Wolves in Chic Clothing

by Carrie Karasyov

  “Hello, darling.”

  Lell turned around. It was Alastair. Lell flushed as he leaned in for a kiss on the cheek.

  “Hope, it’s been too long. My my, ladies, you both look ravishing,” said Alastair, turning on the charm.

  “Thanks, Alastair. How have you been?” asked Hope.

  “Couldn’t be better. I beat Jeremy Stix at backgammon today at the Racquet Club three times in a row. You should have seen the look on his face. Now, what can I get you ladies to drink?”

  “Cosmopolitan,” said Lell, smiling.

  “I’m all set, thanks,” said Hope.

  Hope watched Lell’s glowing face as her eyes followed Alastair to the bar.

  “Be careful, Lell,” warned Hope.

  “Oh please, Hope. You worry about you, and I’ll worry about me.”

  That little bitch, thought Lell. Who did she think she was? Lell took another gulp of her wine.

  “Are you okay?” asked Charlie, her dinner partner.

  “Of course,” said Lell. Of course not. She was looking across the room at Alastair practically fawning over Tinkly Adams, the twenty-two-year-old rifle heiress. Lell knew his MO too well. He was totally flirting with Tinkly. He’d laugh at anything she said, and then put his hand on hers when he was telling a serious story. Disgusting. What did he think he was doing? Lell had been furiously trying to make eye contact with him so she could shoot him a seriously infuriated look, but he had been avoiding her gaze.

  “Well, what do you think, Lell?” asked Julia. She was on Charlie’s other side.

  Lell had no idea what they were talking about. She had not paid one stitch of attention to them or their silly conversation since she sat down. She was so angry that she had been seated at the opposite end of the room from Alastair. Wasn’t Maxine supposed to be this genius with seating?

  “I don’t know,” said Lell, dismissing them.

  Charlie and Julia exchanged a look that Lell saw, but didn’t care about. They had no clue why she was angry. She ignored them, and they went back to their conversation. Will, who was on Lell’s other side, noticed his wife was bristling, even though he was in deep conversation with Maxine.

  “Excuse me,” said Lell, scraping back her chair. She was just going to walk by Alastair on the way to the bathroom and give him a look so that he would cut out this shit. She knew she looked awesome tonight, so he’d better behave.

  As Lell took a circuitous route to walk by Alastair, many eyes in the room watched her. Most because she was so stunning and gorgeous, but others because they had heard some whisperings and rumors about what was going on, and they wanted to be witnesses to a potential scandal.

  Lell walked by Alastair, but he didn’t look up. He was so engrossed with Little Miss Tinkly that he didn’t notice her—or he pretended not to notice her. Lell went into the bathroom and locked the door. She splashed water on her face and plotted her next move. Well, two can play that game.

  On her way back to her chair, Lell pinched Alastair on the neck. It was very subtle, and if several sets of gossip-loving eyes hadn’t been alert to zoom in on Mrs. Banks, it might have gone unnoticed. But Polly, who had perhaps the best view, saw it, and couldn’t believe her eyes. Mouth gaping, she turned to look across the room at Hope, who looked worried. Alastair, meanwhile, flinched ever so slightly, but didn’t remove his eyes from his latest heiress. He had a new hotel to finance, and he needed some funding pronto. Lell was fun, but she was married now and couldn’t be of that much use to him anymore.

  Lell went back to her seat and draped her arm around Will, who was still chatting with Maxine. Will was startled, his wife hadn’t been affectionate with him in months. But Lell became fully engaged in the conversation, laughing loudly, tousling Will’s hair, and making sure everyone saw how “in love” with her husband she was. And almost everyone did see. Julia saw, and took an uncomfortable sip of wine and felt again like Mary Magdalene. Hope watched Lell’s sham continue, feeling embarrassed for her friend. Polly saw and felt vindicated. But the person who didn’t see was the one it was all aimed at: Alastair. He could not have cared less what Lell Pelham Banks was doing, because he had moved on. It was all about Tinkly Adams for him now. Lell was history.

  chapter 37

  “Sweetie, what’s wrong? You can tell me.”

  “Nothing—”

  “Liar.”

  Lewis was calling Doug out on his spacey behavior while the pair was eating a beautifully prepared, tasty meal in the lush garden of a Palma restaurant in the West Village. The full moon shone over the rare plant-filled spot nestled in the concrete jungle of Manhattan. The air was warm but breezy and the plates of delicious comfort food before them were indeed comforting. But Doug’s thoughts meandered away from paradise to his roommate Julia.

  “Okay, Lew-lew. You know me too well. I can never bullshit you. I just . . . feel lately like I’m kind of losing Jules.”

  “I know. But sweetie, she couldn’t be joined at the hip with us forever. She needed to find her own place in this town. She needs other friends and maybe love. She can’t run around with fags all the time.”

  “It’s not just that I see less of her. She’s changing. I saw her go by with Lell today and she barely even said hi to me. Then last night she was packing for her weekend in Montauk and I asked when she was leaving, and in all seriousness she looked at me and said, ‘Wheels up at eleven-fifteen.’ I mean, that’s private-jet-speak—could you gag or what?”

  “No, she didn’t—”

  “Yes! That’s what I’m saying. I know it’s a glam life for her, filled with fabulosity beyond measure, but wheels up? That just ain’t her. She’s getting sucked into their bejeweled Hoover vac of wealth and pomposity.”

  Lewis looked at Doug and smiled coyly. “Can you blame her?”

  “No. I’m fucking jealous.”

  Lewis and Doug shared a laugh that was full of humor but mixed with the sad tinge of the semi loss of their friend to the scene Doug had always admired from afar. But now that he had seen what that world was doing to her, he didn’t really worship the glitz so much anymore. At the end of the day, he had Lewis, who was all he ever needed.

  “Lewis, I’m so sorry I have been distracted with this. By them. I guess from the second I got here I always thought there was this dazzling, alluring life I wanted to be a part of. I worked at Pelham’s and saw all these beautiful fast-track people. But now I just feel like there’s . . . so much darkness out there. At the top of that golden ladder, it’s all sham marriages, and the big bucks in their Vuitton wallets are not even a Band-Aid for all that internal bleeding.”

  “Listen sweetie, many people say, Oh, if I were rich or I were famous, I’d be happy; if I attain x or y, I would be satisfied. But obviously that’s not true! You can still be in your penthouse and be lonely and miserable and die with no one by your side. Private jets don’t keep you warm at night.”

  “They do if they have central heating systems.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I know. Well, that’s what I’ve learned.” He looked into Lewis’s eyes. “Nothing really matters to me anymore but you.”

  Lewis touched Doug’s hand and smiled. Behind Doug, two guitarists walked into the garden and started playing.

  “What’s this?” asked Doug, shocked.

  “It’s for you. Everything tonight is for you. I even hired a full moon.”

  “Shut up!” Doug smiled in amazement.

  The guitarists approached the table, each playing in tandem harmonies that melted together into the summer air.

  “Do you remember when we met?” asked Lewis.

  “Of course.”

  “Well you brought me back from the dead. My heart started that night. I brought you here tonight,” Lewis stopped as his voice broke. “Because I want to be with you—always. Lewis rose to his feet, then knelt on one bended knee and pulled out a small velvet box.

  Doug couldn’t help but notice that the box was from Carti
er, not Pelham’s. Lewis snapped open the box to reveal a perfect thin gold band.

  Lewis took his boyfriend’s hands in his. “Douglas, you are my whole life and I love you. I want to marry you. Will you be my husband and be with me forever?”

  “Yes,” said Douglas. He leaned in and kissed Lewis, his best friend, and now more than his “partner.” Douglas kissed his fiancé.

  chapter 38

  “What the fuck is the matter with you? Be a man!” Lell smacked her husband across the face. “You can’t get it up? I’m your goddamn wife!”

  “Lelly, I—”

  “Don’t Lelly me. What’s the problem? A thousand guys in this town would kill to do me.”

  “And they have.”

  Pin-drop silence pierced the Bankses’ grand master bedroom as the husband and wife stared at each other, both with tempers raging and hearts burning for other people. Other people who were a long way from their gilded penthouse.

  Lell paused, looking down. “Excuse me?”

  “You know what I am talking about. That Brit?”

  “It’s not true,” she denied.

  She was such a lousy liar. “Give me a break, Lell, I’m too smart for that bullshit. How many weeks after our honeymoon were you fucking him again?”

  “I will not put up with this sort of language!” she snapped, getting a silk charmeuse robe to put over her sexy negligee, which wasn’t sexy enough to do the trick that rainy Saturday night.

  “Listen,” said Will, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I know all about it. And it’s okay—”

  “It is?” Lell asked, amazed. What a relief, in a way. What a load off her shoulders after all the sneaking around and cheating. Not that it was such a tough burden; lying was second nature to her.

  “It’s okay. Because I’ve found someone, too.”

  Lell paused as the blood rose to a sizzling simmer in her miles of veins. “What?” she said in a tone so laced with ice it was as if she were breathing and spewing pure liquid nitrogen. “Who is it?” she asked with venom rising as she grabbed his collar. “You fucking tell me this instant.”

  What followed would not have registered on the furious zigzags of the Richter scale. A Ming vase was smashed to pieces, a Steuben olive dish hurled only centimeters from Will’s head, a painting thrown to the floor, tears, screams, ire, agony, and a door slammed so hard, a piece of the hand-painted faux-marble fell to the floor outside Lell’s bathroom.

  Julia was sitting by the window, watching the rain fall and listening to the pitter patter on her crappy humming through-the-wall air conditioner. She was plopped in her sweats, another night alone with her salad wondering what Will was doing. She was dizzy and drained but at the same time longed for him to recharge her. He had become like a drug; she was literally on cloud ten with him, and then all quivery and drowning without him. What a crazy situation. The tension of the evening at the Jenkinses’ jazz supper had made her heart pound like a timpani; it was getting too over the top, too dangerous. The flirtations and stolen smooches with Will made her soar up into ecstatic strata, then when she saw Lell, her boss, running her hand—the hand wearing their wedding ring—through Will’s hair, she would plummet back down, but not to earth. To hell.

  The phone rang, ratcheting up her pulse even further. And just when she’d thought nothing could bring it more to a sprinting pace, she heard his voice.

  “Julia—” Will said. She heard a car honk behind him.

  “Will? Where are you?”

  “In a phone booth. I need you. There is so much to say. Run away with me.”

  Julia gulped. What? “Run away! Are you insane? Where?”

  “Just . . . away. Away from this town, this city. This life. Come away with me. Let’s go to an island. I’m getting tickets now. You’re it for me, Julia. Tell me you’ll come with me.”

  Julia didn’t know what to do. She had to weigh everything quickly in her head. Here she was with an apartment full of stuff, on a random Saturday night, alone, dreaming of the man who was on the line asking her to run away. Wait, what did she have to weigh? Of course she would, this is what she wanted! Right? The stars were aligning. Why not take the plunge? This was meant to be. “Okay, yes, I will. I’ll go with you.”

  “It has to be now. Tonight. We’ll be on a beach and won’t give a damn what people think,” Will said breathlessly.

  “Okay . . .” Julia answered rapturously.

  “Pack your suitcase. For a long time. I’ll be there within two hours to pick you up.”

  “All right, okay, Will!”

  “Bye.” He hung up.

  Julia was so stunned she couldn’t even handle the coronary she felt on deck. How utterly romantic! She realized that her life had become something straight out of a romance novel, and although it was absurd, why not play along? The swirling visions of paradise by Will’s side, the sun, the freedom, and . . . the consummation of their pent-up, way overheated desires, it just seemed to good to be true. Not normally a horndog, Julia had gotten so lost in her reveries of sex with Will that she often didn’t want to wake up. The only thing that pulled her out of bed was the small chance she’d see him that day; that he’d stop by the office and take her in his arms for a quick kiss. Or just happen to be outside in a tinted-windowed town car to pick her up and spend the trip home in traffic and in heaven until he had to turn back around to go collect his wife for some dreary function. And now they’d be free.

  In a Tasmanian devil whirlwind, Julia ran amok through the small apartment, grabbing bags and stuffing clothes into them wildly: toiletries, sandals, dresses, camera, sunglasses. Everything was stuffed into three suitcases. After an hour of frenzied, exhilarated packing, she forcefully zipped the bags and lugged them to the front doorway. There they were: her life in luggage.

  She ran around throwing herself together—drying her hair, picking out a dress for travel, and putting on her thin gold Pelham’s hoop earrings. Finally, after two hours of running around, she exhaled. With a slow, steady breath meant to temper her overworked aortic valve, she sat down.

  And waited. And waited. She looked at her watch. It had been four hours since Will had phoned. Now three a.m., she doubted any flights would be taking off. Ever. Had Lell stopped him? Had he changed his mind? Was he in a terrible accident? Julia was nauseous just thinking of all the possibilities. It was too good to be true, she realized. Just a fantasy.

  chapter 39

  Dearest Chauncey,

  I am devastated, just destroyed. I cannot even begin to tell you how incredibly sorry I am about the sudden loss of Mercedes. I just heard the tragic news and am shattered for you—I know you spent a small fortune on those lady breeders in Minnesota! Mercedes was truly a special dog. You are in my thoughts—Henny and I send our deepest condolences and support for what I am certain is quite a difficult time for you and Bucky.

  Sincerely yours, Polly

  Oh fuck. Polly was just about to seal the letter to Chauncey Rutherford when she realized something. Her blood pressure rose as she noticed her grave error. It wasn’t Chauncey’s cocker spaniel Mercedes that had been run over by the Hampton Luxury Liner this past weekend in Southampton, it was her Yorkie, Porsche! How could she be so stupid? Oh goodness. Polly got up from her desk to retrieve more stationery from the brown and red Mrs. John L. Strong box on the mahogany-stained office shelf. She gasped. It was empty.

  After practically lashing venom through the phone wire at the Barney’s rep after being told it would be six weeks for her new supply to arrive, Polly hung up. She simply could not deliver something to Chauncey that was not top of the line couture stationery. Chauncey, like Polly, had a fabulous eye for printed matter, and always turned cards over to make sure they were engraved. Polly practically got hives when she saw that people—supposedly of taste—used thermography instead of traditional engraving. Chauncey was the same, and Polly simply could not give her anything but the best. She sniffed in disgust! A condolence note written on crappy paper would make he
r feel even worse—like she was downgraded to the B box of personalized stationery.

  As Polly’s stress levels were beginning to climb, she had a cartoon lightbulb over her head. What about this e-mail thing everyone does? She knew Chauncey frequently used it—she always whispered about the items on PageSix.com—perhaps instead of using flimsy lower-quality paper, she should use the Internet? Brilliant.

  Polly entered Henny’s study and looked at his Macintosh as if it were a caged lion. Fear mixed with a yearning to touch it. She reached out and turned it on nervously. Well, there! A little smiley face, that was comforting. She moved the mouse as she’d seen people do, trying to open icons, but the result was a series of clicks that froze the computer. Actually nothing was really wrong with it—she could have just turned it off and started again, but the screen’s inaction sent her over the edge. She dialed Hope.

  “I am freaking out.”

  Uh-oh. “Why?” asked Hope.

  “The computer just crashed. I don’t know what to do. Henny will kill me. Kill me. It’s his; he’s very territorial about his computer! What should I do! I’ve killed it!”

  “Okay, calm down,” instructed Hope, rolling her eyes. Thank God it wasn’t something really tragic. “Just call MacMenders. It’s really not a big deal, they can save anything.”

  “Oh thank God! Thank heavens!” said Polly, hanging up.

  Ahhhh, 411, Polly’s best friend. After pressing 1 for the fifty-cent connection, the helpful friends at MacMenders answered, telling her to drop it off.

  “Well, I can’t go down there! Can’t you send someone here?”

  “Uh . . . we don’t normally do that, ma’am—”

  “What kind of a junior varsity operation are you running there? This is New York!”

  “Well, I can send a messenger service, but that’ll cost a pretty penny.”