“Nearly all the news out of Washington sounds ghastly. And yet, I’ve never heard anyone say a word against the senator from Colorado. How does he manage?”
“He’s the only man in Washington who doesn’t hold a grudge.”
“That’s a remarkable gift. Possessed by a remarkable man.”
Carole put down her fork.
“We’re breaking up,” she said abruptly. “Or, at least, we seem to be in that process. He wants marriage.”
“He’s asked you?”
“Not officially, exactly, I never let him get it out of his mouth.”
“A man should just ask. No hints, no long talks, just ask. The element of surprise is important. Makes success more likely.”
She wondered briefly about how many times this had come up in his life.
“His picture was taken outside Tiffany’s. It was in the Washington Post. So I knew.”
“Poor man.”
“I told him we should live together. Try it out for a while. I don’t want things to end badly.”
“You are the sort who likes to take off a bandage slowly.”
“I suppose I am.”
The waiter took her plate and topped off her champagne. She waited until he was out of earshot.
“He is very old-fashioned.”
Jacques shrugged.
“Most of the world is.”
“I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.”
“Because we are very much alike. And while opposites attract, you harbor the suspicion that such alliances shouldn’t succeed.”
This would be the best time for a waiter to interrupt them. For Carole to say something. For the candles, half drawn down, to fall out of their holders and provoke a table fire. But none of this occurred and she was required to answer.
“If anything happened here, between us, wouldn’t it just be a rebound thing?” she asked limply.
“Not the worst thing.”
“But not the best thing.”
“Perhaps you are right. And in any event, nothing will happen tonight. I have Mr. Smith and I feel compelled to issue him pajamas and a midnight snack.”
“And I’m at the Lotos Club.”
He chuckled.
“The staff are notorious gossips. Comes from being the favorite club for actors and writers. The maids are always leaking information to Liz Smith.”
“So we’re agreed.”
“Nothing happens,” he said, touching his flute to hers. “We’re utterly safe.”
She felt a scarcely realized anxiety leave her. This was not an affair. This was not the start of anything new. This was simply two people having dinner—punctuated by the most natural form of flirting Carole had ever encountered. It was so direct.
The waiter presented them both with their entrées—braised lamb chops with chopped mint leaves and buttery baby vegetables that made clear the establishment was not in favor of healthy eating.
“Shall I bring the soufflés when they are ready?”
“Yes, of course,” Jacques said.
The mention of soufflés nearly killed all appetite for lamb and vegetables. They waited for their dessert and Carole let the champagne, the warm glow of the dining room, the fullness of her stomach conspire to make their magic. She enjoyed herself even more fully than she had in Quebec City. When the very last morsel of soufflé was swallowed, she regretfully put an end to the evening.
“Cartier wants to continue its discussions tomorrow,” she said.
“Then let’s get you to your club.”
He got up and immediately the maitre d’ brought their coats.
“The check?” Carole asked as they went downstairs.
“House charge,” Jacques explained.
He walked her back to the club and on the sidewalk outside its doors, kissed her on both cheeks in the continental fashion.
“When you see those nice people at Cartier tomorrow, give them my warmest regards.”
The regards from Jacques had the most unexpected result.
“I think they thought if they didn’t conclude the deal immediately, you would advertise on our website,” Carole told Jacques when she called him from the car. “I was out of there in ten minutes flat with the best terms possible. I thought I was going to be there all day and into the next. And I was assuming failure.”
“So your business in New York is complete?”
“Yeah, but my flight into Dallas isn’t scheduled until day after tomorrow. And unfortunately I have a nonrefundable ticket so I guess I’ll just have to bite the bullet and spend a little time with my mother. She wants me to come down to her set and so I’m headed there now.” She glanced out the window. “If we ever get out of midtown, that is.”
“The set of The Beautiful and the Damned,” he said, sighing dramatically. “Its actors and actresses are so very talented, the story line so compelling. I wish I could meet the very talented people involved.”
She laughed.
“I’m sure. It’s a soap opera and it’s hideous. You can’t possibly want to come with me.”
“Oh, no. You’ve seen through my very ungraceful ploy. I want to see you again and I don’t know how else to ask.”
Actually, his ploy worked very well indeed. She felt flattered and, well, what the hell? She was a free woman.
“How about we get together after I visit my mom? It looks like we’re going to be having a serious mother-daughter talk.” Carole bit her tongue against saying that it was very often unclear which one of them was really the mother. “I’ll take her to lunch and then I’ll be free.”
“Wonderful. By then, my back will be aching and my eyes sore and red from hunching over this worktable.”
“The Saudi princess’s necklace?”
“I’m nearly finished.”
“I’ll drop by around two o’clock.”
“Mr. Smith will let you in. On his way out to take the princess her jewels.”
When Carole arrived at the set, her mother was pouty. Not miserable-pouty, just the kind of pouty that was the unfortunate result of the enthusiasm with which her doctor had injected collagen into her lips.
“I think it looks fab-oo,” Carole’s mother said. “Very Esther Canadas.”
La Grenouille was never particularly well-lit, but today, with snow threatening and gray clouds suspended over the skyline, it was especially difficult to assess the damage. One thing was clear—her mother didn’t look remotely like an exotic young runway model.
“Can’t you get some of that stuff sucked out? And did you leave any for Steven Tyler?”
Her mother looked puzzled.
“Aerosmith.”
“I don’t have as much in here as he does.”
“Bullshit. You’ve co-opted the nation’s reserves.”
“Don’t be so critical. And no, you can’t just take it out. It goes down on its own. It is reabsorbed back into your tissue.”
“Mother! Eeeuuuuwww! Won’t that cause cancer or something?”
“You sound like Jaime!” Jaime was the director of the show. “He’s demanding that my story line be cut for a month because he says viewers will think I’ve been attacked by killer bees.”
“I don’t blame him. Your lips were fine before.”
“You don’t feel the pressure of age.”
“Oh, yes, I do. More than you’d imagine.”
Her mother picked up her water glass.
“Then here’s to us. Living as fast as we can.”
Her mother ordered scrambled egg whites—no oil, no butter, no salt—and a salad—no dressing, no croutons, just a lemon wedge, thank you.
“Do you think, by the way, that Mitch would be willing to do a guest appearance? Elizabeth Taylor did General Hospital and . . .”
“Absolutely not! He’s a senator, for cripe’s sake.”
“So?”
“He’s supposed to be serious and dignified.”
“Right. Like any of those clowns in Washington are.”
“And besides, Mother, this is why I needed to talk to you. We’re . . .”
A photographer appeared at the booth. Carole leaned back in her seat and turned her head away so that the photographer would have an unobstructed shot of her mother.
“No, doll, don’t do that. What kind of mother doesn’t want her beautiful daughter photographed with her? Especially when her engagement is about to be announced . . .”
“Mother, we’re not . . .”
“Of course, they’re being hush-hush about it. But we know it’s coming, don’t we?” She winked at the photographer. “Now, darling, make sure the caption mentions the show. N’est-ce pas?” Her mother fluttered her lashes at the photographer.
“Mother, we’re not getting married! We broke up last week.”
A full-on shot of her mother would have been perfect, especially with those killer bee-stung lips wide open to display a very good porcelain veneer job. Instead, the photographer captured Carole full-on, with flushed cheeks and a double-dare-you tilt of her chin.
“Hand it over,” her mother whispered sharply at the photographer. She held her hand palm up, the Mandarin red nails curling ever so slightly heavenward.
The photographer raised his shoulders.
“No way. This is real news.”
“Hand it over.”
“Fuhgeddaboutit.”
“I know about the chippies you keep all over town.”
“So what?”
“And the real story about your coverage of the debutantes last month. And the panties that disappeared out of the dressing room at the cotillion dance. I must say I find you morally repugnant.”
“Bitch.”
He opened the camera, pulled out a long length of film and left it curling on the floor as he stomped out of the restaurant. Carole’s mother waved over a busboy and asked him to take care of the mess. For a striking moment, Carole was aware that as flawed as the quality of her maternal love, it was still vibrant and strong. Then her mother spoke.
“Did you do this just to hurt me?”
“Breaking up with Mitch or telling you about it?”
“Both.”
“Absolutely. I would destroy my own happiness if it would hurt you.”
“Is that a joke?”
“One good reason never to have kids is that I won’t turn out like my mother.”
Jacques considered this as he watched the skaters outside at Rockefeller Plaza.
“You mean selfish, really. Because that seems to be your major objection to her.”
“Selfish. Self-involved. Self-centered. It is always about her. It’s always her. And she has never been able to see outside of herself. To see what others need. Well, maybe when she told the photographer to hand over the film. I think she did that to protect me. At least a little bit.”
“That won’t be how you’ll be a mother. In fact, I predict you’ll be just the opposite. Your problem will be to remember that you are a person, too. But with the right man, you’ll find the balance because he will provide all the love you need.”
“Maybe I don’t want kids.”
He clicked his tongue in a distinctly Gallic display of contempt.
“You are meant to be a mother. It is what you were born for.”
“That’s a little sexist.”
“No, no, it’s the way you look at children on the street, the way you pause at the windows of baby clothes shops, the obvious mothering love in your heart that’s waiting for a child to give to.”
Carole was a fighter, an arguer, a debater. And she was ready to jump in and disagree with him then and there. But she considered his words. They had spent the afternoon strolling down Fifth Avenue. There had been the woman with triplets—triplets!—wheeling her darlings through the halls of MoMA in a triple carriage. Carole had asked her how she managed. The young mother allowed as how a good mother-in-law and an occasional glass of wine before dinner worked well for her. There was the Oilily baby store on West 57th Street with its display of overalls and one-sies—she had felt downright peeved that she didn’t know anyone with a newborn she could spoil. And then there had been the couple standing outside St. Thomas, the Episcopal church three blocks from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. They were twentysomething—he with a backpack and scarce beard and she with a belly that looked like a basketball that she had slipped into her jeans just before leaving the house. They had stood on the curb trying for a cab. When the yellow stopped, the woman tried to climb over the snow mountain left by the plows. Failing, she looked like a beached whale in a nature show, until her man picked her up with amazing virility and grace. He deposited her at the cab’s door and they were soon on their way. The whole drama lasted not more than ten seconds. Jacques hadn’t seen her watching them, had he?
“Okay, so let’s say I concede the point. How do I know I’ve met the right man to have a child with?”
As soon as she said it, she realized it was an extraordinarily provocative question. One that a woman didn’t ask a man she’d only recently begun seeing. If she could call whatever this was “seeing” Jacques.
But she hadn’t been thinking of Jacques, really. She was thinking of Mitch.
“You don’t know,” Jacques said. “Do you think anybody does? It’s a gamble. Just like the lottery game. Even with the odds so much against us, we still play.”
“Do you play the game?”
“Me? I’ve never played the lottery. I think of it as a tax on people who aren’t good at math.”
“I was talking about . . .”
“I know what you were talking about.”
Interestingly, he didn’t answer the question. Rather, he motioned for the waitress, paid for their hot chocolates and asked Carole if she would like time to dress for dinner.
“I have a friend who has a little restaurant here in town. I made reservations, but they’re not until nine. There’s a new singer at the Algonquin tonight. We could stop in, listen for a while and then eat.”
“Sounds wonderful. Is it fancy?”
He shrugged.
“My friend will want to seat you by the window even if you wear blue jeans . . .”
“I’ll dress.”
Chapter 8
He put her into a cab and said he’d pick her up in an hour. And an hour was just about enough time to shower, pin her hair into a twist, paint her nails dark as night and throw on a white sequined gown that grazed her ankles while a side slit showed off bare legs and gold peau de soie T-straps. Jacques, dressed in a midnight blue suit and an elegant shirt, met her in the club sitting room. He rose from the club chair when she entered the room and he didn’t need a word of flattery to convey his approval.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, reaching into his inside jacket pocket. He found the white velvet pouch with his name embroidered on it in gold thread. “I think this will do.”
She opened the pouch to find a set of earrings. Long, pale ellipses of carved white jade dangling from platinum wire with the very tiniest of diamonds to give it sparkle.
“I just made them yesterday. They are to be called Paper Whites. Because if you notice, the jade seems to glow from within like a newly blooming narcissus.”
“Oh, my gosh, I can’t take these.”
“Please do. I have already written up the plans and someday soon this design will be made available to the public. But for now, take them and wear them. I made them for you. You were the inspiration.”
She put them on, and the deceptively simple earrings made her outfit.
“Beautiful,” Jacques said.
“They truly are.”
“I wasn’t talking about the earrings.”
They took a cab to the Algonquin Hotel, famous for its history and guests—writers and other intellectuals from the twenties and thirties had made its bar and lobby their salon. These days there was a certain shabbiness to the place, the rich burgundy carpet just a little frayed, the cushions on the club chairs done in, the occasional floorboard creak
ing with age. They were seated on a leather love seat tucked behind a maple folding screen with two palmettos guarding their privacy. The singer was a tall black woman who could have made millions as a supermodel. Her backup consisted of a drummer, a bass and a piano player who kept his eyes closed the entire set. Jacques ordered them martinis, very cold and dry.
She felt wonderful and didn’t mind at all when he put his arm around her shoulder. He was perfect in every way. Smart. Funny. Established in his business so that he didn’t need her reassurances. Old enough to have done what he needed to do and not so old as to have lost interest in doing more. If they were together . . .
A fantasy as common as first dates and chance meetings. Starting when she wrote out her first wedding invitation in her math notebook when she was in eighth grade. If she married Gordon Terrace, the captain of the lacrosse team, did she have to include her father’s name in the invitation? And then in freshman year of college, imagining what kind of life she’d have if she married Cowboy Kennedy. Cowboy (his real name was Bob) majored in business administration so he could run his family’s grocery store chain. They once had an argument because on a Saturday morning he wanted to watch cartoons and she wanted to watch a news program. The argument and a little fast-forward fantasizing about life as a grocery story magnate’s wife was enough to put that relationship out to pasture.
An if-we-were-together fantasy while the singer crooned an old Cole Porter favorite was reassuring. She imagined not so much marriage and living together as a bunch of reassuringly sweet weekends in New York. Friday night dinners out, Saturdays spent in museums and Broadway matinees, Sundays reading the New York Times in bed. Jacques would come to Washington, and he’d fit in but never so well that he could be mistaken for a native. She’d take him to private gallery openings, barbecues with her friends, they’d do brunch at home (wasn’t this relationship what Williams-Sonoma waffle irons are for?).
But what about Mitch? She imagined campaigns—hotel suites, bad food in ballrooms, watching the evening news, grimacing over columnists who thought they knew you. Todd—and a series of replacements—trailing their every move. Speeches, nice ladies’ suits, smiling in public all the time.
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