Social Crimes

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  I didn’t hold Monique’s initial haughtiness against her, particularly when she went out of her way to make amends. She won over the staff in short order—all except Mrs. Mathilde, whom I sensed remained none too fond of the Countess. I caught the old housekeeper eyeing Monique warily—even contemptuously—on many occasions. I chalked this up to nothing more than the unfortunate first impression Monique had made on her. As usual, Mrs. Mathilde kept her feelings to herself. I, of course, never pressed her for an opinion of my guest.

  The Countess seemed to be observing everything about me, down to the smallest detail: the way I dressed, how I talked, what I ate, the manner in which I entertained and organized my household, even the perfume I wore and the wine I drank. Sometimes she even sounded like me. The way she answered the telephone was exactly the way I did—a cool “Hello.” Clara always told me that you should make every effort to avoid answering the phone yourself, but that if you were forced to, it was wise to sound a bit distant until you found out who it was.

  Trivia that was second nature to me came as a revelation to Monique. I taught her all the little tricks that add up to a more civilized way of life. I kept meticulous records of all my dinner parties, for example, noting the food (always bearing in mind the preferences of my guests), the wines, the seating, the flowers, the music, what I wore. I made notes on what my guests particularly liked or disliked and who got along with whom, so that the next time they came to my house, I could make them even more comfortable.

  Clara had taught me how important it was to make people feel special and appreciated. When she was invited to a dinner, she made sure flowers were delivered before the party, so they could be displayed at the hostess’s discretion. If she sent a present after a dinner, it was usually a book. She always wrote her host or hostess a thank-you note the night she got home from a party before she went to bed so it could be hand-delivered the next morning. She never forgot a friend’s birthday or their children’s birthdays. She sent thoughtful presents, not merely expensive ones.

  Another thing about Clara was that she never distinguished between who was “important” or “unimportant.” There was no such thing as “the good china” or “the great wine” in Clara’s house. All guests, no matter who they were—from the lowliest staff member at the Municipal Museum, where she was on the board, to the highest head of state—got the same treatment. She lived by Shaw’s dictum that whether one has good manners or bad manners is irrelevant as long as one has the same manners for everyone.

  “If you’re rude to the waiter, you better be rude to me, too,” she often said.

  She had given me endless tips on how to make a house more cozy, like keeping a pot of apples simmering on the stove in late fall so a delicious, inviting aroma would permeate the atmosphere. Clara always issued and answered invitations herself, rarely relying on a secretary as a buffer. She believed that true grandness stemmed from being unpretentious. Although she maintained a large staff in all her houses, she loved privacy. Her servants were unobtrusive.

  “My idea of luxury,” she used to say, “is to come back into a room you’ve just left and have the pillows all fluffed up by unseen hands.”

  Clara’s death at the age of eighty-five had left a gaping hole in my life. I knew that nothing could replace the tender camaraderie and intellectual compatibility she and I had shared. I missed her presiding eye, her sly wit, her supreme generosity, and most of all, her mischievous sense of humor. I told Monique all about Clara and how much she had meant to me. I described her funeral, five years earlier at St. John the Divine, which ranked as one of the great social occasions of New York. Dignitaries, financiers, and celebrities, as well as countless friends and admirers, came from all over the world to pay homage to this remarkable and generous woman who had been a fixture of the cultural and social life of New York.

  Since Monique and I went everywhere together, it was inevitable that people started to talk. Just as there had been speculation about Clara and me once upon a time, there was speculation now that Monique and I were more than friends, shall we say. The fact is, though, that Monique and I were not lovers. We had what was called in the eighteenth century an amitié amoureuse, a “loving friendship,” similar to ones Marie Antoinette had with a few attractive, younger noblewomen in her court. In the Queen’s case, these relationships helped alleviate the pain of an unconsummated marriage. In my case, it was just pleasant to have a vital younger person around with whom I could laugh and talk and share confidences.

  A new friendship always holds out the possibility of perfection—an alluring concept. Monique and I soon discovered we were kindred spirits. She was different from my other friends in that I felt I had more in common with her intellectually and emotionally. Oh, I loved Betty and June, but they weren’t really interested in the same things I was. I was bound to them chiefly through long acquaintance. And Ethan, with whom I had a strong intellectual bond, wasn’t around much in the summer. He tripped off to Patmos for six weeks in July and August to be with the monks.

  In a world where most people repeated one another’s secrets in strictest confidence over lunch, Monique de Passy was a tomb. I told her things I would never have dared tell Betty or June or even Ethan. She told me things, too. Day after day, our friendship deepened as we shared our most private thoughts with each other—everything from how we felt about sex to whom we secretly disliked despite our public postures. We often joked that if there were a tape recorder anywhere in the vicinity both our gooses would be foie gras.

  Nancy, my social secretary of two years, had quit in the beginning of the summer to go on a trip around the world. I was surprised at her sudden departure, and, indeed, I wondered where on earth she was getting the money for such an adventure. It wasn’t my business, however. Her decision was firm and there was nothing I could do except give her a bonus and wish her good luck. But she had left me in the lurch.

  Monique very kindly offered to help me with my bills and correspondence until I found a replacement. I felt a little guilty about putting a guest to work. But she insisted, telling me it was a small way to pay me back for all the kindness I’d shown her.

  I took her everywhere—to the club, to cocktail parties, to my reading group. She especially shone in that setting, I must say. Our guest leader, Lon Fatterly, an Englishman and former Oxford don who was compiling a book of absurd syllogisms while he spent the summer in Southhampton as an itinerant houseguest, welcomed Monique as an addition. She was perceptive, intelligent, and apparently well read. During one meeting, we were discussing Madame Bovary. Monique held the group spellbound with an informed and rather moving discourse on the soul of Emma as compared to Flaubert’s own vision of the artist. Even Betty, who, for some reason, now clearly loathed the Countess, was impressed with Monique’s sharp analysis.

  One day in mid-July on our regular early morning walk along the beach, Monique asked me an odd question. We were strolling down by the sun-spangled ocean, letting the waves lap over our feet, when she said: “Jo, has Betty ever said anything to you about me?”

  This was a delicate subject because Betty was constantly telling me how much she disliked Monique.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I know she hates me.”

  “I don’t think she hates you,” I said, lying.

  “She does. And she has good reason to.”

  I stopped walking and gave her a searching look. “Oh? Why?”

  “Please, Jo, if I tell you this, you must swear you will never, ever repeat it.”

  “Listen, we’ve already made a pact. Everything we say to each other is to the grave.”

  Monique hesitated, staring out at the horizon.

  “The real reason I left Betty’s house is not because she needed the guest room but because . . . well . . . Gil made a pass at me.”

  I was shocked. “You’re kidding.”

  “No. It was extremely uncomfortable for me. You see, I was very fond of Betty. She had been so good to me
. And I felt awful to be put in that position. I immediately pulled away, of course, and told him I wasn’t interested. He didn’t press at all, but—what is it you always say, Jo? Nothing counts until the but . . . Betty saw us.”

  “Oh my God. Poor you . . . poor Betty.”

  “She never said anything to you?”

  “No. Nothing. I mean, well, it’s true I don’t think she’s overly fond of you. But she never said anything specific . . . I must say I never would have imagined anything like that of Gil.”

  “From the look on her face when she walked in on us, I was certain that she thought it was me who had made a pass at him. Can you imagine?” Monique said with a grim chuckle. “I would never get involved with a married man. Ever. And Gil Waterman is certainly not my type. He’s a bit oily, don’t you think?”

  I’d known Gil for years. I wouldn’t have called him oily, but he was definitely a smooth, attractive-looking guy, who had the slick friendliness of a good salesman. Extraordinarily knowledgeable about art, he had the particular talent of being able to locate great paintings from obscure or difficult sources and broker them to very rich clients. He had never struck me as a philanderer. But I now recalled how recently Betty had been complaining about the number of business trips he was taking. Though Betty and Gil seemed happy together, years of observation had taught me that one can never really tell what’s going on in other people’s marriages, and that idle speculation on such matters was futile, if indeed one of the conversational staples of social life.

  I honestly didn’t know what to say. I loved Betty and felt sorry for her. And though I was fond of Gil and had trouble imagining him in such a brazen role—particularly as I thought of him as being much more interested in making deals than in making love—I knew Monique would never lie about something like that. Why, after all? It was not in her interest. We walked on in silence.

  “You were brave to tell me,” I said after a time, sensing her discomfort.

  “I wanted you to know, Jo. I don’t want to have any secrets from you.”

  I smiled at her. “I know.”

  We turned around and headed back toward home.

  “How did you meet Lucius?” Monique inquired as we walked.

  Our previous confidences made me reluctant to give her the usual party line. She wasn’t keeping any secrets from me so I thought it was only fair that I not keep any secrets from her. Besides, it was an old secret now.

  “Please never tell anyone what I’m about to tell you,” I said. “Not that it matters much anymore, but no one in the world knows the truth about how we met—not even Betty or June.”

  Monique stopped walking and looked at me earnestly. “Jo, please don’t tell me something you will regret my knowing. I would die if anything ever came between us.”

  Her response made me trust her all the more. That afternoon, I told Monique the whole story of how Lucius and I really met, explaining Lucius’s theory of using “a lie within a lie” to cover up the truth.

  “I felt so guilty when Ruth died,” I said. “Even though I knew rationally it wasn’t my fault.”

  “She didn’t even know about you, did she?”

  “I don’t know. I think women know these things subconsciously. Don’t you?”

  “Oh yes,” Monique agreed. “I would certainly have known if Michel had had an affair.”

  “Well, Lucius can’t have an affair at the moment. He’s too sick. Anyway, he never would. He’s moody but faithful.”

  Monique nodded. “He is madly in love with you. One can see it.”

  Now there was virtually nothing Monique didn’t know about me. I adored and trusted her and we both agreed that she had to find a way to stay in New York. Neither of us wanted her to go back to Paris where there were sad memories and a grim little apartment in the 12th arrondissement—the only thing she could afford after Michel’s death. We discussed the various jobs she might apply for. I thought being U.N. interpreter might be one option since she spoke English so well, but she was determined to be in the art world. She said Gil had offered to help her before the famous incident, but now, of course, she could never approach him. I went to Dick Bromire—always a generous friend—and asked him if there were anything he could do. He said he’d work on it, but he was clearly too preoccupied with his own troubles to give it his full attention. I knew the heads of all the big auction houses, Chapel’s, Christie’s, and Sotheby’s. I put in calls to everyone, but it was summertime. People were on vacation. Monique assured me there was no great rush.

  The Bromire scandal dragged on throughout the summer with everyone speculating about whether or not Dick would be indicted. The problem, as I understood it, had to do with several counts of tax evasion. Dick had apparently been trading stocks in a foreign account and not declaring the interest, plus he was accused of charging personal goods to his real estate company. Lucius explained it all to me once, but not having a head for business, I really didn’t understand the particulars. The rather convoluted general consensus was that Dick was too smart to get caught for whatever it was the government said he did, and that he probably shouldn’t have done it—whatever it was—even though businessmen did far worse and got away with it every day. The anticipatory glee that he could conceivably go to jail was carefully cloaked in deep concern.

  “I’m so worried about poor Dick,” said the amis mondains. “What do you think will happen?”

  Translation: “Have you heard anything horrible that I haven’t heard?”

  Two articles appeared in the Wall Street Journal analyzing Dick’s predicament and the effect it was having on his company’s stock. Although the stock price fluctuated a bit, it didn’t plummet as the pundits had predicted it would, and Dick and Trish were still giving the biggest parties in town. Trish was spotted buying an extravagant new bauble at Pearce’s. She had the British ambassador to the U.N. and his wife to stay with her and gave them a gala dinner rivaling the one she gave for me. Some said Dick was about to go under, but he seemed to be floating quite happily on the surface for the time being, ignoring his critics and celebrating his friends, seemingly oblivious to the shots of speculation spiking the summer gossip punch.

  August rolled around. Time was running out for Monique. So was her money—the little she had of it. I knew that one sure way for her to stay in America was to get married. She laughed when I suggested that idea. However, she did hint that she might like to at least start dating, and I immediately set about fixing her up with the various bachelors I knew around town.

  I took her to the Beach Club, where we scoped out the various eligibles. If she found one of my candidates even vaguely palatable, I invited him to dine with us. The result made for some unintentionally hilarious evenings where she and I both reached the conclusion that heterosexual men in New York—no matter how unattractive, stupid, or poor—spoiled quicker than good caviar.

  Things got so desperate I even thought of fixing her up with Nate Nathaniel. Nate was one of those perennial bachelors whom everyone assumes to be gay but is in reality a closet heterosexual. Men felt safe if he accompanied their wives to the opera or the ballet when he was, in fact, far more dangerous than your average gigolo. Some women found him irresistible. The Nathaniel school of charm eluded me, however. From the moment I clapped eyes on him all those years ago, I found his superciliousness a little tough to take—even before he goaded me into signing that ridiculous prenuptial agreement.

  Nate came from a genteelly poor WASP family in Connecticut. He’d attended all the right schools: Choate, Princeton, Harvard Law School; he’d headed the Law Review and clerked one summer for a Supreme Court justice. Nate’s mind was an agile and devious creature that coiled its way around problems rather than attacking them head on, thus enabling him to see all sides of an issue at once. Needless to say, he was an excellent lawyer.

  Lucius took Nate under his wing early on, in part, I strongly believe, because Lucius, a totally self-made man, the only son of a day care nurse and a Queens
pharmacist named Slattery (Lucius shortened the name when he went into business), wanted to be Nate on some level. Failing that, he wanted Nate as a son.

  Lucius’s own son, Lucius Slater Jr., or “Little Lucius,” as he was called, was a bitter disappointment to his father. Lucius referred to the shy, awkward boy as “that oddball son of mine who’s only interested in fish.” (Little Lucius eventually became an oceanographer and moved to Miami.) It pained me that Lucius used our marriage as an excuse to further distance himself from his only child.

  Lucius’s marriage to Ruth had been serviceable but never happy, and for many years, he submerged the cares of an unsatisfactory personal life under the swell of great ambition. The more successful he became, however, the less content he felt. He blamed his own chronic dissatisfaction on his hapless son.

  I rather liked Little Lucius, ungainly and withdrawn as he was, and I disliked the fact that Lucius treated him with such contempt. But what could I do? I tried my best to bring the two of them together, but Lucius made our family gatherings hell for everyone between his constant criticisms of Little Lucius and a hair-trigger temper that fired off irrationally whenever the young man was around. I finally gave up.

  Nate Nathaniel, on the other hand, had a calming influence on Lucius. They got along extremely well. I believe Nate genuinely admired my husband for his brilliance and his drive in business. But it was Ruth whom Nate had really adored. Ruth Beersman, the daughter of a prosperous accountant in Great Neck, Long Island, met Lucius during their sophomore year at New York University. Her father put up the seed money for Lucius’s first business venture. Ruth, so I gathered from those who knew her, was a genuine do-gooder who was not much fun. According to Betty, she dressed “like a North Korean” and was “as heavy as a cheese fondue.” But Ruth had been like a second mother to Nate—or so Lucius led me to believe—and Nate had taken her death very hard.

  Lucius’s own relationship with Nate was complex. I believe Lucius gave Nate the illusion of power, while Nate gave Lucius the illusion of gentility. They were extremely protective of each other—henchmen of the heart, so to speak. I suspected there was some deep bond between them that even I could not fathom, much less break. In the twenty years I’d been married to Lucius, I never dared say one word against Nate Nathaniel.