“I can understand that,” Cynthia said. “Clifton was a most compelling man back in those days.”
“Then he changed his mind and left me. That hurt a lot, and his flaming around with every pretty-boy in sight hurt more. But we still worked together, he still did wonderful things for me, and I got over the hurt. If I couldn’t have all of Clifton, at least I had the professional side almost to myself. Until … until he decided that Laura Russell was as good a dancer as I was.”
“Did he ever say that?”
“All the time, constantly. Starting about six months ago. He made it a point to tell me how good he thought she was. It was clear I was losing the professional part of Clifton too. So we ended up with that awful scene just before he died. You certainly heard about that?”
“Yes,” Cynthia said.
“I had had it,” Veronica went on. “Clifton was being awful, and he was doing a new ballet that would make Laura look better than I did. My strong point is not that herky-jerky stuff that was required for Chávez Concerto. But it is Laura’s. She looks like a drum majorette when she does it, but Clifton didn’t think so.”
“I’m just as glad the ballet will never be done. I never thought it showed any promise at all,” Cynthia said.
“It didn’t. But Clifton didn’t care. He didn’t care if it was a failure—as long as I failed with it.”
“I’d like to think you’re wrong, but I’m not sure I can,” Cynthia said. “But he let you conduct class,” she added.
“Oh, yes. He kept telling me what a wonderful teacher I would be, as if he were pushing me right off the stage into the classroom.”
“You’ve been leading the class a lot.”
“Well, he did make me think. In my own mind, I see myself dancing forever. I know that’s not realistic, but certainly I’ve got another ten years. But what then? Or what if I get injured? I’ve got to have something, and the ballet is all I know. Oh, sure, I learned how to milk cows as a little girl in Canada—I really did—but I sure as hell don’t want to go back to that. Besides, they have milking machines now.”
Veronica, finished with her salad, lit another cigarette. “I’ll be a good teacher someday, I know it,” she said, exhaling.
“You do very well right now, even though I’m still feeling the effects of this morning,” Cynthia replied.
“Look, I admire you for taking class at all. I’m sure you’ll be all right after a cup of coffee.”
“Good idea. Oh, oh, here comes the padrone,” Cynthia warned.
Luigi appeared at the table. “And what can I offer you beautiful ladies for dessert? Rum cake? Zabaglione?” he asked.
“Luigi, you silly old man,” Cynthia said. “Tempting us like that. I just want an espresso doppio.”
“Subito, signora. But you are missing a great treat. The rum cake is delicious.”
“When I retire,” Cynthia said. Then, gently, she asked Veronica about the second man with whom the young ballerina had had a love–hate relationship.
“Oh, God, Cynthia, it’s so awful I don’t want to talk about it,” Veronica said.
“Something recent?” Cynthia pressed, gently.
“Yes. Very. But it’s over.”
“A dancer?”
“No. A man from another world—could have been from another planet. But you don’t really want to hear about it.”
“I’ll be happy to listen, if it will be any help,” Cynthia responded.
“I’ve never talked to anyone about him. I don’t really have any close friends in the Company—personal friends, I mean—so no one knows about him. He was a very well-kept secret.”
“What was his name?” Cynthia asked.
“Oh, God. Bernard Reyman. A stockbroker, of all things. Or investment banker, or whatever they call themselves. A partner in something called Hughes & Company. He started writing me notes about eighteen months ago. Saying how much he loved this or that performance, and how much he wanted to meet me. I didn’t answer them for a while, then wrote him notes back saying no. Then I decided, what did I have to lose? He wanted to meet me like any other fan. So I agreed. Agreed to meet him after a performance and have supper.”
“And?”
“We did. We had supper, all right, and went straight from there to bed. On the first date. He was gorgeous, Cynthia, absolutely gorgeous. Big, strong and handsome. A blond god, with the most wonderful icy blue eyes you ever saw. And he knew about all the things I’m totally ignorant of—business, politics, sports. And he made a million dollars a year.”
“He told you that?”
“He told me that, and one night, after we’d been going together awhile, he showed me a copy of his income tax return. Can you imagine?” Maywood giggled.
“Sounds like a prize catch to me,” Cynthia said.
“He was. For someone like me, who could go for months without talking to anyone except about the ballet, or without seeing anyone outside the Company, it was wonderful. We met all the time. Went to Europe together during the summer break—Venice, Rome, London, everywhere. It was a fantastic time.”
“It sounds it,” Cynthia said.
“I deliberately kept him away from the Company. I didn’t need a Laura Russell or her kind stealing him away. And I didn’t want the gossip columns to get wind of it. We were going to be married, and I didn’t want to take any chances on competition or publicity. But then it all fell apart.”
Maywood paused as the waiter—belatedly—cleared away the lunch dishes. Except for asking her companion, “How come?” Cynthia kept quiet.
“We’d been going together for six months. I guess I was so in love I didn’t notice what was happening. Little mood changes. Paranoia every so often, that I took for jealousy of me as a ballerina Then I discovered he was taking heroin. We had done coke a few times, but always on holiday, never during the season—I have seen enough nose problems with dancers that I wouldn’t do that. But this was steady and constant. And heavy.”
“Did you try to bring him out of it?”
“You bet I did. He said he’d try, and he did for a while. But he never would go to a clinic. I finally realized he wasn’t serious, so I left him.”
“I’m sorry. The dope thing really is awful, isn’t it?” Cynthia said.
“Poison. Pure poison. A bloody damn curse on the unsuspecting.”
“What happened to him, do you know?”
“Yes,” Veronica said. She paused and wiped a tear from her eye. “After our quarrel I saw him a couple of times—he would show up and not go away unless I talked to him. Then, about two weeks ago, a friend from his office called. Bernard had died of an overdose. His firm hushed it up, of course, and there was nothing in the papers. But he died of an overdose.”
“Awful. I’m very sorry, Veronica.”
“Thank you, sweet Cynthia. It’s been a pretty bad time for me.”
“But you’ve kept on dancing and have been dancing marvelously.”
“Thanks. I decided I’d better concentrate on what I know and forget about stockbroker millionaires.”
Luigi once again broke into the conversation. “You ladies like an after-dinner drink?” he asked.
“No, Luigi. Besides, it’s only lunch, not dinner,” Cynthia said. “And you’d better bring us the check.”
Cynthia insisted on paying, over Veronica’s protests.
“Where are you headed?” Cynthia asked.
“Oh, I think I’ll just take in a movie. It’s a funny thing, you know. I was supposed to rehearse Chávez Concerto this afternoon. But now that the schedule’s blank, I think I’ll see my first movie in months.”
“Well, I’m off to Saks myself,” Cynthia said.
“Thanks for the lunch.”
“My pleasure, Veronica. Be of good cheer.”
The two women kissed and went their separate ways.
Cynthia Frost, once in Saks, took the escalator to the third floor. She needed time to digest all she had learned from Veronica Maywood. But she
could think perfectly well looking at the designer summer dresses. There was nothing particular she had in mind buying; it was purely an impulse trip. Her instincts for an attractive new garment—be it a Saint Laurent linen suit, an Armani blouse or a Valentino summer evening dress—could function perfectly well as she sorted out what she had heard at Luigi’s.
So Veronica Maywood was a coke user, she reflected, not believing for a minute the disclaimer about off-season use. She had known too many people who claimed to drink only at holiday time, or to smoke only after dinner, or to fornicate only when on the road, to believe that addictions could be channeled and neatly regulated. What did that prove? Maybe it worked in her favor. Maybe the famous scene at the last rehearsal of Chávez Concerto had been induced by coke. Or maybe coke—or worse, heroin—had fomented the madness in her that had led to Holt’s murder? The discarded lover sounded like a bad lot, but as near as she could guess, his role, in his drug-induced state, would have been simply that of another negative goad propelling Veronica to desperate action.
“Can I help you, madame?” one of the Ruritanian saleswomen said to Cynthia, who was examining, with some hesitation, a bare-backed Ungaro evening dress.
“Is very beautiful, madame,” the woman said.
Cynthia knew better than to ask the woman’s advice; if a sale was in prospect, she and her kind would say anything to close it. She moved away from the backless dress and surveyed those beside it.
“Perhaps this would be more suitable,” the saleswoman said, indicating a stark, black, full-throated horror. That did it; she would try the backless number, hoping that she could discreetly see whether the wrinkles of age were visible in the considerable areas it did not cover.
Cynthia tried on the dress and ignored the Mittel-European cluckings of the saleswoman as to its exquisite beauty on her slim dancer’s figure. The mirror told her that it was all right, and she bought it. So much for the parody of widow’s weeds that the saleswoman had tried to push on her. “More suitable” indeed.
With her new purchase in hand and her dance bag slung over her shoulder, Cynthia went out into Fiftieth Street, uncertain what to do next. Home, she thought. The walk would help the postclass stiffness in her right thigh. Walking up Madison Avenue, she encountered Teresa Holt, peering into the window of a jewelry store.
“Cynthia! I’m so glad to see you. I thought you were wonderful last night. Very appropriate remarks. Unlike the Mayor.”
“You mean what I said about Clifford?” The two women laughed in mid-sidewalk. “I’m pleased that you’re pleased,” Cynthia went on. “It all went very well, I thought. Where are you going?”
“Oh, I’m just wandering around. Thinking of ways to spend my legacy, I guess. You know about that, surely?”
“Yes, Reuben told me. I’m glad the estate turned out all right.”
“You’re glad? Well, enough about that.”
“Would you like to have a drink, or tea?” Cynthia asked. It was somewhat early for cocktails, but why not look over another candidate for arrest?
“Goodness, I don’t know. Where could we go?”
“The St. Regis is right around the corner. They’ve absolutely ruined the King Cole Bar, but you still can get a drink there.”
“You’re on, Cynthia. What fun.”
Teresa and Cynthia walked to the lobby entrance of the bar, where Cynthia was confronted by a stern headwaiter who insisted that she check her satchel of dance paraphernalia and Saks shopping bag.
When seated, she asked Teresa if she thought she would have had to check the shopping bag had she not also been saddled with her dance bag.
“I don’t know,” Teresa said.
“Well, I do,” said Cynthia. “I’m sure you could come in here with enough shopping bags to rival Mrs. Santa Claus and they wouldn’t say a thing. But carry a dance bag, and they somehow think you’re going to spend the night. Society’s discrimination against those artistically inclined.”
“How is Reuben?” Teresa asked.
“He’s off in Portland, Oregon, of all places. Off with one of his old clients. A lonely old dear who insists Reuben come out there to see him personally.”
“Good heavens, I saw him last night at the theatre.”
“He only left this morning. Back tomorrow.”
“I see.”
The women ordered daiquiris, both protesting that it was perhaps a bit early for such things, but …
“What are your plans, Teresa?” Cynthia asked.
“I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to stay around here until the estate is settled. I must ask Reuben what’s expected of me. Then I think I’ll go back to California. I had a wonderful time there until this happened. An uninterrupted, very happy six weeks. San Francisco, or Sausalito, is not New York, but I have good friends there. The climate is fine, and the pace is fine. Reuben will be back tomorrow?”
“Yes. And I’m sure he’d be happy to talk to you,” Cynthia answered.
“Cheers,” Teresa said, holding up the stemmed glass the waiter had brought.
“Cheers to you, Teresa,” said Cynthia, raising her own glass in reply.
“You know, Cynthia, I feel so odd about this inheritance business.”
Cynthia did not comment, but only twisted her pearls and looked interested.
“I mean, here I am a widow, inheriting all this money from Clifton, yet our marriage ended years ago,” Teresa went on.
“How long ago exactly, Teresa? I know that things were not good for a very long time, but just how long?”
“About seven months after we were married. When Clifton started seeing Doris White on the side.”
“That was before Veronica?”
“Oh, yes. Amusing and jolly Doris White. ABT’s great character ballerina, right? Not old enough to be Clifton’s mother, but still old enough. He snuck off and had a fling with her while ABT was in Los Angeles. I was shocked, and we had a battle royal and he came back. Very penitent. Then there were all the other Hollywood stories. And then Veronica. But it all really had ended with Doris—cheap old tart turning Clifton’s head.”
“It must have been a trial. I’ve often wondered how I’d have reacted if Reuben had played around.”
“A trial? Not really. After Doris, the marriage was over. Clifton Holt remained of interest to me for one reason and one reason only: he made regular deposits to my bank account. And even that was coming to an end.”
“How do you mean?” Cynthia asked.
“For years, Cynthia, we had a deal—unstated, but nonetheless a deal. I kept quiet—no interviews, no speculating in public or private about Clifton’s personal life, no flamboyant behavior to remind people that we were separated. In return, he supported me—not extravagantly, but certainly adequately. More than adequately, I suppose. Then last New Year’s Day he called me. Told me I should enjoy the year ahead because it was the last one he was going to pick up the check for.”
“Any reason given?”
“Clifton never gave reasons. No. He simply said I had a year to work things out before the money stopped.”
“Did he ever talk about his will?”
“Oh, he mentioned that, all right. Said he was cutting me out completely. Going to use his money to start a foundation. I told him I didn’t think he could do that, that I was sure I had some rights to the estate, or at least to a part of it. ‘Not when I get through with you, you won’t,’ he told me. It was all so silly—who ever thought of Clifton dying? Talk about his will seemed very remote to me, but he did it all the time.
“I didn’t know what he was thinking of,” Teresa continued. “Was he going to get a divorce at last? Was he trying to provoke me into getting one? Or was he threatening me in some more ominous way? I couldn’t tell. He sounded utterly mad. Mean and utterly mad.”
“What did you do? Got a lawyer, I hope,” Cynthia interjected.
“No, I just decided to wait and see what developed. Then went to California to try and forget it all.�
��
Cynthia, intrigued by what she was hearing, had sipped continuously on her drink, which was now gone.
“Since we’re violating the yardarm rule, shall we have another?” she asked Teresa.
“I suppose. No harm done.”
The two sat in silence for a moment. Then Teresa spoke again. “I’m so confused, Cynthia. I think of all the money I’m getting, then I think of all the hateful things Clifton did to me. But then in the next breath I’m figuring out ways to preserve his works and to perpetuate them. I’ve thought a lot about that these past few days.”
“It’s a worthy cause, Teresa, even if Clifton wasn’t.”
“You know, you take a ballet like Summer Sonata. One of the few great women’s roles he did for someone other than Veronica. It’s absolutely beautiful. And when that young Hailey Coles does it, it’s absolute radiance.”
“You’re so right. It was one of his most magical creations. I think it’s done all over the world now.”
“So here I am. Ready to spend the money of the man who despised me. Still loving in some ways the man who made my life hell. Any advice, Cynthia?”
“I’m not very good at such advice, I’m afraid. If I were you, I’d take the money and run; let it make up for all the years he made you miserable. But remembering him, helping to preserve his body of work, that would be very noble and very generous.”
“That’s about where I’m coming out. Split right down the middle once again.”
“I’m afraid I’ve got to go. I have a date tonight with Arne Petersen,” Cynthia said.
“Good for you. He will carry things on the right way, won’t he?”
“I think so.”
“Let’s hope. The bad things about Clifton have been killed. The good things must not die.”
17
ARNE
The movie Cynthia was seeing that evening in preview was Glory Days, the latest starring vehicle for Vivian Brooks. A startlingly beautiful and sexy redhead, Brooks had recently had a string of critical successes and was at the moment one of the most sought-after actresses in the movie business. She was also Arne Petersen’s girlfriend.
She had first come to public attention for her sheer beauty. No one really cared whether she could act; the public was quite willing to buy tickets just to view her beautiful body and face on the screen. She could have made a long and successful career simply by displaying herself, but she had wanted more than that. So, after much persuasion, her studio had gingerly allowed her to appear in roles of substance, where she revealed a knack for sophisticated comedy not seen in Hollywood since the 1930’s.
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