The Right Address

by Carrie Karasyov

  And now it was actually quite amusing for him. Everything about Melanie was so obvious, so garish, so in-your-face, so American. Sometimes he felt that his life had become a sitcom. Just when he thought the wretched woman couldn’t surpass her latest faux pas, she exceeded it. Mr. Guffey had trouble believing there wasn’t some gag writer serving up material for her. And when he realized that Melanie both feared and revered him, and that her ignorance of anything tasteful and classy was becoming painfully obvious to her, he realized what a wonderful opportunity he had. A few snippets there, some supercilious glances there, and his favorite—the arched eyebrow—had Melanie begging him for advice at every turn. It was a frothy little game now for Mr. Guffey. Mrs. Melanie Korn was officially putty in his hands. How many butlers could boast that?

  chapter 7

  “He’s a modern-day Michelangelo.”

  “Rodin.”

  Wendy and Joan were settled in their corner banquette in the back room at Swifty’s, drinking in the tide of perfumed ladies who fluttered in for their liquid lunches. Every woman was dressed to the nines, and it was, in a sense, a kind of fashion show—designed not to impress their husbands but one another. The long, narrow restaurant was packed, as usual, and this day was a particular social jackpot, with Dominick Dunne and Nan Kempner in one corner, the society columnist from W in another, and the Miller sisters having a mini–family reunion in the front. Wendy and Joan’s gaze happened to be on Cordelia, who was on her way out.

  “But she just had a revamp two years ago,” said Wendy. “Are you sure? I mean, she does look fabulous . . .”

  “I just saw her in the restroom. Fluorescent lights,” Joan testified solemnly, as if she were in the witness booth.

  “Oh. Those never lie.”

  “No, they don’t. She’s definitely been to Sherrell Aston. I know his work a mile away.”

  “As I said, he’s an artist,” said Wendy.

  “I know last time she had it all done: neck fat, eyes, tits, chin. The works.”

  Joan caught sight of herself in the blasted mirror over Wendy’s head and pursed her lips, making her cheeks hollow to see her cheekbones and check the wrinkle status.

  “I myself am due for a touch-up,” she said.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “Here she comes.”

  Cordelia walked up to them, her new shahtoosh thrown casually over her arm. Beside her strolled Jerome de Stingol, the heavyset legendary 10021 walker slash decorator slash designer slash alleged S&M queen by night.

  “Hello, Wendy, Joan,” said Cordelia politely.

  “Cord!” said Wendy, as if surprised to see her. “And Monsieur de Stingol!”

  Jerome kissed Wendy’s hand. Then Joan’s.

  “Darlings,” he said, with the bursting drama of a Hamlet monologue. “Looking rrrravishing,” he added, rolling the r Juan Perón–style.

  “You’re such a sweetie.” Wendy blushed.

  “Off for a little shop?” asked Joan.

  “Of course!” Jerome leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “The mint squab is nothing short of divine. Order it.”

  “Absolutely,” said Joan. “We always trust your taste.”

  Jerome nodded, put his arm through Cordelia’s, and walked out onto Lexington Avenue.

  The women paused with held breath until the exiting pair was no longer in front of the window, and then uncorked.

  “He’s a vile man.”

  “A dirty bird.”

  “He is, isn’t he?” said Wendy. “I’ve never been able to stand him. I’m surprised Cordelia can.”

  “He’s her only real friend,” said Joan sadly. “I bet she doesn’t even knew that de Stingol is an anagram for Goldstein.”

  “Of course she doesn’t. That gal is in the dark,” said Wendy, shaking her head. “Although . . .” she added with a mischievous raised eyebrow (perfectly tweezed by Svetlana at Georgette Klinger), “I hear he is too, in a manner of a speaking. He’s a naughty boy. Apparently he has some interesting extracurricular activities north of 125th Street.”

  “Really.”

  “Oui.”

  The waiter approached. Joan and Wendy each placed their orders for mint squab.

  “And Cordelia, she’s a real shopaholic,” said Joan, worried, as if it were heroin instead of size-four designer labels.

  “If there was an Olympic sport for it, she’d medal.”

  “She’s always clad in the latest.”

  “She’s always showcasing her jewelry.”

  “Must be Morgan making up for his affairs.”

  Wendy thought about this for a second.

  “No,” she said. “I think she just likes to buy things.”

  “Well, of course—I’m just saying it’s an emotional Band-Aid,” added Joan. “I mean, at that auction last week her paddle was just permanently up! I thought her arm was having a muscle spasm or something.”

  “What a waste of a life.”

  Suddenly the two women heard screams coming from the front room. They nervously sat erect, clutching their Hermès Kelly bags and looking at each other, alarmed. The sounds of a man screaming something muted became louder, and into their room burst a greasy-haired, obese pig of a man carrying a giant FUR KILLS sign written in mock blood. He wore a T-shirt for TAG, Treat Animals Good, the organization that regularly harassed wearers of flesh-based fashion. He whipped his head around the room, his beady eyes searching for something or someone; then, spotting his prey, he marched over to Lady Beatrice Harvey’s table. The British socialite had just taken the reins at Harper’s Bazaar.

  “Special delivery for you, Lady Hah-vee!”

  Beatrice looked up just as the maniac threw a bloody raccoon carcass on her plate. It transpired as if in slow motion—the raccoon landed with a soggy plop on her salad plate, causing flecks of balsamic vinegar and oil to splash all over the tablecloth. Her dining partner recoiled while Beatrice appeared unmoved and expressionless. The crowd in the room gasped in horror as the raccoon slid off the plate and onto the floor. It was a bloody mess, although Beatrice’s Calvin Klein suit was left mercifully unscathed.

  “FUR KILLS! You’re MURDERERS! MUR-DER-ERS!”

  Three waiters managed to drag him out while two others removed the carcass.

  Beatrice, unfazed, asked for a new steak. Extra rare.

  Joan and Wendy were paralyzed. Not with a jolt of fear, but with the excitement that they were on the front line of what they knew would be legendary, citywide, wildfire gossip. And they would light the match.

  “My goodness, what was that all about?” said Joan.

  “Animal rights activists,” Wendy said with a shrug. “Obviously they weren’t cc’d on the memo that their cause is so late eighties.”

  “I’m so tired of them. When Binky’s daughter worked at Vogue, they all had to have personal bodyguards when they did the ‘Fur Is Back’ issue.”

  Wendy was about to respond when she noticed Melanie Korn walk in wearing a giant white fur coat. It was a crisp September day, not cold enough to warrant fur.

  Melanie saw the two ladies across the room and decided to approach and say hello. They were so superintimidating, but she just had to suck it up, because it would be worse to not acknowledge them. She took a breath and told herself to be breezy.

  “What was all the commotion outside?” Melanie asked Wendy and Joan.

  “Those anti-fur losers from Treat Animals Good,” said Wendy, blowing it off.

  “Harassing people who have real lives,” said Joan.

  “Time to get a job,” added Wendy. They both tried to downplay the scenario so that no one would spread the news before they had a chance to.

  “Oh, yeah, anti-fur is, like, so yesteryear,” said Melanie, for lack of anything better to say.

  Joan and Wendy just stared at her blankly. As soon as Melanie had spoken she felt idiotic, so she tried to recover by quickly bolting. “Well, I’m off to lunch with Pat and Blaine. See ya!”

  Melanie wa
ved and walked off. As she turned around, Wendy and Joan’s eyes widened to the size of the china plates just placed at their table: there was a giant blob of red paint down the back of Mrs. Korn’s coat. Joan and Wendy, unable to contain themselves, burst out laughing.

  chapter 8

  Arthur was like a kid whenever he had to go anyplace that he had considered too swanky and intimidating to enter pre–taking New York by storm. So it was with this naive exuberance that Arthur bounded down the steps into the renowned and revered 21 Club on Fifty-second Street. Since he had almost immediately established himself as a regular, Harry and Shaker, the greeters who were almost as much of an institution as the place itself, welcomed Arthur warmly and by name, and helped him slip off his Burberry trench.

  While making his way toward the club room, Arthur passed an easel that made him stop dead in his tracks. On it rested a blown-up, poster-size copy of the 10021 magazine cover with Olivia Weston, “The Next Mimi Halsey” caption now so pronounced it almost taunted demurral.

  “Harry, what’s this?” asked Arthur.

  “10021 magazine is hosting a luncheon upstairs in honor of Miss Weston.”

  “Upstairs? Now?”

  “Yes, Mr. Korn.”

  “Interesting.”

  Olivia Weston was upstairs, right this very minute! What a strange coincidence! Or was it? Arthur paused and then distractedly greeted his friend and lunch date, Peter Hartnett. His head was upstairs in the fragrant air shared by his young novelist neighbor.

  One flight up, the 10021 fete was in full swing. Olivia was sitting in head-to-toe Michael Kors, seated between her dear friends Rosemary Peniston and Lila Meyer, both of whom were frequently captured in the party pictures of the various fashion and society magazines.

  “Well, the family is just in a tizzy, a tizzy, because Brooke’s brother Harpo wants to move downtown! Her grandmother is literally having a coronary, and her mother is beside herself, I mean, really downtown!” said Rosemary, with her usual dramatic delivery. Rosemary was robust, and everything about her was bursting—her booming, lockjawed Connecticut voice, her big, daily-coiffed glossy brunette chignon, her large breasts barely restrained by a D cup, and her cacophonous energy. She was a genuine firecracker. And like most heavyset rich people, she collected expensive shoes and jewelry, which sated her shopping yearnings but didn’t put her in a bad mood when she tried them on.

  “So Brooke says to Harpo, ‘Why do you want to go downtown? What in the world is down there that you don’t have uptown?’ and he said, ‘I’m young, and I want to live life to the fullest.’ It’s astonishing. So a distraught Brooke says, ‘I have to go see with my own eyes where he wants to live.’ So we got in my car—luckily my driver knew how to get downtown—and we pull up to Eleventh Street and Fifth Avenue and as I live and breathe, what do we see? I see that there are awnings there! Green awnings! Needless to say, Brooke was very relieved. Who knew? There are buildings with canopies!”

  “Of course there are, Rosemary,” said Lila in a subdued tone. Her low-key energy and waifish body made her a marked contrast to her best friend. “It’s called the Gold Coast. Very chi-chi.”

  “I’m down there often; it’s really nice,” attested Olivia.

  “Well, I’ve never been there. I simply cannot believe that there are green canopies!”

  “Haven’t you ever been to the Forbes Museum?” asked Lila.

  “No, what are the Forbeses doing down there?”

  “I don’t know, but they have a great collection of Lincoln memorabilia. You should check it out,” advised Lila.

  “What do I care about Lincoln memorabilia?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s just interesting. What do you think, Olivia?”

  Throughout most of the luncheon Olivia had remained quiet but attentive. Not a big talker, she chose her words carefully when she did utter something. Therefore, regardless of the content of her speech, her opinions had an elevated impression on her listeners.

  “I don’t know much about Lincoln, but I think I’d like to. Maybe we should take a trip down to the museum next weekend,” said Olivia.

  “That could be fun,” said Lila. “It’ll be like a field trip. We used to go on those at Brearley.”

  “All right, but as long as we take my driver,” agreed Rosemary. “Fritz is large and can protect us from anything.”

  “Great idea,” said Lila.

  Downstairs, Peter was advising Arthur on the club scene in Manhattan. To most, Peter was an inveterate snob who was disdained for being both a pompous bore and a mooch. But he and Arthur had developed an unlikely friendship after an accidental meeting at the barber’s and had made a habit of lunching together once a month. Arthur picked up the bill whenever they went out, and Peter provided a crash course on the ins and outs of their world.

  “I think it’s redundant to join the River Club and the Knickerbocker. Just pick one, for chrissakes. If you want tennis, it’s the River; if you want a straight-up martini, it’s the Knick. Personally, I’m a Brook man,” Peter droned on. “Although, that said, I’m a member of all of the above.”

  Arthur took a bite of his chicken hash. This club bullshit was so difficult to penetrate. On the one hand, Arthur realized they were just blueblood breeding grounds with lousy food (WASPs didn’t know how to eat) and seventeen-dollar cocktails. But on the other hand, it doesn’t get any more prestigious than this. And to think that he might belong to the same club where a Rockefeller sweated it out on a racquetball court! His father would die.

  “The Links membership is closed now. Seven-year waiting list,” said Peter, still warming to his topic. “Tad Sinclaire’s boy barely squeezed in. And McKinley Fister, now there’s someone who should be a shoo-in, five generations . . .”

  Normally, Arthur would be taking notes on Peter’s information. But today he let his mind wander as his friend continued his snobby diatribe. He just couldn’t get it out of his head that Olivia Weston was upstairs. It was okay because Peter wouldn’t even notice if he didn’t say anything the entire lunch; he loved the sound of his own voice that much. Was it fate that he kept bumping into Olivia? She was always so near—in the building, now in the restaurant . . .

  “See, the problem now with these clubs is all the sons-in-law. The guys who marry a longtime member’s daughter and then set about getting themselves onto every board and every committee—they especially love the admissions committee—so that they can run the place and let only their friends in. Then they’re the first to knock legacy—trying to get new blood in all the time,” said Peter, motioning to the waiter for another martini. “The guys at the Union Club gave young Higby a real hard time and his grandfather was a founding member, for the lord’s sake. Then they opposed Matthew Nicholson simply because he’d been transferred to London for a year. They thought he’d join and not come back. Ironic, ’cause those sons-in-law would never even be allowed to set foot in those places if they didn’t marry in. Now they’re taking over.”

  The draw about Olivia, Arthur decided, was that she was both elusive and captivating. Not to mention the antithesis of himself. Whereas everything about Arthur was clumsy and ungainly, every movement Olivia made, down to the smallest gesture, was done with grace. She was an amalgamation of ease and effortlessness. Her clothes never wrinkled, her hair was never out of place. She probably did not even sweat in the gym. In fact, he would bet his money she didn’t even have to go to a gym since she was so naturally gamine. She was like a serene, svelte, taffeta-draped woman in a painting—would a genteel duchess hoof it on a treadmill at Equinox? Of course not.

  But the attributes that distinguished her from the rest of her social group were a combination of casual elegance, irrepressible style, and an aura of mystery. A certain je ne sais quoi. She was what his mother would have called “well put together.” And obviously everyone knew that, because she was being celebrated right this very minute. Gosh, would Arthur have loved to be a fly on the wall in the room upstairs. Just to get a
quick glimpse.

  “Excuse me, Peter—got to use the men’s room,” said Arthur, rising.

  Peter nodded.

  There was a men’s room downstairs, but that didn’t matter. Arthur arrived outside the door of the private room just as Clara Coste, the editor of 10021, was preparing to give her speech. He scanned the room through the crack in the door and waded through a sea of perfectly preened young women, trying to find Olivia. Finally his eyes landed on a head of dark, glossy hair and he froze. There she was, sheer perfection.

  “Ladies,” began Clara. “Ladies, I’m so honored that you could be here today to help us celebrate our September cover girl.”

  The murmur in the room dissipated, and soon Clara commanded everyone’s attention. She continued: “It’s always a tough decision as to whom to put on the cover of our most important issue, and the other editors and I are usually racking our brains trying to think of the appropriate person. But not this time. We just knew. When we decided we wanted to do an issue dedicated to charitable works in the city and anoint someone as being the possible successor to the most legendary philanthropist ever—the formidable Mimi Halsey—we knew right away who could step into those shoes: Olivia Weston.”

  Applause erupted, and dozens of jealous eyes turned toward Olivia. She smiled slightly, with a mixture of self-effacement and shyness but also entitlement.

  “Ladies, this gal has got it all!” continued Clara. “There is no young woman in society today who has the style, the intelligence, and, come on, girls, the drop-dead looks that Olivia Weston possesses. She is 10021’s shining star, and let me tell you, she’s going places. So let us raise our glasses to Olivia.”