“On the contrary,” he said, leaning in so that he felt her breath on his face. “I care a lot.”
By the time Maria had finished the champagne bottle and gone down on John in the men’s bathroom, she still had not told him her name. John watched her snap up her garters with expertise and reapply her bright red lipstick.
“So, John Vance, you have fun?” she asked.
“It was amazing, baby,” said John, who was having trouble getting his fly up. He fell a bit to the side and had to hold himself up against the sink. The alcohol was finally making him wobbly. “Will I see you again?” he asked.
“I don’t know, John Vance.”
“Why do you keep calling me John Vance?”
She smiled. “I don’t know . . . maybe because I know other Vance. I worked with a Morgan Vance.”
“Holy shit—that’s my father.”
“No!”
“Yeah,” said John, practically sliding down the wall of the bathroom. He was feeling really nauseous.
“You better go home. You look like you ready to pass out,” she said, applying more red lipstick to her mouth.
“Yeah.”
She turned and looked at him and smirked. “Goodbye, John Vance,” she said, leaning in and kissing him on the forehead. He could feel the loose strands of his hair nestle into the sticky lipstick stain she left on him.
“Say hi to your father for me.”
“Sure,” he said, sliding down to the floor. He was now splat on top of discarded wet hand towels. She turned to leave.
“Hey, what’s your name?” he was able to muster.
She turned at the door and smiled. “Maria.”
chapter 28
As Arthur’s car pulled up alongside the Lexington branch of Barnes & Noble, he felt his heartbeat quicken. He looked down at the card in his hand for what must have been the hundredth time. It had Olivia’s perfectly airbrushed picture on it and said, “Rhythms of Fisher’s reading by author Olivia Weston, Wednesday, October 21, 6:00 P.M.”
“Okay, Charles,” he said, stepping out of his car, “no need to wait. I’ll walk home.”
He entered through the large, green revolving doors and glanced around. Already the rows of chairs were pretty much filled, and there were even some people standing in the back. A large poster of Olivia’s book cover sat on an easel with a banner that read BY POPULAR DEMAND.
She must really have a following. Arthur looked around at the crowd and noticed it was mostly men who filled the seats. He used his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and he glanced at his watch. Any minute.
The B&N special events coordinator took the podium to introduce Olivia, who was standing behind him. She looked ravishing as usual, this time in a cream cashmere twinset, taupe scarf, and black pencil skirt. As Arthur drank her in, he thought for a moment about how he loved his wife dearly, but Melanie was so desperate to have the class and breeding that Olivia was born into. Olivia was the real thing. Real lineage, and what a looker. He looked away, almost ashamed; she’d never be interested in a schlemiel like Arthur.
Olivia said a quiet hello to the crowd and then opened her copy of the well-worn book to a page marked by a crimson velvet ribbon. She delicately cleared her throat and took a sip from the glass of water next to her. She looked up, flashed a lightning-fast half smile, and began.
“The ice clinks in the tumbler at the Goodrichs’ annual Fourth of July soirée, and I know there is no escaping the monotony of another patterned dinner party. Through the rooms, the women come and go, buzzing like honeyed flies at a golden lantern . . .”
As the words spilled from her lips, the rapt male listeners were virtually drunk in their amorous haze. Arthur was entranced.
“Lipstick-stained brandy glasses recline beside drooping baked brie. I sit on a striped chaise beside Preston, who has been breathing down my neck since Memorial Day . . .”
Preston? Who the hell was this Preston guy? Arthur’s eyebrows were among several others that raised. Olivia glanced off to the side mid-read, and he followed her gaze to see the guy she was with in the diner, plus some girl he was seeing for the first time. What was he doing hanging around her again? Certainly he was just a platonic friend. Probably the girl with him was his real girlfriend. He could never land a gal like Olivia. Interesting, though—these two weren’t the stuffy Upper East Side types, they were . . . funky, edgy, cool. She was class blind! Yes, she didn’t care about such nonsense as lineage—look at these two East Village types! Woman of the people. And really, because these friends looked like they crawled out of a gutter.
After the reading ended Olivia closed the book and gave a gracious nod to the crowd, acknowledging the rapturous applause. Arthur decided to linger for a little while, and he walked behind a bookshelf in the travel section. As he pretended to leaf through the colorful snapshot pages of Let’s Go India!, he heard Olivia’s feather-soft voice greeting her friends, Rob and Holland.
“Great job, sweetie,” said Rob. Arthur peeked around the corner and saw them embrace.
“Thanks, Robbie. Hi, Holl—”
“Hi, Liv,” the girl in black replied coldly.
“You guys, I’ve gotta jet,” said Rob apologetically. “I have a lecture at Cooper Hewitt in like twenty minutes—”
“No problem, thanks for coming,” said Olivia.
“’Bye babe, see you later,” said Holland warmly to Rob, giving him some kind of hipster handshake. He raced off.
“So Holl, listen—”
“I don’t think so,” replied Holland, back to her icier tone.
“I just . . . want to talk—”
“There’s really nothing to say.”
“But—”
“But what? This is all getting ridiculous . . . look, I should go.”
“No,” Olivia pleaded. “Can’t we just get a cup of coffee?”
“A cup of coffee won’t solve the problem. I’ll see you around.”
Arthur peeked out again and saw Holland sling her bag over her shoulder and walk out. Olivia ran a hand through her hair and received compliments from awaiting fans who approached her. Arthur listened from around the bookshelf corner and then looked at his watch, realizing he should probably head home. As he started to walk toward the door, Olivia turned around and practically bumped into him.
“Oh—hi . . . thanks for coming,” she said to Arthur, who bristled with the shock of sudden interfacing.
“Great read! I mean, nice, uh, excerpt. Well, the whole book is wonderful,” he said, guiltily holding up his copy. “I’m halfway through . . .”
“I’m glad you like it so far,” she said with a smile. “Shall I sign it?”
Arthur resembled a beet. “Of course, yes.” He nervously handed her the precious tome, which he held in his tight grasp as if it were the Guttenberg Bible.
She took an elegant silver fountain pen out of her bag and wrote simply, “Enjoy the rest—See you in the elevator, O.W.”
“Ms. Weston,” interrupted the special events coordinator, “I need to steal you for a moment.”
“Of course,” she said, snapping the book closed and handing it to Arthur. “See you,” she said to her neighbor over her shoulder as she was led away.
As Arthur walked home through the brisk evening air, his John Lobb shoes never hit the pavement. He felt as if someone had laid out all the world’s cotton for him to bounce home on, his every fevered step alive with longing and admiration. Her book was so engrossing, so charged and radiant, her rarified world was so present on the pages in her airtight descriptions and velvety adjectives. But wait—what about that weird exchange with that girl? He began obsessing on her “problem” with “Holl.” What could possibly be wrong? Her dulcet tone seemed so wounded and damaged by the girl with all the ear piercings who spoke so harshly to his angel. Whatever was upsetting her, he wanted to make it better.
That night Arthur lay beside his wife in the giant upholstered canopy bed they shared, each absorbed in t
heir reading. Arthur held a Newsweek magazine up on the comforter, which shielded what he was actually reading—the rest of Rhythms of Fisher’s, with the occasional flip back to her inscription.
Melanie was too engrossed in her read of the Social Register to notice. Arthur ran his finger over the cobalt ink of Olivia’s exquisite penmanship. He felt himself getting turned on just recalling her scent and smile. In the elevator . . . what did that mean? Maybe she wanted him to nail her standing up in the elevator. They could have that Fatal Attraction–style hot sex while ascending the floors; it would be a heated secret affair, minus the boiling bunny rabbit. Naturally, she was sane. She was honest and good, a youthful flower whose fragrance filled his lungs with new life as he inhaled it.
As his eyes closed while recalling her smell and the fold of her scarf that warmed her soft neck, the jolt of Melanie’s outraged voice scissored through his fantasy.
“The McFaddens! They weren’t in here last year! Bullshit.”
Arthur tried to soothe his wife, but she was too dejected.
“I don’t know. It’s always when I think I make progress, I suffer a setback.”
“Don’t take it personally, sugar.”
“I know,” she sighed. “I just have to trust Guffey’s tips.”
“If they work for you.”
“And I’ve got to call my publicist and whip his tiny hiney into gear. That is turning out to be money not well spent.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She sat up and tied her new robe over her lacy nightgown. “That magazine? journal? is such a crock.”
She chucked it toward Arthur on the bed and walked into her bathroom. Arthur looked at the book and could almost see the blue blood leaking out of it. He opened it and looked through the pages. He had already read the entry on Olivia, but now he was combing for someone else. He eyed the P section for Preston. Damn, only last names.
“Honey,” he yelled toward the bathroom. “Does this thing have a first-name index?”
Melanie opened the door and hopped back into bed.
“No. But tell me the name and I’ll probably know who it is.”
“Oh, no one, just there was some kid Preston somebody who is applying to the Racquet Club—”
“Preston Bates? Regina and Carl’s son? Around twenty-nine, thirtyish?”
Arthur gulped. “Yeah, that must be him.” Little cocksucker.
“Has he gotten over his drug problem?”
“He has a drug problem?”
“He’s been ‘vacationing’ in Minnesota for three months, so you do the math.”
“Oh,” Arthur said, relieved. A junkie! Ha. As if she would ever be with a needle-toting maniac. “Maybe it wasn’t him. Never mind.”
Mr. and Mrs. Korn kissed good night before they turned out the lights and rolled onto their pillows for sweet dreams, which were in totally different realms.
chapter 29
Cordelia and Jerome, with arms linked, made their way up Madison from Fifty-seventh to Seventy-second in over three hours, enjoying the chilly air and brisk pace as the Vances’ driver slowly moved alongside them, carrying the day’s purchases. It was the pair’s favorite activity, like a special date they both loved each season, with the dynamic combo of her money, his taste, platinum plastic, and garment bags.
But that day, even when the ready-to-wear gown fit as if it were couture or a brand-new piece from the Cruise collection was being unpacked in the store, Cordelia’s usual sparkle was muted and dulled. When Jerome ran across Valentino, spying the ultimate beaded top, her normal yelp was this time a nod and forced smile, which quickly evaporated as her eyes belied a grayness inside her. Jerome said nothing. He knew. He had already heard rumors the day before at Swifty’s that his poor friend’s husband had a girlfriend.
As they strolled across the street to Armani, Cordelia looked at her pal, who seemed to want to help her so much. She knew she was being a bit of a downer, but she couldn’t even manufacture enthusiasm for new things when she truly wanted something else altogether.
“Jerome, I . . .”
“What, dear?”
“I . . . feel like . . . something is missing in my life. I’ve been feeling this for quite some time now, and I’ve come to realize what it is.”
“A new bauble from Fred Leighton?”
“No. A daughter.”
“That’s fabulous! That’s the best news I’ve heard since Jerry Zipkin died!”
Cordelia smiled, the first real one all day; she was relieved her dream wasn’t thought foolish.
“It’s not that my sons aren’t great—they’re wonderful. But they’re all grown up now, and I still feel like I have so much to give. It’s like this wave of energy trapped inside me. I really want to adopt a baby girl.”
“That’s fabulous. Fabulous! You know, there are so many underprivileged children in this world crying out for a home. You could take one in.”
“We have plenty of room. I could do up a nursery in no time.” She drifted off with visions of pink chintzes and a white crib with custom linens. Maybe she should swing by the D&D building in the morning. Just uttering the words aloud gave her a new hope.
“I think it could be really chic to do a mulatto,” said Jerome. “Blends are the way of the future. So modern. It’s good to have a little bouillabaisse of genes.”
“You’re right! I’m so glad you agree with me!” said Cordelia, now beaming.
“I’m very proud of you, Cord. Not many people would take in a needy youth. It takes real humanity and sensitivity to care about the forgotten children and let them be a part of you.”
“Oh, Jerome, thank you,” she said, hugging him. “You always know just what to say.”
When they got to the canopy of 741 Park, the doormen immediately rushed out and started unloading the car. Cordelia squeezed Jerome tightly, and as she looked into his eyes before heading into the lobby, she felt completely understood.
As Cordelia went up to her apartment to start envisioning the new nursery, Jerome had children on the mind as well. He went up to Harlem in his own car that afternoon and whistled out the window to a Puerto Rican boy, then waved a wad of cash. The boy, not a day older than fifteen, swaggered over and hopped in.
Downtown, Morgan Vance was working at his desk, for once without distraction, when his assistant came in.
“Mr. Vance, John Vance line one.”
Morgan picked up the phone, happy to hear from his son. “Hi, John.”
“Hey, Dad. Just wanted to confirm about squash this afternoon.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“Great, see you at five. Oh, by the way, I met this chick the other night at Dorrian’s. She said she knew you. Maria? Spanish girl.”
Morgan turned sheet white. Casper.
“I don’t recall a Maria.”
“Oh. Well, she was kind of hot. Chester Winthrop was scamming on her.”
“How strange. I don’t know any Maria. See you later, son.”
Morgan got off the phone and reached for his handkerchief to wipe the cold worry sweat from his brow. In a panicked frenzy he rustled through his desk in search of the small card handed to him by the leather-wearing self-professed “problem solver.”
chapter 30
It was the gala of the season: the New York City Ballet’s perpetually oversold opening night. Dinner and dancing was preceded by a three-act performance, during which women scanned the room scoping the outfits and their husbands squirmed in their seats with hunger noises emanating from their stomachs. Then, after the ethereal flurries of chiffon and tulle, when the last prima ballerina curtsied in front of the curtain and got her roses, the hordes flowed into the vast lobby of New York State Theater. Tonight’s extravaganza boasted a kitschy Hawaiian-themed, flower-filled fantasia of dramatic lighting, sexy music, and Glorious Food catering. As paparazzi snapped Miller sisters, Hilton sisters, and Boardman sisters, Melanie Korn watched curiously from the side as Arthur talked up some Wall St
reet zombie.
If she only had a sister. These gals ain’t all that, she thought. She had calves like them, and carbon-copy killer threads. But the sister phenom was all about the Doublemint hot twins campaign—one can be just okay, but when you have two or three, the eye bounces off the other and makes them an alluring, magnetic unit.
As the guests took their seating cards, Melanie was let down to find that their table, one of the most expensive, was not bordering the dance floor. And not only that, they were tucked away from all of the swans she wanted to dazzle.
“Arthur, what do you think this means? Our table may as well be in Botswana.”
“Hon, it’s fine. At least we can hear each other talk. It’s a zoo by the dance floor.”
“A zoo with the best animals. I feel like we’re the skunks.”
The Korns walked toward their table, past the sequined and brocaded guests, and drank in the bustling, enormous room. Mixed perfumes filled the air and glamour never felt more present than in that glistening venue. Melanie was very disappointed that she would be unable to put any of her Guffeyisms to use. They had practiced a little chitchat before she blew him off to get ready. She’d had enough playing Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman to the instructive bellhop. She felt red carpet–ready.
As Arthur and Melanie were about to sit down, Pamela Baldwin pulled her aside.
“Um, Melanie, can I have a word with you?” said Pamela gravely.
“Sure, Pamela. Is something wrong?” asked Melanie with concern.
“Look, I’m sure you found your seating card and are not very happy . . .”
“Well,” said Melanie, unsure how to proceed. “I’m a little surprised. I mean, we’ve been very generous, and I think that should buy us a slice of the dance floor.”
“And I agree. So I just want to make sure that you know it wasn’t me,” said Pamela, bobbing her head.
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t put you there.”
“Who did?” asked Melanie, her stomach sinking with a thud.
Just as Pamela was about to respond, a waiter clad in the most garishly tacky Hawaiian shirt tucked under four plastic leis interrupted to hock his cocktails.
The Right Address Page 17