Surface

by Stacy Robinson

  “I’m . . . well. Thanks. And you two? Playing much tennis?” She smiled as charmingly as she could manage.

  “Of course we are. When we’re down in West Palm or in Palm Springs. Or on Little Palm,” Elaine added, erupting into laughter. “Palms and tennis just seem to go hand in hand, don’t they, honey?” she said with a nudge to Bill’s shoulder.

  “I bumped into Michael last week at the Four Seasons,” Bill announced, in an apparent attempt to quell his wife’s enthusiasm for racquet resorts. But his lips tightened into a cringe. “I’m sorry about your . . . situation.” He grasped Elaine’s solidly jeweled hand. “We were just on our way to freshen our drinks. Do you need one?” He didn’t even bother to look at her glass as he led Elaine away. “It was so great to catch up, Claire.” As they were making their hasty evacuation to the bar, Houston Holland—serial dater of widows and divorcées, and a man who, with his highlighted hair, was not going gentle into that good night of middle age—was making a rapid approach. Claire turned her back too late.

  “Claire Montgomery, how wonderful to see you, doll.” Houston wore his customary striped monogrammed shirt and ascot, and half-mast vodka eyes. “I heard you’re back in town, and you look gorgeous. Doesn’t she, Diane?” he said, placing his hand on Claire’s arm.

  Diane gave a noncommittal nod as Claire turned her head to substitute cheek for mouth in light of Houston’s approaching lips. “It’s nice to see you, Houston,” she said. Claire felt the moist imprint of his urgency land on her face. “Still doing your coffee table books?” She rubbed her cheek and casually stepped back, trying to put a few feet between them. Diane and Pamela had already given them some distance, and were now confiding in low tones.

  “I’m working on a gorgeous book about water right now. Leo thinks the idea is fabulous.” Houston refilled the space with his sturdy frame.

  “Leo Metzger? The doctor?”

  “No, doll. DiCaprio. I was just out in LA pitching a documentary on it. The Zeta-Jones-Douglases loved it too, even if they might or might not be splitting. Who knows with those two.”

  “That’s very . . . exciting. So, it’s about oceans and lakes?”

  “No, bottled water.” He pulled out a small notepad and pen. “I’d love to show it to you. Maybe over drinks? Why don’t you give me your number?”

  “Well, I’m a little busy at the moment, and I just don’t think it’s a—”

  A waiter appeared and offered them baby lamb chops, with herb pesto. Claire gratefully accepted one from the tray and took a bite.

  “Divorce can be a lonely planet, doll.” Houston wrote his number down and ripped it from the pad. “You call me when you’re ready,” he said, handing her a striped, monogrammed piece of paper.

  “Wait, who said anything to you about divorce?” she asked, trying to swallow at the same time.

  “It, uh, just stands to reason. You know, under the circumstances.” He backed away slightly. “But I love a juicy story, and yours doesn’t turn me off in the slightest.” Houston made a swiping motion at his lip. “You’ve got a piece of rosemary there.” He picked up a martini glass from the passing butler’s tray and raised it to Claire before making his way to the piano, where Bill and Elaine now stood.

  Claire wiped away the offending herb as she watched him shuffle off. Elaine, it seemed, was chuckling now with Robert Spencer, who was alternately giving Carolyn irritated looks again from the doorway. All around her, Claire saw the flicker of diamonds against crystal and waxy smiles, while the pianist launched into a snappy rendition of “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.” Good lord, she thought, setting her plate of bones down on a tortoise-shell inlaid console. This is the trifecta I’ve been missing? Palms, pompous cowards, and playboys? She wondered if the entire room really had heard all the gory details about Andrew along with the apparently impending demise of her marriage. She searched the faces of her two remaining companions, quite certain at least that she was one of the few people in the room who could express emotion with her forehead muscles, Houston included. She spotted a friendlier figure near the sunroom and excused herself.

  “Gail, how are you?” Claire said, placing her hand on her old friend’s shoulder.

  Gail spun around, startled. “Jeez, is that really you, hon?” She enveloped Claire in a tight embrace. “I’m so glad you’re back. I only just got home myself a couple days ago, and Carolyn filled me in on all that’s happened since I left. I can hardly believe it,” she said, waving her hands, her multitude of bangles clanging like tubular bells. “And I hope you can forgive me for not being there for you.”

  Claire managed a small laugh. “It’s all right, I know you’ve been out of the country with Ashton, and I don’t blame—”

  “It’s Austin, actually. But Ashton seems much more apropos, given our demographics. It’s a good thing he didn’t call me Demi, though,” she said, winking her lavish lash extensions. “We hit four continents before I sent him home to Miami.” She paused to catch her breath and take a sip of champagne. “But I should have called you this week, and I’m a shit.”

  “No, you’re not. I’m just grateful to find someone whose company is actually pleasant.” She took an inventory of the room, finding most of the eyes on her, and just as quickly, off. “So,” Claire asked, only half-kidding, “do you think my presence is causing another scandal?”

  “In this group? Please. These people don’t have enough closet space for all their skeletons.” She downed the rest of her champagne. “Myself included.” Gail motioned her chin over Claire’s shoulder. “But you’d better brace yourself, hon. Here comes trouble.”

  An overly made-up woman with a tight face and cashmere sweater to match approached them. Lynn Wexler sat on nearly every major foundation board in the city and was known to adore her cocktails far more than her husband. She slid between Claire and Gail, fixing her nose about four inches from Claire’s. “I’m surprised to see you here after all that . . . sordidness,” she slurred, her breath bitter with scotch. “I’ve merely come over to inquire about your son.” Before Claire could respond, Lynn proceeded to spill her entire drink on Claire’s shoes.

  “Oh, wait, let me check my watch,” Gail said, raising her Harry Winston chrono under Lynn’s chin, and passing Claire a napkin with her other hand. “Nope. Didn’t think so. It’s definitely not 1952, Lynn, so maybe tone down the Bette Davis a bit.”

  Carolyn swooped over and escorted the redoubtable Mrs. Wexler to the bar, mouthing a mortified sorry over her shoulder. Claire glanced around the room again. Amid the buzz of a dozen different conversations she was positive she heard mentions of cocaine and affairs—as if her ears had suddenly sprouted high-powered hearing aids. Several people turned away, and she wasn’t sure if their collective head-shaking was aimed at her or at drunk Lynn. She prayed that the flames in her stomach hadn’t risen to her cheeks. “That went well, don’t you think?” she said, dabbing her shoes dry with the cocktail napkin. Cora was proving to be prophetic after all, damn her.

  Gail rolled her eyes at the rigid backside of Lynn’s departing figure. “Ugh, that horrible woman. But she has even more money than I do, so people tolerate her.” She handed Claire another glass of champagne from a passing tray.

  Another waiter appeared with hors d’oeuvres. “Canapés? Or lamb chops with—”

  “No,” Claire said a bit louder than she meant to. “Thank you.”

  Gail took one of each before the waiter left. “So, how are you really doing, honey?”

  “Well, the situation with Nicholas has been emotional and scary, to say the least. He’s doing much, much better, but . . .” She closed her eyes for a moment. “Michael and I are not in a good place, Houston Holland just hit on me, and it seems a lot of people know more about my personal life than I do.” She opened her eyes and saw stars, as well as Houston Holland crawling along the border of the rug in search of something. “God, what is that man doing now?”

  They both stared at what looked like a blind
camel nosing through sand. “Um, looking for his glass eye?” Gail laughed.

  “Actually, he’s probably trying to pick up all those names he’s dropped tonight.”

  Gail fixed the kindest smile Claire had seen in months on her, and hugged her a second time. “Aw, welcome home, honey. You are the Febreze this stale, overstuffed den needs. Seriously. I don’t know why Carolyn entertains these people. And I don’t know why we keep coming.”

  Claire was beginning to feel light-headed as she pondered the same question, and wished she’d taken one of the canapés. “The whole thing is just so surreal. I mean all of it, not just this party. Honestly, I feel like I’m just spinning.”

  “Ooh, did I just hear y’all talking about spinning?” A tall, slender woman in a leopard slip dress and spike-heeled Manolos paused to survey who she’d interrupted. Helenn Hamilton-Hayes, of Fort Worth. Via Beaver Dam, Kentucky. “Oh, hello, Claire, what a surprise to find you here. I haven’t seen you since, what? The Met Ball?” Her chandelier earrings dangled like drumsticks as she spoke. “You just look so fantastically skinny. What’s your secret?”

  Claire tried to smile through her urge to spit. “I guess you could say I’ve been busy.”

  “Well, you look great. Considering.”

  “The body lies,” she replied under her breath.

  “Hmm?” Helenn looked Claire up and down. “Anyway, y’all were talking spinning, and as I started to say, I have found the most fabulous Yoga Spin instructor, and you just can’t believe what he has done for my glutes.” She gave her rear end an affectionate tap.

  Claire stared incredulously at the scene, wishing somehow to bolster her resolve, but it was like trying to nail Jell-O to the wall. The more she smiled and tried to play the game, the farther floorward her composure slid. For a split second she imagined tossing her own drink at Helenn’s perfectly spun derrière. Instead she set her glass down on the mantle and made a hasty retreat to the powder room.

  Locking the door behind her, Claire walked over to the sink and splashed cool water onto her face. A stabbing pain hit her between the eyes. And there, in the candlelit glow of the Spencers’ bathroom, she finally, mercifully, lost it.

  CHAPTER 28

  Claire sat curled up on the floor like a frightened caterpillar, fat black tears coursing down her cheeks. She opened her mouth to let out the muffled roar she felt building in her stomach, but nothing emerged. She longed to scream and hit the walls, to pound her fists into Andrew’s chest, and Michael’s and Cora’s. She pictured herself bursting through the door of the bathroom to tell all the finger-waggers that she didn’t give a damn about them, but instead she cupped her face in her hands and pictured the Edvard Munch Scream painting, the grotesque distortion of the screamer and his hellish world, and she felt hollow and powerless. Coming to this party was another colossal mistake, that much she now knew. I know these people. I was one of these people.

  A gentle knock came at the door. “Claire, honey, it’s Gail. Are you all right? You’ve been in there for a while,” she stage-whispered.

  Claire lifted her head from her knees and raised her eyes to the ceiling, but the attempt at tear stoppage proved futile. She held her breath and pulled herself up to her feet, holding on to the painted porcelain doorknob, and opened the door just enough to allow Gail to pass through. “Oh, God, Gail, the last thing I need is to cause a scene here, but I’m a mess. Look at me.” She reached for a tissue. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, coming here tonight,” she said, wiping her nose and eyes. “I thought it would help me, but everything’s such a convoluted disaster.”

  “Honey, you’ll be fine,” Gail said, parting Claire’s hair out of her face with her fingers, and assessing the damage. “I’m going to help you, but it’s going to take some work to get you out of here looking unscathed.” She opened her bag and pulled out a silk makeup tote. “Here we are,” she said as she unzipped the bulging case, revealing concealer, powder, foundation, and every other Laura Mercier product imaginable. “What I’ve got in here could make a raccoon look glamorous. Or a woman look like a raccoon.” She sat Claire down on the toilet. “Now, let’s forget about Lynn and batshit Helenn, and get to work. I’m sure that woman prays for the flu each winter to get in a couple extra days of weight loss on the can.”

  Claire snorted back the tears that clogged her sinuses. “Oh, God, I’m so pathetic,” she said, covering her eyes again with her hands.

  “Yes, hon, you are.” Gail wiped the snot from Claire’s lip with another tissue and placed the makeup case in her lap. “But we can fix you.”

  Claire held the case tightly. “Do you always carry the store with you?”

  Gail reached in for a Q-tip. “Just the basics, hon. I have an entire room at home devoted solely to skin- and hair-care products, shelved and alphabetized. It used to be the second husband’s closet, but I took it over before he even knew what hit him.” Gail winked and walked over to the sink and dampened her tools. “Actually,” she said, waving a Q-tip, “that may have been one of the reasons the marriage ended. But he was a hapless bastard.”

  Claire was surprised at the cavalier brush-off. “Why did you break up with Max? He seemed like such a great guy.”

  “Honey, I wasn’t talking about Max. I adored Max. Except for that little legal issue. I was referring to Warren. He came before Max, before I knew you. And I just couldn’t live for another day with that toupee under my roof. Besides, the man was the sexual equivalent of Valium and a clitourist.”

  “A what?”

  “A clitourist, honey. In the bedroom. He would not ask for, much less take, directions. He was just lost and wandering down there.” Her voice dipped. “A stranger in a strange land.”

  “God, I’ve missed you.”

  “And I’ve missed you, too, my sweet mess of a friend. But we need to wipe all that mascara off of your face before it runs down your cleavage.”

  “I don’t know what happened to me out there. I guess I just wasn’t ready for . . . people,” Claire said while her friend erased the evidence of her breakdown. She thought for a second of Cora’s confounding prescience, and began tearing up again. “Oh, jeez, here we go again.”

  “Shh,” Gail put her fingers on Claire’s lips.

  “But I . . .”

  “I’m serious. Not another word out of you. You’re not ready to talk about this without the necessary hysterics, and this isn’t the place. Besides I’ve almost got you looking perfect again, and I do not want to start over. We’ll have lunch at my house. No makeup, lots of Kleenex and champagne. It’ll be good therapy. But in the meantime, we’ve got to get you out of here with minimum fallout.”

  “I’ll need to say good-bye to Carolyn.”

  “Right. They’ll be serving dinner shortly. I’ll go tell Carolyn that you’re not quite up to the rest of the evening. She’ll understand, and we’ll get one of her minions to remove your place card and seat from your table so you won’t be so conspicuous in your absence. Then we’ll walk you out together in deep, animated female conversation so no more of those gimlet-eyed assholes can bother you.”

  Claire felt skeptical, but no other options rushed to mind. “I guess it sounds like a good plan,” she said as she checked her makeover in the mirror. “You’re a lifesaver, Gail. You know, if you ever had to go back to work, you could always have a career as a makeup artist.”

  “Ugh, I couldn’t stand being in women’s faces all day long. I much prefer being up close and personal with men.” She smoothed her long black hair and retouched her lips in scarlet. “In fact, we should get moving. There could be someone fabulous out there just waiting to meet me.”

  “Are you seriously looking for number four?”

  “Honey, if I wanted to play mommy to a twenty-nine-year-old man any longer—fabulous as Austin is—I’d be on Craigslist. Besides, you never know where the next future Mr. Gail Harrold will appear. And one must always be prepared. He’ll just be signing a more airtight prenup this
time.” Gail foraged at the bottom of the makeup bag and pulled out a small, jeweled atomizer, and, bending over, repositioned her breasts in her low-cut blouse and sprayed a fine mist between them. “Although tonight my chances really don’t look so terrific. Carolyn has me seated next to her very gay hairdresser from New York. We’re practically wearing matching outfits, and his ass looks better in the Galliano pants than mine does.” She held her hand out to Claire. “So, you ready, hon?”

  “I suppose,” Claire said. As she straightened her suit jacket, a crumbled piece of pinstriped notepaper fell from her pocket.

  Gail picked it up and unfolded it. “Call me, dollface,” she read in disbelief. “God, that man is about as ridiculous as overalls.”

  “Welcome to my new life.”

  “Well, I have just the place for this charming invitation.”

  “Where?”

  “Lynn Wexler’s purse. I’m sure it’ll make for fabulous conversation with her husband.”

  Gail left a strong trail of Flowerbomb behind in the powder room, and Claire felt somehow calmed by her crazy savior in purple and red. She adjusted her hair and looked into the mirror again for any obvious signs of distress. She looked tired, but not as dreadful as she might have. Moments later there was a tap at the door.

  “The coast is clear. Come on out, sweetheart,” Gail said in an awful Humphrey Bogart imitation. Claire slipped out into the quiet foyer and Gail walked her toward the front door where Carolyn was waiting with a soft smile. “Carolyn’s got everything covered, and she’s coming to lunch with us tomorrow.”

  Claire moved as quickly as she could through the door, then stopped in her tracks. “Oh, God, I totally forgot, I’m supposed to meet my sister tomorrow.”

  “Great, bring her along. I need to work my chef a little more these days. He’s getting bored with me.”

  Carolyn placed her arm around Claire’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “Claire, I’m sorry this was not the greatest homecoming for you. Really sorry. Especially about Robert and Lynn. I’d like to wring both of their necks. Are you going to be all right?”