The Right Address

by Carrie Karasyov

  He couldn’t believe that he was right near her, with the sound of her voice flooding his ears. He could hear snippets of conversation.

  “It’s been really hectic . . .” she said.

  “Tell me about it. I have so much shit going on I don’t know what to do,” said the guy. Arthur was shocked that someone could curse in front of Olivia. Disgusting. It was like cursing in a church.

  “. . . I have to get this done. I’m running out of time, Rob,” she said.

  Rob. What a stupid name. Juvenile.

  “Oh, come on, you just have to lay off that society crap,” he said derisively.

  “You don’t understand. There are . . .”

  Just as Olivia was about to say something important, the waitress approached.

  Arthur cursed the waitress for interrupting. The lilting timbre Olivia’s larynx produced was all the nourishment he needed. Well, he had to order something, as the waitress was breathing down his neck, chomping her Bubbilicious in the most irritating and impatient manner. He browsed the eats and finally opted for the hot pastrami on rye with mustard, and a coffee. Melanie would die if she saw me eating this, thought Arthur nervously.

  While ordering his dish with a side of coleslaw, Arthur did not see that another young woman had returned from the bathroom and slid into Olivia’s booth opposite her. The girl wore cat’s-eye glasses and black tights and had a gothic, beautiful face, searing green eyes, dyed jet black hair, and five earrings up her ear.

  By the time the waitress had left with his order and Arthur could resume his eavesdropping, this new girl was leading the conversation. Arthur listened intently, believing Olivia was the one talking with Rob.

  “Why are we spending so much time on Plato? I think it’s overrated,” said Rob defiantly. “That’s what I hate about our professors—it’s their pretension and conceit that dead white men from thousands of years ago had all the answers.”

  “I totally disagree,” said the girl. “I’m obsessed with dead white guys.”

  Arthur perked up. He didn’t realize Olivia was interested in death! Now this was a topic he knew everything about.

  “And as for Plato, I thought ‘The Allegory of the Cave’ was genius,” the girl continued, as Olivia silently sipped water. “The concept that people climb toward the light at the top of the cave for knowledge . . .”

  Arthur felt as if he were bathing in the ripples of her voice—so forceful, so ripe with opinion! The lilt of her tones was a lullaby of youth to his weary ears, which had heard only about new coffin models all day. And now, in this Greek diner, he himself felt he had been awakened from the dead by the sound of her voice right behind him.

  “Once you have that knowledge, you see that the leadership is vanity . . .”

  She’s brilliant, he thought, consumed. Not just beautiful, but smart too. He was officially infatuated. He knew he had to go get her book, pronto.

  The waitress brought Arthur his meal, a simple delight that he was never allowed to enjoy, thanks to his wife’s refined taste buds at night and the stuffy club lunches by day. Should it be this hard to get a sandwich once in a while? But Hortense the waitress had a lead-filled hand and spilled the Coke all over his pants. Great, just what he needed. As she tended to him and he tried not to berate her, the girl got up and slung her messenger bag diagonally across her body.

  “Why are you leaving, Holland? I just got here,” said Olivia.

  “You don’t need to do that—it’s okay,” said Arthur to the waitress, who was mopping his trousers.

  “I have a class,” said Holland over her shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry,” said the waitress. “And those look like really nice pants. Dinner’s on me.”

  “Why haven’t you called me back?” Olivia asked desperately.

  “I really don’t feel like dealing with you right now,” replied Holland. “We’ll talk later.” She left.

  “Really, it’s not necessary. Don’t worry,” repeated Arthur, desperate to get rid of the waitress so he wouldn’t miss anything.

  “Sorry, again,” repeated the waitress.

  Arthur had missed the girls’ entire exchange during the cola mop-up session. When he was back in the eavesdropping action, it was just Olivia and Rob at the table, making small talk about the changing leaves and getting out cash for the check. Arthur didn’t want them to notice him, so he left a twenty on the table and quickly made his way out to the street. The outside air felt cold on his face, which was dewy with sweat from the nonencounter. He hustled home to change his pants so that Melanie wouldn’t see the stains, badges of his mental indiscretions. But she didn’t even notice. She threw her arms around him with a hug, blissed out in her giddy announcement that Hunt & Greenberg had a brand-new client.

  chapter 16

  If civilization and society exist to keep human beings from pondering death, then charity balls exist to keep rich, idle housewives from realizing that they have nothing to do, thought Phillip Coddington as he donned his kilt for yet another black-tie event. Cloaked in nobility, wrapped in generosity, and swaddled in selflessness, the real purpose of these lavish spectacles was to give husbands valid proof of why wives were not working, and to torture their spouses in the process.

  Melanie Korn glanced again at the invitation for tonight’s function, which lay on her dressing table. She smiled, thinking of how bizarre it was if you really thought about it. The charity gang was like a bunch of nomads traveling around countrysides, pitching tents at various mountainside nooks. Always alternating specific venues—choosing from the same top ten over and over (Lincoln Center, the Met, Botanical Gardens, the Waldorf, etc.) and setting up camp with whatever decor had caught the committee’s fancy that month.

  As Cordelia pulled on her panty hose she sighed deeply, unsure if she was really in the mood for tonight’s gala. There were really very few surprises. Sometimes it was a black and white ball, sometimes a costume fete, sometimes a celebrity concert, sometimes a charity auction. It was usually the same gaggle of designer-clad anorexic socialites who organized the events, and usually the same crew who attended them.

  Joan Coddington looked out the rain-soaked window of her car and watched pools of water drip off of store awnings. She sighed. In this day and age, where discretion and privacy were endangered traits, it rarely occurred that someone unexpected arrived at these events. And it was a real pity. Gone were the days when a recently divorced Countess Olenska would appear at the grand entrance and send a ripple through the crowds, and no one yet had stepped into the shoes of Jackie O or even Carolyn Bessette Kennedy, for that matter. In the age of shameless self-promotion, when it was not to one’s advantage to be in the newspaper only upon birth, marriage, and death, astonishment opened eyes and lips rarely.

  As Wendy waited in her lobby for the Coddingtons to come and collect her, she thought about what awaited her that night. Probably nothing—same old, same old. Society was starved for an enigma, the one breathtaking individual who would shun most benefits and press but every now and then step out of the gilded cage and let the world see her. As a result, mystique had to be cultivated, and that was why the most beautiful but somewhat evasive women, like Olivia Weston, had become the toast of the town.

  So on this particularly wet and damp September night, town cars, chauffeur-driven Mercedeses, and limousines dropped off bejeweled ladies and tuxedo-clad men at the Cipriani on Forty-second Street. They were on hand to attend the Food Allergy Ball, a gala that raised funds to help people whose heads would blow up if they so much as glanced at a strawberry. Doormen with large black umbrellas lent an arm to assist ladies who were holding up the hems of their hand-beaded silk dresses so that they wouldn’t sink into the puddles. Manolo Blahniks were put to the test as the ladies scurried into the buildings while their husbands placed a crisp five-dollar bills into the doorman’s palm.

  Inside the room, Preston Bailey had lavishly covered every surface with white lilies bursting skyward. Among a thousand white voti
ves, the murmur of guests greeting one another was a white-noise din coursing beneath the enormous painted ceiling of the former bank. Like the critics on The Muppet Show, Joan and Wendy had assumed a choice perch, from where they could admire and deride the outfits and jewelry of the recent arrivals. As they stood on the grand, hand-tiled floors reminiscent of the Roman empire, they sipped the Cip’s trademark Bellinis and drank in the flow of fabric and precious stones.

  “Did you see Cordelia’s ring? Now I know where Michelle Kwan’s been practicing!” said Joan to Wendy. I would kill someone I don’t know for a ring like that, thought Joan to herself.

  “Are we sure the Hope Diamond is still at the Smithsonian?” answered Wendy.

  “You know, I wouldn’t put it past Morgan to buy that for her.”

  “Me neither. Guilty feet have got no rhythm,” added Wendy.

  “Are you quoting George Michael?”

  “‘Careless Whispers’ to his mistresses . . .”

  “Do you think he’s up to no good?” asked Joan, as if this were the first time they discussed Morgan’s supposed infidelity.

  “All I know is that Cordelia said at the Memorial Sloan-Kettering luncheon that Morgan had been playing squash every Tuesday evening with Meredith Beringer’s husband, and Meredith said that Ron doesn’t play squash anymore since he threw his back out. You do the math.”

  “Interesting . . .” Joan reflected on this with her hand on her chin, à la Sherlock Holmes. Still, it wasn’t enough to indict the man. “I’ll ask Phillip what he knows,” said Joan, glancing around the room. “Walter Johnson’s here. It’s tres amusing to watch him interact with his clients.”

  The ladies glanced at the handsome doctor, whose face was drawn into a tight grimace. His blond socialite wife was chatting and greeting everyone with abundant enthusiasm while he looked miserable. As always, he glided through the room seeing his work on chests and tightened brows everywhere and pretended never to have seen his patients before. “Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking the hand of one woman he’d worked on three times. “Hello, I’m Walter Johnson,” he said to another recent eye job.

  “Look! There’s Sebastian Little. I didn’t think he would come,” remarked Joan disapprovingly.

  “Is he still suicidal?” asked Wendy, lighting up a cigarette.

  “Probably from embarrassment. Let me ask you a question: If you want to die, why put a Ziploc bag over your head? It’s the most retarded suicide method. Just jump out the window like everyone else!”

  “That’s what I would do. Just take some pills and take a big leap. Down fifteen floors onto Park Avenue—splat,” said Wendy, who had obviously thought this through.

  “I mean, it’s a drag for the doormen, but it’s the only surefire way. I wouldn’t know what to do with a pistol.”

  “Well, even if Sebastian Little had a sawed-off shotgun, he probably wouldn’t know what to do with it. He’s not so suave with his hands,” said Wendy. And she would know, since she had hopped into bed with him years ago, when she was still married and more desirable.

  “Pity his wife didn’t stop her affair. Maybe she could save him,” said Joan.

  “He’s a goner.”

  “He must be mortified. Why in the world would he still show his mug?”

  “Probably wants to put on a good face, let everyone know he’s still around,” offered Wendy.

  “I would just disappear.”

  “I know. He knows that everyone in this room knows that he couldn’t even get killing himself right.”

  “Pathetic.”

  “Sad.”

  “There’s Melanie Korn,” said Joan. “What a piece of work. Didn’t anyone tell her that hemlines fell twelve years ago?”

  “She’s so inappropriate. Did you hear that she’s trying to get on the board of the Met? Nigel Goodyear was just disgusted at how brazen she was about it. She practically begged him to put her up.”

  Joan and Wendy watched Melanie virtually assault Patrick McMullan to get him to photograph her. After he obliged, Melanie tucked her arm under Arthur’s and headed over to the Lawtons, a couple she loathed. But Cindy’s brother was on the board of the Met.

  “Cindy! Gus!”

  “Melanie! Arthur!”

  There was the rapid exchange of air kisses as only cheeks met.

  “You look stunning, Cindy,” said Melanie.

  “Great to see you, Arthur. I saw you on the racquetball court the other day. Getting back in the action?” asked Gus, laughing on the inside at how pathetic Arthur had been. It was like watching Humpty Dumpty exercise. Hilarious.

  “Yeah, yeah. I play every now and then. How’s business?” asked Arthur, knowing full well that it was in the shitter. The trust-fund baby had seen his hedge fund tank last week, losing millions. And Daddy wasn’t going to bail him out of this one. He’d end up in a pine box at the rate he was going.

  “It’s such fun to be here,” said Cindy, looking around. She wanted an escape plan, pronto. If anyone saw her talking to Melanie Korn, her stock would crash.

  Melanie also looked around, narrowing her eyes when she saw Joan and Wendy, the second-rate peanut gallery. Although she feared them, she was slowly gleaning through other parties that they actually had no credibility and in fact everyone thought of them as malicious gossips. Remembering to treat bees with honey, Melanie waved at them from a distance, and they beamed and waved back.

  “So, Cindy, is your brother here?” asked Melanie. “I’d love to have a chat with him.”

  “No, Martin is in Gstaad.”

  “Hmm. Well, is he going to be back anytime soon?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  As Melanie did her work, Arthur glanced uncomfortably around the room. He wanted to slice through the chitchat and get to the dinner, which was always more manageable for him. He just was inept at making small talk with people he saw week after week. Melanie was great at it, but he was the dead weight. A waiter with a tray of wild mushroom ragout on polenta beds walked by, and Arthur grabbed his arm.

  “Let me try this,” he said, popping it into his mouth. The waiter offered his tray to the ladies, who waved him away with disgust as if he were hocking dead roaches, but Gus took one. The waiter turned to go, but Arthur again grabbed his arm.

  “Not so fast,” said Arthur, snagging two more. “It takes forever for you guys to come around again.”

  Melanie’s eyes widened. “Darling, don’t gobble them all up! This is not Ethiopia.”

  “I’m starving.”

  Gus turned to talk to someone else, and Melanie returned to her conversation with Cindy. Arthur took the chance to look around the room. It was a real flash crowd. In one corner nested the real power players, in another the stiffs, and in another . . . Arthur stopped in his tracks. Olivia Weston was standing in the corner with some fat girl and some really skinny girl. She was wearing a gunmetal silk dress and her hair was in a chignon, very Grace Kelly. She casually held a glass of white wine and was chatting breezily with her friends. Arthur couldn’t remove his eyes from her.

  “Don’t look now,” warned Lila to Olivia. “But there’s a fat bald guy staring at you.”

  Olivia slowly raised her eyes and effortlessly glanced across the room. “Oh, he’s my neighbor.”

  Arthur met Olivia’s glance, realized he was staring, and quickly reddened.

  “Well, doesn’t he know it’s rude to stare?” asked Rosemary, loudly.

  “Shh . . . he’ll hear you,” admonished Olivia.

  “He can hardly hear me across the room,” boomed Rosemary. “Anyway, Liv, as I was saying before we were so rudely interrupted”—she gave Lila a look—“Jack Bellows from the Observer was asking me the other day when we can expect your next book. I know you’ve been working away on it like hell, so I said, ‘Jack, good things come to those who wait,’ but in truth I really had no idea. When will we be getting the next novel?”

  Olivia straightened her posture. “Soon. Soon. I’m just having a little . .
.”

  “Writer’s block?” asked Lila.

  “Writer’s block, yes. But I also want to make sure it’s perfect. When a writer goes wrong on her sophomore endeavor, it can totally ruin her whole career.”

  “That’s for sure,” concurred Lila. “Don’t want a big fat flop on your hands.”

  “Then the pressure’s on, Olivia!” thundered Rosemary. “We’re all dying for it. But I know you’ll come up with something brilliant.”

  “If you need any help, Liv, we’d be happy to read through a draft,” offered Lila.

  “Thanks,” said Olivia.

  Bill Cunningham from the New York Times approached and sheepishly raised his camera to take a picture. He never spoke, just smiled, but everyone knew who he was.

  All three women put down their glasses, fluffed up their hair, turned ever so slightly to the side, and thrust out their pelvises. They had been schooled early on in the art of taking a party picture.

  “Thanks,” said Cunningham, walking away in the direction of Cordelia Vance, who had just arrived with Jerome de Stingol.

  After posing for Bill, Jerome tugged at his walkee. “Well, darling, we have to get to the bar immediately! I’m parched, I’m sure you’re parched, and we simply must get this party started,” said Jerome, leading Cordelia barward.

  Cordelia followed Jerome faithfully. She couldn’t remember what charity this party was for—wasn’t that terrible? So many of them.