She listened to Mrs. Updike rattling on and it struck her that Mrs. Updike was treating her just as she did her clients. Now, listen, my dear, this is your apartment and we have no intention of dictating. But I do want you to know that Updike is always available for consultation and advice—and we advise avocado walls. Any help you want we're willing to give you. I have a marvelous writing table that would fill that corner perfectly. You could put it at right angles, if you want, or it might be nice flat against the wall. I'm sure it'll give a lovely effect. And remember, my dear, Updike is always . . . She wondered if Mrs. Manley Updike was capable of any sort of sincerity at all, or if her entire mental and emotional equipment consisted of nothing more than the catchwords and fashionable endearments of East Fifty-seventh Street, which Mrs. Updike could apply just as glibly to a ruined marriage as she could to a set of slipcovers.
". . . all have dinner and then you could go off to the Blue Angel or someplace like that with Gerald and Ronny," Mrs. Updike was saying. "I have to play bridge with some old hags of about my age, but there's no reason why you young people don't all go out and have fun. Besides, Gerald and Ronny like to take girls out."
Mary almost said Yes before she caught herself. She had once known a girl named Sis Something—one of those big, good natured girls, born to be wives and mothers—who had attained the age of thirty-five before she discovered that not one of the giddy young men who asked her out with monotonous regularity was ever going to do more than kiss her forehead at the apartment door. By the time Sis Whateverhernamewas had realized that her function had been as a sort of rhino bird—to guide her pairs of courtiers into the smarter restaurants and night clubs, where unescorted men were unwelcome—it had been too late to catch that stolid, steady, sturdy stud who might have filled her and a station wagon with his babies. Now Sis was making a career, so to speak, of being the pansies' pal, the good sport of a girl who "made everything look all right" in public and who wept lonely tears on trousseau linen in the unwelcome privacy of her big, cold bed.
"No!" Mary said aloud, quite without meaning to. It occurred to her that if now she had to fend for herself without her man, to find a new man or a set of men, she was going to look in a more likely place than Updike, Inc., Interiors.
"What's that, my dear?" Mrs. Updike said, somewhat startled.
"I'm so sorry that I can't, Maude," she said, "but I already have a date."
"So soon, my dear?" Mrs. Updike said.
"Who is he, darling?" Gerald asked cosily.
"Uh, it's that one," she said in a panic. "It's that one standing over there next to Fran Hollister."
"My dear!" Mrs. Updike gasped with a gurgle of appreciation.
"Sssssay, isn't he something!" Gerald whispered.
Then Fran caught her eye and beckoned wildly.
"Who is he?" Gerald said. "He's awfully attractive. What's his name?"
"I—I must go," she stammered. "Fran seems to be signaling me. Maude, thanks so much. I—I’ll let you know what my plans are—just as soon as I know them myself." She almost stumbled over Ronny in her haste to be away.
Crossing the room, she realized that she would have to go back to work but that she could never, never, never return to the steaminess, the phoniness, the bitchiness of Maude and Gerald and Ronny at Mrs. Manley Updike, Inc., Interiors.
She pushed her way past a knot of people wearing turbans and fezzes and saris and badly made French suits, all talking at once in five different languages—Lisa was eternally grateful that the U.N. had chosen a site just fifteen minutes away from her parties—and struggled to Fran's side.
"My God," Fran bellowed, "who were those female-impersonators you got stuck with? Never saw such a pack of four-letter men in my life. You know Fletch, don't you?"
She did. "How do you do?" she said. "It's nice to see you again."
Actually it wasn't. Fletcher Mackenzie was a large, florid man with a big hose, dark circles under his eyes and a superabundance of straight, black hair which grew too low on his forehead. He was morbidly vain of this hair. It was one of his six topics of conversation. The other five were: 1.) Alcohol and how much of it he had consumed in the last twenty-four hours; 2.) Politics and as far to the right as possible; 3.) Money, of which he had an awesome amount; 4,) Places—clubs, hotels, restaurants, resorts—which he would never again visit; and this led to 5.) Jews. Fletch was probably anti-Semitic because he looked so very Semitic. This caused him to explain immediately to anyone he met—often to Semites who did not look Semitic—that he was really an Aryan. Since very few people were sufficiently drawn to Fletch to care whether he were an Aryan or a Melanesian, his impassioned and impromptu genealogical forays always had exactly the opposite effect to that which Fletch had intended and his unwilling audience began unconsciously associating Mackenzie with Mankiewitz while nodding dumbly and politely during Fletch's discourse.
Fletcher Mackenzie was so dissolute, dissipated, dyspeptic, disreputable, disagreeable and disgustingly rich, that everyone said he was perfect for Fran. Happily, Fletch and Fran agreed. Their appetites for and interest in sex and alcohol were almost equal. So were their fortunes. It gave each the secure feeling that the other wasn't trying to get away with anything funny.
"And this is Randolph Lee," Fran was shouting. The stranger took Mary's hand and her knees absolutely buckled. Between the noise of her heart beating and the noise of the party she could barely hear his name. He was just about the best looking man she had ever seen in her life. He looked down on her with reddish brown eyes that almost burned. He smiled—oh, too beautifully. And then he spoke to her in a voice that was as hot and embracing as it was cool and polite.
"How do you do." That's all he had to say. Just how do you do. At that moment she found it the most eloquent, the most seductive, the most alarming speech ever made. She wondered very romantically and very briefly if there could be anything to this moth-flying-to-its-mate business. Then a little more sensibly she wondered if she felt so drawn to this beautiful Lee man because he was simply the first attractive male to have come her way since her husband walked out. Then she thought, with cold reason, that she was probably just drunk. She took a large sip from her glass, finishing off the drink. She choked a little.
Then he was smiling down on her again with those wonderful animal eyes and saying something she couldn't possibly hear, but wanted to very much. "I'm sorry, but I didn't quite catch what . . ." she was absolutely shouting over the pounding she felt in her heart and her brain.
"For God's sake," Fran bellowed, "you can't hear yourself think in the joint. Let's all go up to Fletch's, where the liquor's better and it's quiet."
"Well, I, uh . . ." she started. Of course this would be the end of it. She would naturally have to tag along with Fran and Fletch, like a fifth wheel, while this magnificent man would smile enchantingly again, look at his watch and say Thanks so very much, but he had a date and was already late. Or he would have come with a party of people with plans for dining with them afterward. Or, the fate worse than death, he'd drag up a shrill, dowdy little wife—probably pregnant—introduce her, and then go into a long saga about getting back to Bedford Village or Coldspring Harbor . . . the babysitter . . . yes, a boy and a girl and this one due in May . . . yes, the commuting was a grind but having the kids in the country made it all worth it. No, she knew that this was too good to be true. Meetings like this one were for a women's magazine.
Then he spoke. "Frankly," Mr. Lee said, "I'd love to. I don't really know anyone here—except the hostess. If you're sure I wouldn't be . . ."
"That's the spirit," Fran boomed, downing her drink in a single gulp. "Let's drink up and get out."
Of course I'm either turning into an alcoholic or losing my mind, Mary thought. Just who do I think I am running out with the first man who comes along? What do I know about him? Fran doesn't even know him. Here I meet a man at a huge, silly party and the next thing that happens, I'm off to a patent medicine heir's apartment for more to
drink. I simply . . . "Here, Mr. Lee," she said, handing the car keys to the stranger, "perhaps you'd like to drive."
Six
"Well,” Fran said, pushing back from the room service table with a delicate belch, "I guess I’ll live a little longer. Pour me a brandy, Fletch. I've got to go to the can." Then Fran got up and padded across the carpet in her dirty bare feet, casually kicking a scuffed suede pump under the sofa.
Obviously, Mary thought, Fran's been here a lot before. Yes, from the way Fran knew her way around Fletcher's suite—she didn't have to ask directions to telephones, bathrooms or ice cubes—yes she'd undoubtedly been up here many times. In fact, it occurred to Mary that Fran might even be having an affair with their host.
Fletcher Mackenzie made his home in a tiny hotel in the Fifties that was so small that almost no one had ever noticed it, and so exclusive that even fewer had ever heard of it. In fact, it had a number rather than a name. Its facade looked like a Sicilian wedding cake, its interior like a Roman mausoleum. The lobby, the halls, the birdcage elevator all smelled of rice powder, violette du parme, mothballs, dust and age. Fletch, at forty-seven was the youngest and the newest of the tenants. He had lived there for twelve years. The balance of the tenantry—fifty inmates in all—was made up of people patiently waiting to die: venerable grande dames and their companions; two antique actresses grown respectable through superannuation; a male recluse last seen in 1931; and a sprinkling of Czarist nobles who sallied forth in tiaras and tight uniforms on Russian Easter and New Year and spent the balance of the year quarreling hoarsely in French on the sofas of the lounge. Only the building and its staff were older than the guests. Yet once inside the suites—there were no rooms; only suites—one could see that the little hotel had or had once had true distinction. Despite the threadbare rugs, the spotted windows and the grimy curtains, the place still retained its air of great expense and elegance.
The meal had been excellent—steak done rare. In fact, the chef in the hotel's tiny kitchen cooked only special diets and steak. Yes, it had been steak, salad, wine and cheese—the standard meal of the rich restaurant milieu; the meal she had been eating for a year. While Fletch opened his safe to remove a bottle of cognac, the beautiful Virginia gentleman smiled across the table at her. "It's nice here, isn't it? It's like down home."
This man, she felt was going to be different. He was romantic looking and, though every inch the Southern gentleman, romantic acting. And there was just something about this Mr. Lee—not the way he looked, nothing he had said, but something she rather sensed—that told her that he might be a very important man in her life. She could feel a nervous little throb in her throat and then another in the pit of her stomach every time he spoke to her.
An archaic waiter in shiny livery came in to remove the table. This gave Mr. Lee a splendid opportunity to get out of the waiter's way and join her on the sofa. "Mind if I sit here?" he said.
"N-no. Not at all," she said. My! She was absolutely trembling. ". . . find the Goddamned brandy anyplace . . .” Fletch was muttering.
"P-please do sit down," Mary said as Mr. Lee plopped gracefully onto the other end of the sofa.
“. . . swear I had a bottle of Courvoisier in here . . ." Fletch said aloud to no one other than himself.
"That's a beautiful dress," Mr. Lee told Mary with an engaging shyness. "If you don't mind my saying so."
Mind! What woman had ever minded being complimented on her dress?
"And a beautiful hat, too."
"W-why, thank you."
There. She liked that. She liked men who noticed what women were wearing and said nice things. Well, not men like Gerald and Ronnie, who noticed nothing else, except possibly what other men were or were not wearing. Now take John, he never said a word about her new clothes. Well, to be absolutely fair, her husband had once noticed her clothes, back in their poor New York days. Those had been the times when she'd been able to cull out a real bargain from the ten-dollar rack at Klein's, snip off the cheap trimmings, alter it a bit, dress it down and let her figure do the rest of the work. In those far distant days, she used to emerge from their tiny bath-and-dressing room worth twenty dollars on the hoof and looking like a million. "Well!" had been all he'd ever said, but his eyes had delivered a far more eloquent appraisal. But now, now that she could afford to splurge on some really good clothes, all he ever seemed to be thinking about was Pulse Beat and his wretched job with the watch works. At least he never seemed to notice how she looked—not even when the effect was particularly ravishing.
“. . . keep everything under lock and key," Fletch said from the safe, withdrawing his large head and a brandy bottle. "Damned maids in this place'll rob you blind."
"Say, that's some wristwatch," Mr. Lee said, his eyes popping at the Pulse-Beat watch encrusted with diamonds on Mary's wrist.
"Oh, this . . ." she said. It sounded terribly arch, but she really meant it. The watch was a new model called the Lady Lillian which Mr. Popescu had tossed to her across the table at the Embassy Club a couple of weeks ago. The thing kept lousy time but the diamonds were startling—too startling, perhaps. She wouldn't have worn it at all, except it was the only watch she owned.
"Y-you're divorced?" he asked hesitantly.
"W-well, Mr. Lee . . ."
"Please call me Randy."
"Well, Randy," how nicely that name rolled off her tongue. "Well, yes and no. I suppose you might say about to be divorced."
"A legal separation?"
"An illegal one. But a very definite separation nonetheless."
"Brandy?" Fletch asked her.
"N-no thank you, Fletch," she said. Fletcher looked relieved. Then she thought again. After all, why not? She'd never had so much to drink in all her life, but she felt fine. Perfectly fine. "Well, as a matter of fact, Fletch, perhaps I will." Fletch looked annoyed.
"What about you, Lee?" Fletch said uncivilly. This evening for four with drinks, dinner, and now more drinks all on him struck Fletcher as a damned useless extravagance. Since Fran rarely ate, he had planned to bring her back here—or possibly drive out to her place—throw a couple of Scotches into her and take her to bed. Yet here he was, fully dressed, and squandering his hard-probated money on all these people.
"Please," Mr. Lee said.
Oh, how Mary loved the way he said that—so polite and urbane and self-assured.
"Hey," Fran called, thumping back into the room, "I know what let's do tonight. Let's all finish our drinks and go over to that night club on East Fifty-fifth . . . what the hell's the name of it?"
"Chandelier?" Mr. Lee suggested. Everybody knew about Chandelier.
"Yeah, that's it. And see that new French dame . . . what the hell's her name?"
"Chou-Chou la Grue?" Mr. Lee prompted.
"Yeah, that's her. How about it?"
"Oh, for God's sake," Fletch grumbled, "who wants to go out on Saturday night—amateur night—and drink a lot of green liquor in some clip joint? Besides, it's late. These people must want to get to bed."
"Get to bed?" Fran roared. "My God, it's only nine o'clock. And who wants to sit around this morgue all night? Come on, Great Heart, you might just as well spend a little of it before the government takes it all."
Fletch writhed in his chair. Knowing how tight he was, he hated to have this defect pointed out by others before others. He also knew that Fran was every bit as tight, but Fran had a gift of appearing to be downright profligate. "Oh, all right," Fletch groaned.
"And where's my brandy?" Fran said loudly.
"Just a minute, just a minute." Fletch wondered quickly what it would be like to have a different kind of girl; a young pretty thing who wasn't used to much and wouldn't be at all demanding. She'd be a soft, cuddly working girl—a job in a store or an office, say—who'd just love to have a table d'hote dinner at Schraff's, then possibly take in a double feature and so to bed. No, he reasoned, she'd find out about all his money and probably get even bigger ideas than Fran had. At least Fran w
asn't after his money—or not much of it—Fran loved him for himself alone.
"Uh, pardon me,” Mr. Lee said, rising, "but could I, uh . . ."
"Sure!" Fran said. "It's past that door I just came through. First a right, then a left, then a right again. And look out for that seat."
"Th-thank you," Mr. Lee said, coloring slightly. "Um, excuse me."
How sweet and sort of boyish, Mary thought. Naturally a Southerner like Randy Lee would be embarrassed by the kind of language Fran used. Fran, of course, was a dear, but sometimes her conversation did get a little rough. She smiled in the direction of his high-held head as he left the room.
Fran smiled, too, but not at Mr. Lee's head. She wondered how he'd be in the hay and decided that he'd be just great. Then a flicker of intuition came over her. She had observed that real aristocrats were rarely aristocratic looking. Take the Bourbons, take the Hanovers, take Fran herself—if three generations of money could be said to constitute aristocracy. There was something about Mr. Lee that reminded her of that aristocratic looking Spaniard who'd tiptoed out of a West Side hotel room one night with her fourth mink coat, her purse and a gold charm bracelet. Yet, she thought fondly, that Spik had damned near been worth it.
Then Fran cast sentiment aside and began reviewing, quickly and practically, the advantages and disadvantages of bagging Mr. Lee for the night.
First of all, she thought, Mary was still a Good Guy and even if Fran had spotted this Randy Lee first, he was more or less the kid's property. Fran had gone to Lisa's with Fletch and it was tacitly understood that Fran and Fletch would end up in either his bed or hers at the end of an evening. They'd been doing it for years.
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