by Rona Jaffe
Lawrence hadn’t been upset when she told him. He bought her another objet like it. Rachel, however, couldn’t forget about it for a long time. She kept half expecting to see her Fabergé egg sitting on somebody’s coffee table when they went to a party, but of course she never did.
Ellen had lunch with Margot that day. Margot had made a reservation at the Russian Tea Room, and Ellen was a little nervous because the tables were so small and close together and the place was so crowded that she was afraid people would hear her discussing personal business. But it was also very noisy, and there was a certain anonymity in that. Besides, she didn’t know them. The hell with them. Her survival came first.
“I hope this is all right,” Margot said. “If you hate Russian food you’re out of luck.”
“If you think I care what I eat … Hank’s on the verge of going bankrupt, Margot.”
“Oh, no!”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do. It’s so typical of him. Only Hank could inherit a perfectly good business from his father and then let it fail. He had his chance to switch to small cars years ago. But Hank is incapable of an original thought. What was good enough for Daddy was good enough for him. And now nobody wants big cars. We’re broke and in debt and I’m hysterical.”
“I’m so sorry, Ellen,” Margot said. “That’s just terrible.” Ellen could see she really meant it. “You know what I think of Hank, but I can’t help thinking how rotten it must be for him too, losing his father’s business—the Oedipal thing.”
“Margot, when you’re about to go on Welfare you don’t have Oedipal problems, you have real problems. I need a job.”
“I’ll be glad to help,” Margot said. “I’ll look.”
“Isn’t there something at your station I could do?”
“They’re not hiring anybody right now. Wait … wait, let me think. Nikki! I’m going to make a call.”
Margot went to the phone booth and called Nikki Gellhorn at Heller & Strauss. She knew Nikki would be out to lunch but always left word where she’d be, and Margot then called her at the restaurant.
“What’s up?” Nikki asked. “Are you calling off our drink date?”
“No. I wanted to know if that opening in your publicity department has been filled yet.”
“Not yet, but they’re seeing some people tomorrow.”
“I have someone for them to see today. It’s a big personal favor for me,” Margot said. “I can send her over this afternoon. You’ve met her, it’s Ellen Rennie, my friend since college.”
“But it’s a kid’s job,” Nikki said. “It’s boring, and the most it would pay is two hundred a week.”
“She really needs the money,” Margot said. “And besides, Ellen’s so aggressive she’s perfect for publicity.”
Nikki giggled. “I always like to do a favor for a friend. Especially a pushy one. Tell her to come by at three thirty. I’ll pave the way before.”
“Thanks a million, Nikki. I’ll tell you the whole story later. You’ll understand how much she appreciates it.”
“You can pay for the drinks,” Nikki said.
Margot came back to the table beaming. “I’ve got you a job, I think. You have an interview at three thirty. You remember my friend Nikki Gellhom. She’s a senior editor at Heller & Strauss.”
“The commuter,” Ellen said. “What’s the job?”
“It’s in the publicity department. They need someone to book tours for authors: get plane tickets, coordinate schedules, reserve cars and hotel rooms in various cities, make sure that when an author shows up at seven forty-five in the morning to do a television show, they know he’s coming and he knows where to go.”
“I can do that,” Ellen said. “I’m very efficient.”
“It only pays two hundred a week, but you haven’t got a résumé and …”
“Are you kidding? That’s a thousand dollars a month! Do you realize the terrible weight you’d be lifting from my heart with a thousand dollars a month?”
“It’s independence,” Margot said.
“It’s beautiful. Tell me everything about the company so they’ll think I’m smart.”
“Well, let’s see. Heller & Strauss is one of the biggest and richest publishing companies. They have a very good list. Both Heller and Strauss, who founded it, are long since retired—or dead, for all I know—and nobody really knew much about Heller except that he was very rich and very ugly, and he had a horrendous wife who insisted on looking over every secretary and reader in the entire company to make sure she wasn’t pretty. If she was pretty, she got fired. Mrs. Heller was sure that every woman in the world was after her husband, even when he was eighty.”
“How did Nikki get the job, then?”
“She came from elsewhere after Heller had retired. Strauss, on the other hand, became quite well known because he was the darling of the talk shows. Now that I think of it, he is dead. He gave the company a kind of panache and a lot of good publicity. Now the company is run by a publisher, a president, the editor in chief, the executive editor, and some senior editors, one of whom is Nikki, and under them some ordinary editors and readers. Then there’s the copy department, the art department, the sales department, and of course the publicity department, where you will be.”
“It sounds like they have a lot of authors,” Ellen said.
“They do. But they don’t all tour. Just the ones who can get on talk shows and be interviewed by newspapers.”
“I don’t actually book them for that?”
“No, you’ll be sort of the in-house travel agent. Move them around and make sure nothing gets screwed up.”
“I can hardly wait!” Ellen said. “You’re a real friend, Margot.”
Rachel and Lawrence fowler were giving a large party to help one hundred of their closest friends recover from the after-holiday doldrums. Margot and Nikki were both invited, Margot as “Celebrity—TV” and Nikki as “Intellectual—Publishing.” Neither was aware of the categories in which they were listed in Rachel’s party book, but they suspected. Actually, they both liked Rachel, for they had decided that there was more to her as a person than the role that life, her husband, and she herself had put her into. Ellen and Hank were invited too, having been on Lawrence Fowler’s “Large Party” list ever since Hank had sold him his first limousine at a discount. Lawrence had switched to a Mercedes several years ago, but he didn’t like to drop people, and the Rennies seemed personable enough.
The party was held on a Friday night, starting at eight. Rachel had decided that people should dress up. There was a buffet dinner, a lot to drink of course—mostly white wine, because people wanted that lately—and she had hired a pianist. Handsome young men sent from the caterer were running all over the place. Rachel preferred them to maids. It made the wives feel sexier, even though the waiters were homosexual.
Dressed, Lawrence presented himself to her for her approval. It was nice of him to do that, she thought, it made her feel important to him, and it was one of the few times she felt that he, not just his environment, needed her. She in turn presented herself to him for his approval. They shared a glass of champagne together in the library before the guests came. It would probably be the last time they would see each other until the party was over.
The Christmas decorations were long gone, and Rachel had managed to have spring flowers flown in. The large apartment looked fresh, blooming and cheerful. She supposed everything would go right, it always did. It was too bad she couldn’t get drunk and enjoy herself, but champagne was fattening. She would just be charming and bored.
Ellen was thrilled. She had wanted to be the first to arrive so she would have time to chat with the Fowlers, but then she decided Hank was a detriment and it would be better to arrive later so she could lose him in the crowd. When they got there Nikki and Robert were already there.
“I love your wife,” Nikki said to Hank. “I think she’s enchanting. She’s going to be so good at her new job. Everyone loves her.”
“Oh, why would he be jealous?” Nikki said cheerfully. She was bubbling and bouncing all over the place like a blond cheerleader. In a minute there were three other men around her, all admiring her. Robert hovered over her for a while and then went to the bar.
Ellen lost Hank as soon as possible. In a few minutes she had her own group of men around her. One of them brought her a drink. They were a banker, an advertising executive, a doctor, and an actor. They were all married, except for the actor, who had a possessive date at least twenty years younger than he who kept clutching onto him. No wonder poor Margot never finds anybody, Ellen thought. All the men are divine but they’re all taken.
Margot, in the library where it was quieter, kept looking at her watch. She had to be back at the studio soon to prepare the news. There was a very attractive boy standing by the fireplace, maybe twenty, watching everything with that cool, self-possessed air young kids put on when they’re uncomfortable. She was immediately attracted to him in a way she hadn’t felt for a long time, and she thought how funny it would be if at last he turned out to be the one who could move her. He looked at her, right into her eyes, and smiled. “Hello,” he said without moving toward her.
She moved toward him.
“You keep looking at the time,” he said. He had a soft, sweet voice, sexy. But just a kid. Nothing for her—she’d have to be crazy.
“I have to go to work soon,” Margot said. “I do live news on TV.”
“I’ve seen you,” he said. “Margot King. Murder and mayhem at eleven.” He smiled. He had sensual lips and perfect teeth.
“You know who I am, but who are you?”
“I’m Kerry Fowler.”
“Related to …?”
“Lawrence Fowler’s son.”
Oh, God, someone’s son. She had graduated from someone’s husband to someone’s son. Her aging was complete. Lawrence and Rachel didn’t have any children, and Rachel was too young to be this boy’s mother anyway, so he must be from Lawrence’s long-ago first marriage. She found herself laughing.
“What’s funny?”
“Me,” Margot said.
“Are you having a good time?”
“I don’t like the noise and smoke, but I like parties. At least, I always think I’m going to like them. When I was a little girl my mother always used to get me something new when there was going to be a party, a dress or shoes or something, and she would put it in the closet and say, ‘Now, you can’t wear this until the party.’ So I’d wait and wait, thinking something wonderful was going to happen, and then the party was always a disappointment. I guess the fantasy of what would happen to me when I wore that dress was better than what ever did happen.” She smiled, looking carefully at this boy, Kerry, to make sure he wasn’t laughing at her. “I guess I’m still that way.”
“Me too,” he said. “I used to go to camp, and my parents would buy me all this stuff, and I’d fantasize about camping out in the woods and how great it would be, and then I’d always get in trouble with the counselors about breaking some rule, and they’d have to send for my parents and it would be a big hassle.”
“I loathed camp,” Margot said. “I’d sit in my bunk and read instead of being good at athletics, and all the other girls hated me.”
“We have the same memories.”
“We can’t possibly have the same memories,” Margot said, “you’re too young.”
“I’m twenty-three.”
Sixteen years older than he is. But if I were a man and he was a young girl, nobody would think it was so terrible. “I’m thirtynine.”
He absolutely beamed. “That’s great! You don’t look it. I thought you were about twenty-eight.”
“Only because at your age thirty-nine is unimaginable,” Margot said. “What do you do anyway?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Published?”
“I have a contract for my first novel, which is about halfway finished. It’s not autobiographical.”
“Okay.”
“It’s sort of a fantasy.”
“They’re the best,” Margot said. “My entire life is fantasy.”
“The news?”
“No, my private life. In self-defense against the news.”
“Can I come with you when you go to work tonight?” He sounded so earnest, like a kid.
She shrugged. “I guess so. You can watch me type.”
“I’m not much good at parties anyway,” he said. “And besides, I thought then maybe you and I could go have a drink somewhere.”
I wonder if he thinks I’m a celebrity. No, he wouldn’t; he’s been around celebrities all his life. Maybe he just thinks I’m interesting. “Okay.”
His eyes were big and green, like a cat’s, curious and knowing. “You’re wondering why I want to be with you,” he said. “But I’m wondering why you want to be with me. I think you’re beautiful.”
“Let’s just say I think you’re beautiful too,” Margot said lightly, but she felt her heart turn over. I think I’m not so dead after all, she thought.
Rachel saw Margot King leave with Kerry and she smiled. Women just loved that boy and he loved them too. If she’d been a different type of woman she might have wanted to have a go at him herself. But she had never cheated on Lawrence in the ten years they’d been married. Even with the little sex he gave her, she had no inclination to cheat. She liked to flirt a little, she touched people a lot, lightly, innocently, but without desire. It was a part of communication to put your hand on someone’s arm, to give a brief hug, a butterfly kiss. It was the language of the group they traveled with and meant no more than “How are you today?”
She sighed. They all knew so much more than she, those other women. She did everything flawlessly, but that was all she did. Margot had a job, a life, and could whisk off a young man from a party with not a backward glance, nor a forward one either. Nikki had a good job and a married life, even Ellen Rennie, who’d never done anything outstanding, was launched on a job Rachel would have been perfect for. But that was their world, and she was in hers. She wondered whether her guests envied her or whether they thought she was foolish and laughed at her behind her back, or whether she was almost invisible to them, like the caterers who made the party work so well. She wondered if any of the husbands thought of her as a woman in her own right, or just as something lovely that belonged to Lawrence and came with the house, like the Ming vase and the Coromandel screen and the Matisse.
He thought of it as Rachel’s house, never Lawrence-and-Rachel’s, always had, although to them he was just another guest. Just entering the place where she lived, where she had a private life, took his breath away. The specialness of her had become his obsession. His fantasies concerned only her. In one of them she was in a trance, but not dead, and in his power; he could do what he wanted with her, and when she woke she would love him. Ludicrous, of course, that he had to imagine her immobile in order to possess her, when the fact that she was in his fantasy alone wasn’t enough. He was always amazed that he could carry on a normal conversation with her and keep everyone from suspecting what he was thinking. It was almost as if he himself hadn’t known what he was thinking until that evening, so many months ago, when he pocketed her Fabergé egg.
When he realized what he’d done he was horrified. Stealing something of that value was grand larceny. He was a respectable man. But once her egg was in his pocket, surrounded by his damp fingers, he felt it emitting vibrations of Rachel’s own hand and he couldn’t put it back on the table from which he’d whisked it away. He knew it was something she cared about a great deal. She had stroked it, and now it belonged to him. He had taken it home and hidden it where his wife could never find it. And after a while he realized it wasn’t what he wanted at all, never had been. He wanted something closer to Rachel, something that had touched not her hand but her body.
Outside the master bedroom
there was a bathroom with two doors, one leading to the bedroom, the other to a large dressing room, which in turn led to another bathroom. It was a veritable maze of luxury. He entered quickly through the bedroom, locked the door behind himself, walked through the suite, and locked the door that opened from the last bathroom to the hall. Now no one could interrupt him. Everything of her most private life was here.
One bathroom, with brown tiles and houndstooth-printed towels, was her husband’s. The other, pink and white, with mirrored walls, was hers. He imagined Rachel, naked from her tub, standing reflected in all those mirrors like a kind of symbol. She was too perfect to be a woman. There should be an infinity of her, reflected and rereflected, and belonging only to him. The scent of her perfume still hovered in the damp room, and he felt dizzy from the feelings and confusion it evoked. The bath towel she had used was gone, some maid of superefficiency had removed it and replaced it with dozens of little linen hand towels. No ring in her tub, of course not. He looked around, and his breath came in rasps like an asthmatic’s because he knew what he wanted now. He opened her hamper.
There, coiled on the bottom waiting for his hand, were the underpants, pantyhose, and transparent wisp of bra she had tossed in before her bath. His hand went for the bikini pants. He touched them and felt the blood rush to his groin. They were so clean it was as if she had never worn them at all. He had known that in his heart, for Rachel was no ordinary woman. Nothing about her would ever be soiled or would soil anything. He crumpled the silky pants in his fist and held them to the pain between his legs. He didn’t know what to do; he couldn’t walk out of here and face all those people with a hard-on, but he couldn’t disgrace himself in here either. If he did it on a towel the maid would see later, and even though no one would know who had done it he would know. He didn’t want to do it on her pants, not yet, not here. But why not now, here? Knowing she was somewhere in the apartment made it better.
He felt terrible afterward. It was as if he’d been crazy and had come to his senses. Why did he have these lapses? He folded the bit of sodden nylon into as small a lump as possible and put it into his trousers pocket inside his handkerchief. He was so normal, why did he sometimes get out of control like this, for her, only for her? A sharp rapping on the bathroom door brought him back completely. This bathroom was obviously the women’s toilet and the other was for the men. He knew that rapping sound well enough. Some bitch in a hurry. He walked quietly out of Rachel’s bathroom, through the dressing room and Lawrence’s bathroom, and unlocked the door to the bedroom, letting himself out. Let the bitch suffer. He hoped it was his wife.