hundred thousand dollars. She showed them to Billy, who couldn’t help but realize that she was pointing them out in the very same way a flight attendant would demonstrate where the emergency exits are.

  She stopped by a pair of micro mosaic side tables.

  “These were in the Rothchilds’ country estate in England. Not the suicidal Rothchilds, mind you, a different branch. Provenance is very important to us.”

  “Pedigree is primary.”

  “That goes without saying. We have a similar one at our home in the Ham—” She’d caught herself, thank god. “At the beach. We were foolishly planning on living out there full-time. I mean, it is twenty thousand square feet, forty acres—we’d be fine! But we scrapped that idea.”

  “I see.”

  “I used to think I was a country girl, but I soon realized I was a country house girl.”

  They made their way back downstairs, pausing by a Degas statue of a forlorn-looking ballet dancer in an aged yellow tutu. Melanie was leading him toward the dining room when Billy stopped.

  “What’s this door?” Billy asked, leaning for the filigreed antique knob.

  “Oh that’s—”

  Before she could answer, he turned it and opened the door.

  “NOOOOOOO!” screamed Melanie, as if being stabbed by a machete-wielding maniac. Billy was alarmed by her ear-piercing shriek. But the damage was done: before his eyes was Arthur’s private office, complete with his black leather Jennifer Convertibles furniture from his days across the river. Yankees memorabilia lined the walls, and autographed balls and jerseys were displayed in lit glass cabinets. Melanie, unable to recover in her momentary shock of The Press seeing her husband’s sports garbage, caught her breath and swiftly closed the door.

  “Oh, this junk is all just Arthur’s loot. His hideout, you know.”

  Trying to paint over the visual faux pas that was her husband’s lair, she swiftly led her guest into a stunning chamber with painted rococo panels and a Georges V desk.

  “Voilà! This one is my office.”

  Billy looked around. Clearly he was impressed, thought Melanie.

  “What do you do, exactly, Mrs. Korn?”

  “I’m a philanthropist,” she said, as is she were saying, I bring water to ailing souls in a hospice. “I work entirely on behalf of the people who are less fortunate than Arty and myself.”

  “How does your work compare to say, that of Joan Coddington or Blaine Trump?”

  “Well, Joan Coddington works out of a phone booth at the Colony Club. She doesn’t have a setup like this!”

  “Is there any . . . rivalry among women in your philanthropy scene?”

  “No, no, no . . . I mean, not on my side, that is. Most of these socialites are all talk and don’t actually do anything but coast on the Roman numerals at the end of their husbands’ names.”

  “So you fancy yourself as different.”

  “Different compared to whom? I mean, I don’t just want to throw money around so I get good tables at charity balls. I mean, I’ll be honest—I want good tables at events as well, but it actually is really important to me to make a difference. ’Cause if you don’t, then what’s it all about?”

  “So whom do you compare yourself to?”

  “Well, I really admire Brooke Astor. Everything she has done has been so incredible.”

  “So you consider yourself the next Brooke Astor?”

  “As far as my charitable ambitions.”

  “So, yes?”

  “If that’s the case, then yes, I’m the next Brooke Astor.”

  As the sides of his mouth slowly lifted to a bold smile, Billy’s small cassette recorder in his breast pocket was lovingly reeling the thin brown tape in, printed with her every murmured word. It sucked all her stridently confident banter into little audio codes, ready for playback and transcription in an hour’s time at the East Sixty-fourth Street Observer offices, to be savored forever. And Crispin was smelling a cover story.

  chapter 35

  It had been a busy morning for Jerome de Stingol, who had spent hours—hours!—rearranging the Bateses’ toy bank collection in their new Carnegie Hill apartment, which had a spectacular view of the Jackie Onassis Reservoir. When he finally took his leave, the weather had cooled considerably and he was quite chilly in his light Barbour jacket. As he was miles away from Bergdorf’s and even farther from Paul Smith, he made an emergency detour and pushed open the blue door to J. McLaughlin. He almost gasped as he felt seasick from all the whales embroidered on the Nantucket reds, and he even put a c
alming hand to his throat, though none of his ladies were on hand to smile at his dramatic gesture implying need for an emergency Dramamine.

  “Scarves, please?” he bellowed to the smarmy, pleated-front khaki–wearing prepster behind the counter, who was reading Handbag Designing for Dummies. Hmph. Everyone thinks she can be the next Kate Spade these days. She’s probably named Penelope.

  “Right on this shelf,” she gestured, leaving her entrepreneurial satchel dreams for a moment to escort the impeccably dressed de Stingol to the cashmere wares. He selected a plain cranberry one and studied the hue in the store light and then again by the window.

  “No need to wrap it,” he said.

  He emerged swathed in his new acquisition, which protected his delicate throat from the cold. As he passed the perfectly squeegeed windows of Carnegie Hill on his way to lunch with the girls, he glimpsed at his smart reflection off the shiny glass of the casual café Island. Then, through the glass, he spied Melanie Korn getting up from her table to leave. She was wearing way too many jewels for daytime.

  Jerome had hoofed it in his Stubbs & Wootton loafers almost twenty blocks when he burst into RSVP, where Olivia Weston and Brooke Lutz awaited him at a charming table by the window, overlooking Lexington. And more important, overlooking all those who entered for lunch across the street at Swifty’s—Dominick, Mimi, Pat, Mario—and the girls were so pleased with the divine sport of people watching, they hardly noticed their friend was ten minutes late.

  “Oh, I’m mortified to keep you two lovely doves waiting!”

  “Gerôme,” Brooke pronounced in a parfait French accent. “Do not worry, love. We were having a delightful time spying.”

  He embraced Brooke, then her delicate compatriot Miss Weston.

  “Liv, darling,” he said, kissing her pale hand. “How art thou? Ugh—guess who I just saw?”

  Jerome took a seat, ready to dish. The waiter inconveniently approached for his order, which seemed to frustrate the group. “Seltzer and gazpacho,” Jerome said, almost dismissing the young man from their space. The girls added their salad requests and Jerome launched.

  “Your neighbor, Mrs. Korn. So tacky. And I have Pentagon-worthy news: I hear Billy Crispin’s working on a profile of her in the Observer.”

  “No! He has an acid tongue!”

  “I refuse to talk to him. So indiscreet.”

  “I know, this town is full of indiscretions. As a decorator, I am privy to them all, you see—I mean, installations in Greenwich where the husband was screwing the babysitter! And I did a maison in Sagaponack, and I needed to measure the grounds for the rock wall and found the wife snogging the pool boy. I mean, nothing surprises me!”

  “Vulgar,” said Olivia.

  “Well, I can’t wait to see the article,” said Brooke, with a huge grin. “I have to tell Mummy to look out for it. She is literally stalked by Melanie! She so wants to be friends with my parents, it’s scary.”

  “She’s my neighbor,” added Olivia, taking a small sip of water. “She and her husband live just above me.”

  “Poor you!” Jerome laughed. Jerome looked over at Brooke, who looked beautiful in her perfect suit, fur collar—a perfect size two.

  “Looking ravissante, my dear Brooke. Tiny as can be.”

  “Well, that was the upside of all my nausea throughout the pregnancy. Everyone felt horrible for me as I ran out of the town car to get sick in a Madison Avenue trash can, but meanwhile I stayed skinny the whole time!”

  “You had a C section, right?” asked Jerome. “Does that take longer to recover from?”

  “So they say, but who cares? I scheduled my C section in advance. I always knew I wanted one. I got the Demerol so the healing was painless, and, trust me, my husband’s thanking me for it!”

  “Well,” said Jerome in a hushed tone, “the last thing you need is a vagina the size of the Midtown Tunnel.”

  The girls blushed and cackled.

  “True. Plus, C section kids are always much cuter,” said Brooke, as if all naturally birthed babies were hideous cone-headed freaks. “It’s totally the way to go. That Caesar totally knew what he was doing.”

  “Good for you! You look just fabu,” said Jerome, proud of her. “Poor Amy Freston—she really put on the ell-bees, I must say.”

  “I know,” said Olivia, looking downward.

  “Everyone thought she would produce septuplets at the very least, and just one hideous creature popped out! She looked as if she had eaten Canada,” said Jerome with disgust.

  “It’s so sad,” said Brooke. The trio had a moment of silence for Amy, as if it had been announced she had been diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s.

  “What did she name her son?” asked Jerome.

  “MacAllister. But they’re calling him Ster.”

  “Anyway, Brooke, thank goodness you don’t have on the weight she does. I mean, looking at you, no one would know you just bore fruit.”

  “Ugh! The fruit is driving me crazy! Thank heavens for my Icelandic babysitters. I tell you, it’s all about Iceland these days. I would never have some stupid island person near my little Carrington. I tell you, these girls are saviors. I don’t know what I would without them. I mean, the child cries and cries!”

  “Well, this is normal,” said Jerome. “It’s a baby.”

  “I know, I know.” Brooke laughed. “It’s just frustrating, because when Montague comes home, it’s just all about the baby and I’m, like, invisible!”

  “That’s why I don’t want children,” said Olivia, matter-of-factly. “I could never deal with that. Also, I’m just not a baby person.”

  “Or they love the nanny too much,” continued Brooke. “I mean, sometimes I have to pry little Carrington’s fingers from Gröotie’s arms!”

  “Well, maybe he’s a ladies’ man; he’s certainly not taking after his Uncle Jerome!” the decorator cried.

  “You kill me!” exclaimed Brooke.

  “I’d rather have that Ashton Kutcher as my caretaker!”

  “Oh, Jerome!” squealed Brooke, who had never laughed harder. “You’re hilarious!”

  chapter 36

  Cordelia was putting in an earring as Morgan poked his cufflink through the hole in his dress shirt with irritation and glanced at his watch.

  “I can’t believe you got us roped into this,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Darling,” said his wife apologetically and defensively, “what was I supposed to do? Melanie was very persistant. She stopped me in the elevator a hundred times, and I offered every excuse in the book. But what can I do when she leaves seven dates on our machine? I can’t possibly tell her we’re booked for every one.”

  “There are ways, Cordelia. Just keep canceling at the last minute. Then she’ll get the hint.”

  “She doesn’t get hints, Morgan. She doesn’t get anything about what people think of her.”

  “I just can’t believe we have to endure dinner there. Arthur’s fine I suppose, harmless.”

  “There will probably be tons of people we know so we can just go off in a corner. I’m guessing they’ll have fifteen couples, maybe twenty.”

  Moments later, after first riding the elevator to the lobby so that Luca and Fred on the evening shift could unlock the Korns’ floors, the Vances arrived in the hand-painted vestibule. But there was no familiar din coming through the front doors, as there usually was at New York dinner parties—no excited bustle or music or cocktail chitchat . . . just silence.

  “Are we early?” asked Morgan.

  “I don’t think so,” said Cordelia, ringing the bell.

  A black tie–clad butler answered the door to an empty foyer and shortly Melanie appeared, relieving them that they hadn’t come on the wrong night.

  “Helloooo, neighbors!” she said, leaning in to kiss Cordelia. Cord wasn’t the kissing type.

  “Are we early?” asked Morgan.

  “No, no, no, no, no!” said Melanie. “It’s just us and Paul and Miriam Lutz. They’re in the liv
ing room with Arthur. It’ll be nice, just an intimate dinner for the six of us! I thought it would be more fun that way, you know, with all the crazy packed parties we all go to every night. This way it’s just relaxed. We like doing things very, very casual.”

  Casual consisted of three Tentations chefs, one sommelier, and three servers, resulting in a one to two ratio of waiter to guest. Mr. Guffey actually enjoyed fetes such as these, when he felt like a conductor directing a world-class symphony. With his magical ability to be invisible and yet everywhere, he oversaw every last detail on its course toward perfection.

  The Lutzes, noticeably relieved to see the Vances, ran across the dining room to greet their semi-acquaintances. At least they were not alone.

  “So, we’re all here!” said Arthur.

  The sommelier poured everyone an exquisite pink champagne. “It’s Crystalle Rosé, 1972,” said Melanie, making sure everyone noticed. She wanted her guests to know they were getting the best, but it actually worked against her. In a world where tact was a virtue, Melanie was a constant sinner, and her pronouncements—which came off as bragging to her acquaintances—took her guests aback. Mr. Guffey shot Melanie a look, and she realized at once that she had erred. No more name-dropping! One of the cardinal sins. It wasn’t her fault; she was just nervous.

  “Is there a ladies’ room?” asked Cordelia, setting her flute down delicately.

  “Oh, I’ll join you!” said Miriam.

  A servant directed them down the hallway into a gilded powder room. Miriam looked at Cordelia, who had never been the warmest, but she had never been happier to see someone.

  “You know how you could be in, say, Rome,” Miriam started, “and you bump into a couple that you sort of know in New York, but you say hello and perhaps even have a drink even though you never would at home?”

  Cordelia paused. “Yes, yes, I know what you mean.”

  “Well, I know we’re not the best of friends, but we have a trillion friends in common, and when we saw you tonight it was like you and Morgan were our brethren who we ran into on foreign soil. I mean, I am thrilled to see you!”