Agatha Dent was all set to use Lucino when her tough and suspicious husband flatly refused to sign a contract that included a fairly standard “arbitration” clause. Lucino refused to work without one, so the deal fell through. It was at this point that Trish Bromire introduced the couple to me.
The four of us had lunch. Trish promoted me shamelessly all through the meal, telling the Dents what great taste I had and how socially impeccable I was.
“Dieter’s taste is grand grand, but Jo’s is cozy grand—much chicer,” she said. “And besides, Jo’s the real thing.”
Agatha Dent’s deferential air toward me made me think she had some idea who I was. Trish may have filled her in on the full details, but as a devout reader of Nous, Agatha would surely have followed my story. In hindsight, I believe Mrs. Dent cared less about my talents as a decorator and more about my suitability as a launching pad for her social career in New York.
“You were a great friend of Clara Wilman’s,” she said with awe in her voice, thus confirming my suspicions. Clara’s name still evoked the Old Guard—as opposed to the Gold Card—magic of New York Society. Clara, unlike me and most others who were now socially prominent, had been the real thing in every way, not just a piece of self-invention.
By the end of that lunch, the job was mine.
Chapter 14
The Dents, attractive, not too boring, and rich, rich, rich, were ideal new blood for a jaded city. Soon they were on everybody’s guest list—a circumstance somewhat attributable to me. Agatha Dent was entranced with New York. Everyone she met was her new best friend. Whenever we went out shopping together, she regaled me with tales of dinner parties, rather like Marco Polo coming back from the court of Kublai Khan full of awe and wonderment. She did have the annoying habit, however, of constantly asking me if I knew people I’d actually introduced her to. But I forgave her. She was experiencing that first, heady taste of the high life in New York. I knew from experience how intoxicating it could be.
The next few months were a happy time for me, one of the best periods of my life. I had a feeling of real accomplishment. The Dent apartment was architecturally challenging with its vast entertaining rooms devoid of decorative detail. Agatha, who was very unsure of her own taste, relied heavily on my suggestions, which meant I could pretty much do as I pleased. I told her I thought the apartment should be sumptuous and understated, not grand in the expected sense. I showed her pictures of Versailles and Le Petit Trianon and explained the difference.
“Versailles was rather vulgar and not very cozy,” I told her. “So Marie Antoinette preferred the Petit Trianon, created by Gabriel for Madame de Pompadour. It was the essence of elegance and chic and the only place aside from Le Hameau where the Queen could be herself. ‘Là, je suis moi,’ she said. We’re going to make your apartment the Trianon.”
Agatha seemed to go along with the idea. She certainly nodded a lot.
I was gliding along smoothly, concentrating on my new job, trying to find office space I could afford, looking around for a permanent apartment, focusing on what was ahead rather than dwelling on what was past. In short, I felt my life was on a nice new track when, early one mild November morning, Betty called me up and spoke the five most feared words in New York: “Have you seen Page Six?”
I immediately opened up my New York Post to that infamous page of gossip and reeled back at the sight of the hideous quarter-page picture of myself walking along Madison Avenue, slack-jawed, wearing dark glasses, weighted down by a shopping bag of samples. The caption underneath read: “Jo Slater: The Unmerry Widow.”
Jo Slater, socialite widow turned social decorator, is about to find herself embroiled in a lawsuit with the city’s latest upwardly mobile billionaire couple. Neil Dent, a venture capitalist from Cincinnati, and his wife, Agatha, hired Slater to decorate their twenty-two-million-dollar duplex apartment on Park Avenue. Now the couple are claiming that the elegant Mrs. Slater has grossly overcharged them for shoddy craftsmanship and failed to deliver work on time.
In an exclusive interview with the Post, Mrs. Dent said: “Jo Slater’s a fraud. She got where she is by using other people’s know-how. She thought that just because we were from out of town she could pull the wool over our eyes. Well, she can’t. We’re not hicks.”
Mrs. Dent also had this to say about the stylish socialite widow: “She’s supposed to be so fancy. She’s not. She’s from Oklahoma—a girl from the sticks, just like me.”
Mrs. Slater has been a major philanthropic and social force in New York for years. A former salesperson at Tiffany & Co., she snatched Lucius Slater, the prominent investment banker, from the sorrows of widowerhood in 1976. Throughout his life, Mr. Slater maintained he met the former Jolie Ann Meers at a dinner party, denying the persistent rumors they were acquaintances of long standing at the time of his first wife’s death.
The couple gifted the Municipal Museum with the Slater Gallery in 1990, re-creations of eighteenth-century French royal apartments composed largely of furniture and paintings from their own private collection.
When Mrs. Slater was cut out of her husband’s will in favor of French aristocrat Monique de Passy, she immediately parlayed her sterling reputation and legendary style into a lucrative decorating business, using her social connections to attract wealthy clients. Mrs. Slater could not be reached for comment.
I sat in bed in a kind of stupor, trying to figure out which was worse: the threat of a lawsuit or the implication that I had been Lucius’s mistress before Ruth died. The phone rang. It was Betty again.
“Well?” she said.
“I’m in shock.”
“What’s all this about you and Lucius being ‘acquaintances of long standing’ at the time of Ruth’s death? Where’d they get that crap?”
“Oh, Betty . . .” It was too early in the morning to lie.
“Jesus Christ, Jo. That’s not true, is it?”
“I’d rather not go into it.”
“Well, you know, I’d rather that you did go into it because I’m the dupe in this. Lest you forget, I’m the one you guys used to supposedly introduce you. Remember?” She was irate.
“It was Lucius’s idea.”
“I’m aware of that, thank you. He called me and asked if I’d invite you to my dinner party. And he asked me to pretend I was a friend of yours so people wouldn’t find out you were a salesgirl he’d just met. I never gave a shit about your being a salesgirl, Jo, but I do care if you tricked me. Were you carrying on with Lucius when he was married to Ruth?”
“Why rake up ancient history?”
“Why? Ruth was a friend of mine. I mean, I didn’t particularly like her, but she was a friend.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“So were you two having an affair before she died? Yes or no?”
“They were getting a divorce.”
“Because of you.”
“No! Not because of me. Way before he met me.”
There was a long silence.
“Betty?”
“I’m pissed,” she said. “I don’t know who the hell you are anymore.”
She hung up. Then June called. The jungle drums were beating.
“Jo, have you seen Page Six?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” I heard her disappointment at not being the messenger of doom. She recovered fast. “Well, I just want you to know I’m so, so sorry. It’s disgraceful.”
“Thanks.”
A friendly voice. What a relief.
“Is it true that you and Lucius had been having an affair for years before Ruth died?”
“Did you just talk to Betty?”
“No.”
“Then who?” I knew she’d been talking to someone.
“I can’t say.”
“Who, June?”
“Don’t tell her I told you . . . Trish Bromire.”
“Trish Bromire wasn’t even around then. She was Miss Tallahassee, or something.”
“They’re saying L
ucius killed Ruth so he could marry you.”
“What?” I nearly dropped the phone I was so angry.
“Well, not literally. But apparently he didn’t do everything he could to save her life . . . Hello? Jo? Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“Vaguely. It’s absolute nonsense. All this comes as a result of this damn article? I can’t believe it.”
“Don’t blame me. I’m just repeating what I heard. So did you know him before?” June asked.
I sighed in exasperation. “What does it matter now? He’s dead.”
“I know, but you’re not. That whole thing about how you cut Lucius’s picture out of Fortune and then gave him a blow job in the men’s room at Tiffany’s—that isn’t true?”
I sank down into my pillows in disgust. While I’d always been well aware people scoffed at me behind my back for being a salesgirl, this was the first inkling I got of just how lurid the story had actually been. There was such a thing as too much information, and this was it. I was hurt that June, a supposedly dear friend of mind, had been so coarse and blunt.
“Does anyone care that I’m about to be sued?” I said angrily.
“I was just curious, that’s all,” June said in her snippiest voice.
While I realized certain of my friends would only be interested in getting the real story of how Lucius and I really met, I had far more important matters to attend to. This publicity was wildly damaging to me and to my business, even if it wasn’t true.
I got June off the phone and immediately phoned up Agatha Dent. She didn’t take my call. A bad sign. I asked to speak to Mr. Dent. He was at the office, the maid informed me. I called him there. He wasn’t in—or at least he wasn’t in to me. I asked to speak to Shawna, his private secretary, with whom I’d dealt on numerous occasions regarding bills and scheduling for the apartment.
“Shawna, hi, it’s Jo Slater,” I said, trying to sound as composed as possible. “Listen, I’ve just had a bit of a shock. I opened Page Six in the Post and I see that the Dents are suing me . . . ?” The forced laugh I mustered met with a menacing silence on the other end of the line.
“I know it’s absurd,” I continued, “but please tell Mr. Dent I’m anxious to speak with him as soon as possible, will you? We need to get this sorted out before any real damage is done.”
Shawna, an import from Cincinnati whom I’d never met, had one of those earnest singsong midwestern twangs, meant, I imagined, to inspire confidence in investors.
“Mrs. Slater, Mr. Dent asked me to inform you if you called that you will be hearing from his lawyer sometime today or tomorrow.”
“His lawyer? About what, may I ask?”
“I am not at liberty to discuss that with you, Mrs. Slater. But, as I said, I do believe you will be hearing from Mr. Dent’s lawyer sometime today or tomorrow.” She had the irritating habit of always repeating herself verbatim.
“Do you know where I can get in touch with Mr. Dent now?” I asked her.
“No. Sorry. I sure don’t.”
“Do you know who Mr. Dent’s lawyer is? I’ll call him myself.”
“No, I sure don’t.”
“Well, do you know when Mr. Dent will be available?”
“No, I sure don’t.”
“You’re sure you sure don’t?” I said. I just couldn’t help myself.
“Beg pardon, ma’am?”
“Never mind. Thank you.”
I hung up the phone. I was shaking. The doorbell rang. Darling Ethan Monk had sent me two dozen white roses with a note:
“Every newspaper, from the first line to the last, is nothing but a tissue of horror . . . I am unable to comprehend how a man of honor could take a newspaper into his hands without a shudder of disgust.”
—Baudelaire
I’m here if you need me, Ethan.
Now there, at last, was a real friend.
I got up and made myself a cup of coffee. As soon as I could think straight, the light began to dawn. There had never been any rumors about Lucius and me at the time of Ruth’s death—or at any other time, for that matter. Only two people in the world knew the truth about how Lucius and I had met. One was Nate Nathaniel, who had kept his mouth shut for twenty years. The other was Monique.
Suddenly, there wasn’t a scintilla of doubt in my mind who was behind this whole thing.
I immediately called Nate. He wasn’t home. I tried his office. He picked up the phone himself.
“Nate?”
He didn’t even bother with hello. “Jesus, Jo, I just saw Page Six. What the hell’s going on?”
“Monique. She did this to me. I know she fed them the story. She’s the only other one aside from you who knows the truth about me and Lucius.”
“Who told her?”
“I did, I confess. But she knew it already. Lucius told her. Didn’t I tell you she was out to get me?”
“Are you really being sued?”
“Who knows? I called Neil’s office and his secretary told me to expect a call from his lawyer.”
“Have you got an arbitration clause?”
“No.”
“Oy.”
An arbitration clause in a contract afforded some protection in case of a dispute. It stipulated that a board composed of qualified decorators (my peers) would determine whether or not I had properly done my job. And while such panels were obviously meant to be fair and impartial—what decorator had not faced the wrath of a disgruntled client?—such a jury was bound to lean to my side. Dieter Lucino had refused to work for Dent without that clause, which was why he had lost the job. Neil Dent was dead set against it.
“Why should I sign something where the jury’s gonna be on your side?” Dent told me at the time.
But I was hungry so I went ahead without one. My mistake.
In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t imagine what the Dents could possibly have had against me. I thought the work I had done for them was really quite exquisite—subtle, elegant, and altogether bien, as the French say. True, we were running a little behind schedule and a little over budget, but nothing serious—nothing I hadn’t warned them about when I took the job. I told them they’d have to be a little “flexible” on a project of this size. They had seemed to understand perfectly at the time.
That afternoon, the Dents’ lawyer, a surly-sounding man named Whitney Colter, called to inform me he was faxing over copies of two separate letters: one terminating my services immediately, and another listing the charges against me. My fax machine belched them both out at three o’clock. The first was short and unsweet, an unceremonious dumping. The second letter was a litany of complaints against me that included things like not completing work “in a timely fashion,” “grossly” overcharging for “certain items of decoration and furniture,” and substituting “inferior” materials for the “costly” ones specified on the invoices.
At best the letter accused me of incompetence; at worst, it accused me of fraud. Either way it was an outrage. I harked back to something Lucius always said: “If you really want to get even with someone, don’t kill them, sue them.”
I knew two things for certain: One was that my reputation was, if not totally ruined, severely damaged; and two, that Monique de Passy was somehow behind the entire debacle—not simply the egregious newspaper article.
I had no choice but to fight back. Financially, however, I was in no position to defend myself against a lawsuit, no less countersue for defamation of character.
When all my efforts to contact either Agatha or Neil Dent failed, I called Trish Bromire and asked for her help. Trish was not only the person who had introduced the Dents to me, she had been instrumental in getting me the job. I felt terrible for her sake as well as my own, but I needed her to intervene.
Trish invited me over to her apartment, a penthouse on Park Avenue with wraparound terraces and sweeping views of the city. The simplicity of the decor, with its white and beige color s
cheme and sleek modern furniture, showed off the very fine contemporary art and sculpture collection Gil Waterman had helped the Bromires assemble over the years.
Trish and I sat on one of four elongated white wool sofas in the living room. A whimsical Calder mobile dangled high above our heads. Trish looked drawn and pale. She was understandably upset.
“Jo, I can’t get in the middle of this thing, I really can’t,” she began. “Dick and I have enough problems of our own at the moment.” She was referring, of course, to the endless tax investigation that was always rumored to be concluding, but then somehow dragged on and on.
“Trish, I’m mortified to have to put you in this position. But Agatha won’t talk to me. It’s just so irrational. I thought she might have spoken to you.”
“Look, the truth is we don’t know them all that well,” Trish confessed. “Dick’s done business with Neil, and we’ve had dinner with them several times. But Agatha’s not that good a friend of mine . . . I’m sorry, Jo. I honestly thought I was doing you a favor. I just never imagined—” She threw her hands up in frustration. “Jesus Christ, I wish I’d never gotten involved! Dick is right. I should learn to mind my own business.”
“No good deed,” I said, not even bothering to finish the old saw.
“Goes unpunished, I know,” she chimed in.
“Seriously, Trish, I have no idea why they’re so upset. The apartment’s coming along beautifully. You should see it.”
“The only thing I can tell you is that Dick says that Neil’s a very tough guy who’s very insecure.”
“A lethal combination.”
“Right. And he’s litigious. Particularly if he thinks he’s been taken advantage of.”
“Taken advantage of—!” I cried. “My God, you know me, Trish! I would never take advantage of anyone. Just the opposite. If you want to know the truth, they’re slow payers, so I’ve even gone ahead and ordered things using my own money!”
Social Crimes Page 13