Maria greeted Morgan in a red silk bathrobe, her hair knotted in a chignon, the diamond bracelets Morgan had given her gleaming on her wrist. She acted as if nothing was wrong, welcoming him with a “Darling!” as he walked in the foyer, taking his briefcase from him and slipping off his coat. The apartment was lit with hundreds of scented candles, a sickly lavender smell that made Morgan instantly nauseous. Maria had put a violet tablecloth on the small dining table and adorned it with a bouquet of fresh red roses and fancy china that she had made Morgan purchase for her through Tiffany’s Web site. A wine stand with a bottle of champagne chilling on ice stood next to the Crate & Barrel bar stand, where Maria fixed Morgan his favorite drink of scotch and soda. She handed it to him dramatically before plopping on the sofa next to him with just enough effort for the slit in her bathrobe to fall open up to her thighs, revealing her black lace teddy and garter belt. It was all very cheesily romantic, the fact being that Maria had watched way too many soap operas and read way too many romance novels and thought that now she was finally living in one.
Morgan reluctantly played along for the evening, allowing Maria to massage his feet, inquire about his day, reprimand him for working too hard, and lick his earlobes. Maria had ordered his favorite meal from Le Cirque—filet of beef with cognac sauce and a side of garlic-infused potatoes—and played footsie with him under the table while he ate. She waited on him as if he were king of the castle, and he couldn’t help enjoying himself. This was what it used to be like for them. Those were the days.
“This champagne is the best! You happy now? This is the way it should be—you and me having romantic dinners,” said Maria, pouring herself another glass of red wine. (The champagne was long gone.)
“It was very nice, Maria.”
Morgan was reclining on the leather sofa with a drink in his hand, his feet lazily propped on the white velvet ottoman. He remembered last winter when he couldn’t wait to get there, rip off Maria’s clothes, and hop under the silk sheets. It had made him feel young again. Now he couldn’t wait to leave.
“See, if you come around more, this is what it’s like. But you no come around, you no take the time, you ignore me and the baby, you think you can forget us!”
Maria’s shrill, demanding voice jolted Morgan back to the harsh reality of the mess he’d gotten into. He looked around the low-ceilinged apartment with its tacky Burlington Leather Factory furniture and was revolted. He sat up. It was time for Morgan to enact the plan that he had brilliantly worked out over the past few days.
“This is nice, Maria, but there are going to be some changes.”
“You’re damn right!” said Maria, rising and walking over to the windows. It was a perfectly clear night, and the lights of the city twinkled around them. “I was thinking, there’s no need for you to be married to Cordelia anymore. She’s old and ugly. Your sons are away, and they don’t care. So you get a divorce, and if she say no, you say, I know you a robber, I have witnesses, and you get a divorce and all the money.”
“Maria, that’s not going to happen,” said Morgan, buttoning up his shirt and putting his tie back on.
“It’s okay, I can be the witness. No problem.”
“No, I mean, I’m never going to leave Cordelia. It’s not an option.”
Maria spun around, shocked. “WHAT?”
“But listen, I do have a solution. I’ve put a deposit down on a house in West Palm Beach, and I’m moving you and Schuyler down . . .”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” said Maria, approaching him with a crazy look in her eyes.
“Maria . . .”
“You think you can just ship us off?”
“Listen . . .”
“You think I some kind of Hispanic whore?” Maria came so close to Morgan that he could feel her breath on his face.
“Maria, I’m not shipping you off. I am giving you a beautiful home, and you will be a lot better off than you were a year ago.”
“Does it have a pool?”
“A pool?” asked Morgan. “No, it doesn’t . . .”
“You think you ship me and the baby to a house that doesn’t even have a pool?” Maria bellowed and stomped over to the table. She furiously poured some more wine into her gold-dipped Versace crystal glass—spilling it slightly in her rage—and took a large gulp.
Morgan thought quickly. “Well, if it had a pool, would you go?”
“NO! I not going nowhere!”
“But what about the pool? I can find a house with a pool.”
“I don’t want no pool. I just want to know if you even thought of me in a house with no pool.”
“Maria, it doesn’t have to be this house. We’ll find something you like and you can move down there.”
Maria folded her arms and scowled. “NO WAY. I am never going nowhere. You can’t make me. You can never get rid of me.”
“Maria . . .” sighed Morgan with desperation. He was distraught and had no idea what to do. “I can make you go. I can cut you off.”
Maria stared at him and, as if matching his threat, stormed over to the telephone and picked up the receiver.
“I can call Cordelia! She always wanted a daughter—and I have one and it is yours! I bet she’d like to know.”
Morgan called her bluff. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?” Maria stared at him with venom, then started dialing. “Seven, two, two . . .”
Morgan marched over and whipped the phone out of her hand, slamming it down on the receiver.
“Enough!”
“Maybe now enough, but you know that I mean business. I’m a business lady and you’re a business man, so we have to play business.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to get rid of Cordelia.”
“Maria . . .”
“And no more talk about Florida. This discussion is finito!” Maria turned and fled from the room, slamming her bedroom door behind her. Morgan left as Schuyler started to wail.
chapter 21
Mr. Guffey was right. Jerome de Stingol had not taken his refusal from Melanie Korn well at all. In fact, he was blood-boilingly livid. He oscillated between utter shock at the fact that this trollop had spurned him and rage that he had been forced to dazzle her as if he were a peacock, and had been rebuffed. He went from mortified to offended to seething fiery rage. And as he flipped through his Island Getaway photo album, he promised to seek retribution.
Unfortunately for Melanie, he had only to make subtle inquiries to discover that the list of Mrs. Korn’s spurned acquaintances and now sworn enemies was lengthy and growing. There were those who were outraged that the Korns had bought only two tickets and not taken a full table at their charity events. If they had so much money, why weren’t they spending it all the time? They certainly had no problem slapping down the plastic for her cheesy sequined Versace garments. There were others who were disgusted by the way the Korns flashed their money around as a means to open doors, trying to get into the best clubs and the best parties and on the best boards. They seemed in a rush, unwilling to stoically pay their dues, and acted as if their money entitled them. And still others—primarily the older set who really didn’t care about charities or boards anymore—bristled at Arthur’s uncouth manner and banal work and Melanie’s uncanny ability to consistently put her foot in her mouth by spewing out the most offensive remarks. The final lot concentrated on the Korns’ petty indiscretions: Melanie’s shorts were too short when she was the Beringers’ guest at the country club; Arthur told Nigel Goodyear that he could see him spending eternity in a steel coffin; and so on.
But the gold medal in the Melanie backlash campaign would have to be awarded to Joan Coddington and Wendy Marshall, who were both still furious to have been denied the apartment tour. And when Jerome found out that the two society gossips were on exactly the same page as he, he arranged frequent late lunches to dissect and disparage Mrs. Korn.
“There was simply no way I could do the apartment,
” insisted Jerome one afternoon at Le Bilboquet. Joan and Wendy had made him tell the story to them for the seventh time.
“How could you? It would be as much work as building a pyramid,” agreed Joan.
“Only probably would take you longer. And they didn’t even have machinery back then,” said Wendy.
“True. It would be easier to decorate bin Laden’s cave than that disaster zone,” snipped Jerome.
“And she wouldn’t take no for an answer?” asked Joan, knowing the answer.
Jerome stirred the froth in his cappuccino and shook his head with feigned sadness. “I mean, I suppose I pity her. If she saw how pathetic she was—groveling, begging, tears in her eyes, as if she were a mother watching her Tibetan son go before the Chinese firing squad. However . . .”
“And how much did she offer you?” asked Joan.
“Well,” said Jerome, leaning in. “She opened the safe and there must have been about . . . five hundred thousand dollars there in cash. And that was just for starters. You know, the off-the-record payment.”
Joan and Wendy looked at each other. Last week Jerome had said two hundred thousand dollars. The week before had been one hundred.
“They must be up to sketchy stuff if they have that much cash lying around,” said Wendy.
“I told you—someone from England called me and said something about horse whisperers, prostitution, and guns.”
“It’s sickening!” said Joan, reeling.
“I bet it’s guns,” said Wendy with confidence. “I mean, how much can you make from a coffin? I bet he stashes the guns in the coffins and ships them around the country as if he is transporting dead bodies.”
“It has to be.”
“Of course.”
They sat back and thought about the Korns. They all were semi-aware that fiction was overtaking fact in their descriptions of Arthur and Melanie but were so hell-bent in their hatred that the little white lies seeping in became almost plausible.
“At least with Diandra, Arthur was kept in check,” said Joan.
“Now there was a woman with class,” said Jerome.
“She was smart. She got out.”
“Sandra, darling!” said Jerome suddenly, raising his voice to signal Sandra Goodyear, who had just entered the restaurant. Sandra waved and made her way over. She kissed her friends one by one and then sighed dramatically.
“Having a late lunch after a shop, dear? Please, join us,” said Jerome, motioning to the waiter for another chair.
“Oh, believe me, I’d love to. But I’m meeting someone,” sighed Sandra again, deeply this time and with furrowed brow.
“Pity! Perhaps you both can join?”
“Well, I’m afraid not. I’m meeting Melanie Korn,” she said with the merest hint of an eye roll. “We’re chairing the Mount Sinai benefit.”
“Oh, dear,” said Jerome.
“I know, and it’s the worst possible day to meet ever. My art curator is phone-bidding on something at auction in Tokyo tonight, and I am on pins and needles! Not to mention that it’s fashion week and Oscar will be beside himself if I don’t show.”
A lightbulb went off in Jerome’s head. Why not start revenge for his rejection now?
“Well, the reason I said ‘oh, dear,’ my dear, is because we just saw Melanie Korn. She in fact popped in and we heard her telling the maître d’ to express her deepest regrets to her dining companion—which must be you, darling—because something had suddenly come up and she was unable to make it.”
Joan and Wendy’s eyes widened. They couldn’t believe Jerome’s audacity! What balls of steel! What hilariously cruel imagination! Both made a mental note never to get on his bad side.
“Really?” asked Sandra.
“Yes, so sorry, lovey. How perfectly evil that she didn’t ring you. In this day of cell phones.”
“Well, I don’t actually have one. Nigel keeps asking me to get one, but, I don’t know, I think it’s so rude to chatter away all over the place.”
“Right you are.”
“Well that actually relieves me. I really should get to Oscar’s show. The traffic is probably miserable right now. Kisses to all,” said Sandra. She dashed out of the restaurant.
“You’re terrible!” said Joan with a laugh.
“What if she finds out?” asked Wendy, horrified.
“So what? I’ll blame it all on Melanie. Deny, deny, deny. You’ll vouch for me.”
Joan and Wendy tittered with nervous laughter. It was funny, but had Jerome gone too far?
“Now follow my lead, ladies, when the flight attendant makes her appearance.”
“It’s your show,” said Joan. She wanted to make sure she got that on the record. Deny, deny, deny.
About five minutes later, Melanie entered the restaurant and scanned the room. Jerome looked up and waved at her, as did Joan and Wendy, but it was more of a “oh, hello” wave rather than a “hello, come over and say hello” wave. Jerome bent his head down and led his dining companions in what appeared to be a very secretive and hushed conversation. In reality he was merely talking about how the Powells’ shih tzus had destroyed the fringe on their velvet fauteuil, but to Melanie it appeared as if they were developing an elaborate plan to invade Cuba.
Melanie took off her coat, handed it to the girl, and was led to a table at the window. She looked at her watch, ordered a Perrier, and waited for Sandra. It was just as well that she didn’t have to go over and say hi to Jerome and those gossips. She had been avoiding Jerome at all costs since she had not offered him the decorating job. It was a stressful decision, but his rudeness had made it easier. It wasn’t very polite of him to praise Diandra the way he did. He should at least try to attempt to be cordial. And the fact of the matter was that he was completely untrustworthy and dangerous. The acid tongue that was attached to that toad of a man was legendary, and she was sure to somehow offend him and then be subjected to his rage. She had been so nervous to reject him that she had made Mr. Guffey call him. Mr. Guffey said that he had used a few choice words and made a sound as if he was throwing the phone against the wall. Better to steer clear.
Minutes flicked by. Melanie looked around. Jerome kept brazenly glancing over at her and offering small smiles, while Joan and Wendy barely looked her way. Melanie was getting uncomfortable. Diners left and soon she and Jerome and his little coterie were the only ones who remained. Melanie kept checking her cell phone, trying to call Sandra at home, and nothing.
Finally, Jerome lifted his head and addressed Melanie. “Been stood up?” he asked.
“I . . . I don’t know. I think we must have got our signals crossed. I’m meeting Sandra Goodyear.” She said Sandra’s name with pride. “Have you seen her?”
Jerome shook his head. “Sorry, dear, no.”
“Oh.” Melanie shrugged.
“Come join us,” said Jerome.
“Oh, no, that’s okay,” said Melanie quickly. That was the last thing she wanted to do. Her mind raced for excuses.
“Oh, come along, until Sandra shows,” said Jerome in his fake English accent.
“It’s okay . . .”
Jerome motioned to the waiter. “Please bring Mrs. Korn’s drink over, and another chair.”
Seconds later Melanie was sitting between Joan and Wendy.
“So you were planning on catching up with an old friend and she forgot all about it! What a pain,” said Jerome.
“Yes,” said Melanie. She didn’t correct him and add that it was business, but why did she have to tell him everything?
“And how’s the apartment going?” asked Jerome.
Melanie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Really well, thank you.”
“I heard you hired the team who worked with Diandra?” asked Wendy.
“Yes.” Melanie was being very cautious about what she said. She felt Joan’s piercing eyes studying her carefully, examining every inch of her body, makeup, and jewelry, and felt extremely on edge.
“That’s fabu
lous!” boomed Jerome. “Because of course everyone knows that Diandra has the most exquisite taste.”
“That’s what I hear,” said Melanie, clenching her jaw.
“You should have never messed with it,” said Wendy. “Should have just left everything unchanged.”
“Well, that was impossible. She took all the furniture.”
“But surely not the draperies and the wallpaper?” asked Wendy.
“No, but . . . they seemed a little dreary.”
“Then why did you hire the same team to redecorate?” asked Joan.
“Well . . . they just seemed the most appropriate.”
“But if it’s not your style?” pressed Wendy.
“Well, I know that they have good taste. I trust them.”
“And right you should!” said Jerome. “This smart cookie is finally learning. She’s taking her lead from the first Mrs. Korn. Hopefully you’ll have a costume party soon. Remember, ladies, that fab party that Diandra had three years ago? Smashing. I think that really goes down as one of the top fifty great parties of all time.”
“It was beautiful. I think even better than Malcolm’s in Morocco.”
“Certainly better. Diandra really knew how to throw a party. It’s funny, though, dear, because as I recall, your husband—then Diandra’s husband—couldn’t make it,” said Jerome with a smile.
The Right Address Page 13