The Right Address

by Carrie Karasyov

  They paused, watching Melanie cross the room. She was practically glued to Meredith Beringer. Pathetic.

  Joan looked at Wendy, then glared back at Melanie.

  “I always knew she came from the gutter,” she said.

  “My thoughts exactly,” said Wendy, as a mischievous smile formed.

  Two servants came out with crystal bells announcing dinner, and the guests filed into the long dining room. Bill Tansey and his team had been sequestered for two days, decorating the hall to resemble a picture of a party that the Lord of Westminster had hosted at his British estate several decades before. The theme was essentially El Morocco. The giant chandelier anchored the red damask panels that draped the ceiling, then flowed down the walls to the black-and-white checkered dance floor. There were ten tables for eight, covered with zebra-striped tablecloths and dotted with clusters of bursting red roses. Plush red velvet banquettes—with pillows so deep you could disappear into them—had been built around the room, creating a small, cozy effect of secrecy. And everywhere one looked were candles, candles, and more candles. Lester Lanin’s band, clad in white tuxes, immediately commenced playing as guests filed in, and eager white-tied waiters clutching chilled bottles of champagne readily filled glasses. The beauty of the room was so magical and breathtaking that tiny gasps escaped the taut, painted lips of the women who beheld it. Joan and Wendy were particularly taken aback.

  “What a fire hazard,” Phillip muttered to his wife after one glance around. And with that terse comment, Joan’s impression burst and the enchantment evaporated.

  “You’re right,” she agreed miserably. Phillip always knew how to spoil a moment.

  It was customary for the Goodyears to split up couples at a table, and although Arthur missed Melanie’s social instincts, he couldn’t have been more thrilled to be seated with the lockjawed drones next to him. These were some pretty powerhouse people, all right. Big-timers. He watched his wife’s animated conversation from diagonally across the table and ate his food without speaking much to his partners. He just didn’t know what to say. The whole setting made him nervous. At one point, as he was stealing a glance at his watch, he caught his neighbor Morgan Vance doing the same. They shared a momentary flicker of commiseration in their quick eye contact and slight smiles.

  Melanie, meanwhile, was ecstatic to be sitting next to the host himself, and she congratulated herself yet again for insisting that Arthur donate the two million dollars to Nigel’s foundation. On the other side of her was the tedious Paul Jeffreys, who was beyond boring as far as Melanie was concerned. She had sat next to him before, at a party where he had informed her in his nasal voice that he collected Audubon prints but his real passion was canoeing around the pond near his country club in Southampton and collecting golf balls that pathetic golfers had dunked. He explained in excruciating detail how he had tried to sell the balls back to the club but there were no takers. He had enlisted some of his son’s friends to sell them, but no one wanted them, so he had bags and bags of golf balls that he didn’t know what to do with since he didn’t play golf, and so on. Snooze. Melanie ignored him.

  Cordelia was devastated not to be near Jerome, who had been amusing her with his naughty remarks about everyone at the party; as always, he had been merciless about her neighbor Mrs. Korn, saying, “Now, where is Melanie sitting? Seat twenty-six D—is that a window or an aisle?” Cordelia spent much of the evening talking over Phillip Coddington to Fernanda Wingate, who was seated on his other side.

  Wendy was once again disappointed that she was not seated next to an eligible bachelor. Yes, they were few and hard to come by, but one always had hopes. And besides, Gustave Strauss was there, and he was new to the market, as his wife had just left him for the tennis pro at their club in Nantucket. But there he was, seated next to the hostess’s goddaughter, Eliza Weekes, who was a good fifteen years younger than Wendy. Drat. She looked over at Joan, who was laughing with her head thrown back at something Jerome de Stingol had said. She always got the good table.

  Joan was indeed happily ensconced next to Jerome and had even coerced Ned Aldrich—her other dinner partner—into sitting with the men on the other side of the table so that Cass Weathers could take his place and join in their conversation.

  “I’m not saying any names,” said Joan seriously. “But someone we know, maybe even someone here, has a father who died in the can.”

  “Who? Who? Who?” asked Jerome with childish delight.

  Joan pulled her fingers across her mouth in a zipping motion. “My lips are sealed.”

  “Oh, Joan, you are sooo naughty,” said Jerome. “But I’ll get it out of you by the end of the night!”

  “We’ll see! It’s not easy to get things out of me,” teased Joan.

  “You’d be surprised what I can coax out of people, my dear,” Jerome replied with a smirk.

  Across the room, Morgan had a killer migraine, and the goddamn band wasn’t helping. He had barely made it to the dinner—Maria had insisted he bring her takeout from the Palm and he hadn’t even had a chance to shower before throwing on his tux. He hated these events. The worst was that he’d have to do some dancing before he could get out of there. He leaned forward to check on his wife and saw she was rather quiet and hardly touching her food. Then he saw her get up, presumably to go to the WC. He couldn’t even look at Cordelia these days without feeling enormous guilt. He had to put an end to Maria.

  As Cordelia rose and left the room, Melanie noticed several of the eighty or so guests watch her admiringly. They seemed bewitched by her old-world grace and elegance, drinking in her every accessory, from her jeweled antique comb to her cabochon sapphire ring. Barf, thought Melanie, and asked that the Perrier be passed to her. Everything was handed to her on a silver platter, she thought. Everyone wanted to be her or know her. Melanie knew that compared to Diandra and Cordelia she had little social allure. Both of them were considered not only refined and glamorous, but also generous. They were on every important board in the city, and Melanie, though active in several charity committees, wanted to play in the trustee big leagues Arty’s first wife has played in. It was time to get her plan into action.

  “So, Nigel, you’re on the board of the Met, aren’t you?” asked Melanie.

  “Not anymore. Nope. I resigned from everything except Robin Hood when we decided to move down to Palm Beach for the winter. I needed to focus.”

  Melanie was disappointed but not discouraged. “Well, perhaps you can introduce me to the board members. I am very interested,” said Melanie, leaning in and pressing her breasts close to his arm.

  Nigel appeared momentarily flustered. “Um, I’ll see what I can do,” he mumbled, then immediately turned to LeeLee Powell, who was seated on his other side.

  “Nigel,” said Melanie, refusing to lose her dinner partner’s attention, “I am very serious about this. Please know that we are very generous.”

  “I know. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you,” said Melanie with satisfaction.

  It wasn’t until eleven-thirty that it became an appropriate time to say adieu, and Morgan Vance and Phillip Coddington were the first to drag their wives away. Melanie was reluctant, because she felt that she still had work to do, but she thought it appropriate to leave early to maintain her air of mystique. There was nothing more pathetic than being the last one to leave, she had learned early on.

  When he returned home, Morgan immediately checked his voice mail at work, where there were four ranting messages from Maria, demanding to know his whereabouts. Little Schuyler Vance was crying in the background with such ear-splitting vigor that when Cordelia entered the bedroom he hung up for fear she’d hear the child’s wails through the receiver. As he undressed, he realized that he had so much on his mind that he had barely made conversation with his wife all night, so he tried a topic that was likely to be of interest to her.

  “How was the shopping?” he asked, feigning interest. “Any good purchases?”


  Cordelia looked surprised and genuinely moved that he’d asked. “Yes, actually . . . would you like to see them?”

  “Sure, I’d love to.”

  “I’ll get them, then!”

  Cordelia left the room in her nightgown and silk robe to go down the hall to her closet, which had been a fifth bedroom that was converted into a mini–clothes warehouse for all of her garments. Morgan took off his cufflinks and shirt and started to get ready for bed and the fashion show his wife would put on for him. He was exhausted. Bleary-eyed and wrecked by nerves stemming from work pressures, social pressures, and—oh, yeah—his new fatherhood, he climbed into bed and reclined on the hand-embroidered sheets while leaning against the upholstered headboard. He had lost his initial nerve to get rid of Maria, and it didn’t seem like she was in any hurry to get rid of him.

  “So, here we have this gown from YSL. Jerome thought it looked fabulous—perfect for the Orchid Ball. This part here is all hand-beaded.” She demonstrated in a Vanna White letter-turner pose.

  “It’s great, darling,” replied Morgan, distracted.

  “And then I got these matching shoes at Helene Arpels. I also got them in white and beige. Beige is really the look right now . . .”

  Cordelia noticed her husband’s journey into other solar systems.

  “Morgan? Morgan, did you see them?” she asked, luring him out of his orbit. “Don’t you like them?”

  “Yes, yes, the shoes are perfect, the clothes are perfect . . . everything’s perfect, darling.”

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “No, not at all.”

  “You seem upset.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  Cordelia paused. Maybe he didn’t quite like beige? “Are you sure you love the shoes? Because I can take them back.”

  “No, don’t take them back. They’ll look great with the dress.”

  Cordelia looked down, ashamed that she didn’t select things her husband liked. Morgan saw his wife’s sad eyes and felt terrible, plagued with a guilt that almost split his side.

  “I’m sorry if I seem out of it, honey. Things are just . . . so busy at work . . .”

  “You’re right. I’ll take them back.”

  “No, don’t take them back. They’re beautiful, really,” he protested. “I love them.”

  Cordelia gathered her purchases and left the room.

  “Do whatever you want,” offered Morgan, defeated by everything.

  chapter 11

  Melanie was floating in a despondent fog. She had seven women coming over in five hours and the place looked like a bomb had gone off, total Iraq. Arthur’s socks were strewn everywhere, objets d’art were askew on the coffee table, and every pillow needed an aggressive fluffing, pronto. As Juanita dusted and vacuumed in a frenzied Tazmanian Devil whirlwind, Melanie stood in her slip, no outfit chosen, wanting to tear her hair out. Plus, to add insult to injury, the caterers from RSVP had yet to arrive to start their chopping and dolloping or whatever the hell they did to prepare. It was her first decorating committee meeting for the Save Venice Masquerade Gala, and as the hostess she felt poised on the brink of utter disaster.

  As Melanie loitered, Mr. Guffey passed by with a slow-growing Hitchcockian shadow projected against her toile-covered dressing room wall. In some ways, he was like a fairy godfather watching out for her. In other ways, she was spooked by his omniscience and all-knowing gloat.

  “Oh, Mr. Guffey!” she squealed in her best damsel-in-distress cry.

  “Yes, madam.”

  “I’m just a mess. I don’t know what to do—nothing feels ready for this group today, and I don’t know what to wear and I don’t have the right food to serve. God knows where the caterers are. They always seem to show up late!”

  “Calm down, madam,” he said soothingly. “We will get it sorted.”

  “Phew,” she sighed. “I just get this pre-party panic. Thank you for helping me . . . get it sorted.”

  “Pleasure. Although . . .” His words trailed off.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What is it? Tell me!”

  “Well . . .” He looked away.

  Melanie held her breath and looked at him wide-eyed, like a Best Actress nominee waiting for the envelope to open.

  Mr. Guffey finally continued, “It’s just, there’s only so much one can do.”

  “In terms of what?”

  “No, nothing, just that . . . well, you see, we can clean it up and we can get the best caterers, but it’s not quite the same as having the proper decor from the start, or a top in-house chef. Then everything would fall into place naturally and you’d never have to worry.”

  Melanie was about to protest, but then she paused and really pondered what he had said.

  “Actually,” she began, “I have been thinking of doing a spruce-up around here. I mean, I know I gutted and rebuilt only eighteen months ago, but I think a face-lift couldn’t hurt. Right? The trends change so often.”

  “May I venture to offer that timeless is always better than the trend du jour?”

  “Definitely, forget trends! I want something timeless. Classic . . .” Melanie drifted off into a blurry, tartan-kissed heaven, picturing her new Ralph Lauren abode swathed in equestrian chic. The she snapped out of her club chair– and cashmere throw–dotted reverie and focused back on the task at hand. “Do you have any suggestions? You know, for, uh, decorators?”

  “I can set up appointments with several highly recommended people.”

  “Great, great. Do you think they can work fast? ’Cause Arty and I really want to entertain.”

  “We’ll just have to see what they can do.”

  “Good,” said Melanie, glancing around the room. “Yeah, I guess this style is a little trendy.”

  “Yes, madam,” said Mr. Guffey, scanning Melanie’s wardrobe for an outfit. “I knew you would regret ripping out all the moldings and lowering the ceiling.”

  “Lowering the ceiling? Well, we wanted central air,” said Melanie defensively. “What do other people do when the building cranks up the radiator so high because some little old lady on the sixth floor is freezing? The whole building has to suffer? It felt like we were in Africa.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  “But I mean, seriously. Do you think the other tenants just sweat it out?”

  “Perhaps a little perspiration doesn’t bother them if they have their beautiful moldings,” said Mr. Guffey, pulling out crisply pressed light tweed Stella McCartney trousers and a printed chiffon blouse.

  Melanie thought about it. That seemed weird. Suffer for the sake of . . . beauty? She supposed if you put it that way, it made sense.

  “What do you think about the furniture?” she asked timidly.

  “You have some beautiful pieces,” said Mr. Guffey, flicking a piece of lint off his pants.

  “Yes, yes, we do. We paid a fortune at Sotheby’s, Doyle, and Frothingham’s,” said Melanie with pride.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Guffey. “Although nothing really seems to hold together.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, it’s really not my place, madam.”

  “No, please! Mr. Guffey, don’t hold out on me,” said Melanie, using a teasing tone to downplay her urgency.

  “Well, you have just a hodgepodge of things, and nothing really goes together. For example, in your library, you have French provincial mixed with art nouveau and some horrid twentieth-century pieces with contemporary lighting and pop art. It’s like a bloody time capsule, if you’ll forgive me,” said Mr. Guffey. He should have restrained himself, but the thought of it worked him up into a lather. He had been biting his tongue for too long, and he was bursting. “And the dining room has old masters mixed with folk art and rococo, the bedroom has Bavarian mixed with wicker—wicker in Manhattan! And with that garish oil painting that you bought in Venice . . .”

  “That was a honeymoon gift,” said Melanie softly. “Arthur pai
d fifty Gs for it.”

  “Well, he was robbed!” said Mr. Guffey.

  Melanie was silent.

  “I’m sorry, madam.”

  “No, no. Go on.”

  “The point is, madam, while you do have a knack for selecting some exquisite pieces, I believe that you need a little guidance in pulling them together.”

  “You’re right.”

  “But don’t worry, madam. Like I said, we’ll get it sorted.”

  Her mind turned to the other missing piece of the equation. “And you think we should get another chef besides Wayne?”

  “Well, madam . . . Wayne is not a chef.”

  What? Was he insane? He was a fantastic chef! She was sure of that. Maybe this idiot didn’t know good eats when he had them, the damn Brit. I mean, since when do they know good food, anyway? When was the last time you heard someone say, “Hey, let’s go out for English”? Wayne was a star in the kitchen.

  “Yes he is too a chef,” Melanie protested in a fevered pitch. “Whenever we need him he comes and cooks for us. I mean, he’s on a fat retainer. He’s our chef!”

  “No, he is not.”

  “Yes, he is!”

  “Wayne is a cook. Not a chef.”

  “What do you mean? We got him from the top, most reputable agency. He’s the brother of the Mellons’ chef.”

  Mr. Guffey sighed the sigh of one trying to explain civil rights to a swastika-tattooed skinhead.

  “The Mellons do not have a chef. They have a cook. There is a difference. The cook walks their dog, Halston. A chef would never walk the dog. They tend exclusively to haute cuisine, not pooper scoopers.”

  “Oh . . . I see. A chef just cooks. A cook . . . does some other stuff?”

  “Essentially.”

  “So Wayne isn’t, like, what one would consider a top chef?”

  “I would say not.”

  “But Arthur loves the food so much. It’s so tasty—we always fully stuff ourselves.”

  “It’s not about their ability to fill your fuel tanks. It’s about their studies. With whom and where did they apprentice? In what Chateaux did they do a stage? How many Michelin stars was the kitchen awarded?”