“So, I need your advice. I’m going to Olivia Weston’s this afternoon for a meeting. It’s with the younger set. The swans, as you call them. Any thoughts?”
“Perhaps I could fetch something from Mason du Chocolat for you to bring to Ms. Weston, or something from Neuhaus . . .”
“I agree with the whole bringing something, but I happen to know that Olivia Weston and her ’rexi cronies would never touch a bite of them for fear of powdered cocoa on their manicured fingers, or more important, butter and sugar on their skeletal asses.”
“Touché.”
“What about potpourri?”
“Too 1980s.”
“A Votivo candle?”
“That’s what people in the West Village give.”
“Well, any ideas?”
“I’ll fetch some gold almonds.”
“Perfect!” said Melanie, straightening her skirt. “So, any um, thoughts in terms of convo?”
“The young, the rich, and the idle take great pride in their burgeoning art collections and decor. They generally purchase through an art consultant and feel semi-insecure about their choices. Compliments go a long way.”
“I can do that. Just like the old, the rich, and the idle,” said Melanie, smiling. “Thanks, Guff.”
“Good luck, madam.”
chapter 33
Olivia opened her front door, and although her face didn’t convey any emotion, she was extremely surprised to find Melanie Korn standing on the threshold.
“Hi, how are you? I can’t wait to see your apartment. You must give me a tour, pronto. Who did it?” said Melanie as she waltzed into the sweet-smelling home and looked around the front hall. She wanted to be breezy.
“Um, a friend . . .” said Olivia, not sure what the hell Melanie was doing there.
“It’s very original. Oh, I see you have a Twombly chalkboard painting! It’s faaaaaaaabulous. I wanted one of those for a while, but Arthur said absolutely not. Reminded him too much of school and what a terrible student he was. Although, not that it mattered—he was more successful than any straight-A nerd I ever met!” said Melanie.
She glided her hand along the Biedermeier chest and fondled a silver letter opener, running her finger along the sharp edges. Olivia watched curiously as Melanie peered down at the neat stack of letters in the silver dish. “You’re also invited to Joan Coddington’s tea party, I see. Should be a snoozefest, but I suppose you’ve got to go to these things. I’ll tell Joan that we should be seated next to each other, so we’re not bored to tears.”
Finally, after using the full extent of her photographic memory to imprint the decor of Olivia’s foyer onto her brain (toffee walls, mushroom-colored sisal carpeting, a Campbell’s soup can umbrella stand signed by Andy Warhol), she turned and faced her host. Olivia was wearing camel slacks, an ivory blouse, and a Van Cleef flower necklace. Olivia in turn faced Melanie, who was dressed in a short black skirt and blazer, with a chunky tourmaline bead necklace that she bought at auction.
“Melanie, I just . . . I’m expecting the junior committee for BAMAM here any minute,” said Olivia.
“I know! That’s why I’m here! You know I want to battle against Mumps and Measles! I told my butler, sure, they were eradicated outside the Congo years ago, but the ball was so great, they kept it going! I’m so excited to be a part of such a fun gala. I just decided to get here early so we could have a little chat. Plus, I live in the building, so it’s obviously not a stretch for me like it is for other people. I really hate it when people are late, one of my pet peeves. It’s all about respecting other people’s time. But anyway, you and I don’t really know each other, and I thought to myself last night, Why is that so? We’re both philanthropists . . . I mean, you won’t see anyone else’s name appear on more invitations than ours, so we’re two peas in a pod, really. It’s about time we bonded.”
Olivia’s class and elegance would never allow her to reveal how reprehensible this statement was to her, so she chose to ignore it and let it float up into the air like fairy dust. “But I thought you were on the regular committee of Fight Against Mumps and Measles, not the junior committee.”
“No, I’m on the junior committee.”
“But . . . it’s really for people . . .”
Melanie stared at Olivia, waiting for her to spell it out. “What?”
“Well, I suppose for the . . . ones who are responsible for bringing in the junior crowd.”
“Oh, I know that people think I’m older because my Arty is middle-aged, but I’m actually closer to your age than Cordelia Vance’s. And I don’t want to hang around with those old fogies. They’re super boring. I want to be with the gals!”
Fortunately for Olivia, the doorbell rang. “Well, you can just have a seat in the living room while I get the door. Please help yourself to tea or coffee.”
“Great.”
The apartment was almost the identical layout to Melanie and Arthur’s, although some walls were moved around. Melanie wondered why in the world Olivia, a single woman, would need all this space. Really, five bedrooms? For what?
Melanie walked into the capacious living room and gauged at once the motif, that very minimalist Ian Schrager hotel lobby meets Calvin Klein home furnishings decor so trendy with the younger set. Of course, the pieces were more important than the ones at the Delano, but the theme was pretty much the same: a palette of muted colors, Eames chairs, Dunbar sofas, crystal vases bursting with fresh calla lilies, the drill. Pencil-pleated champagne silk curtains with white piping adorned the windows, which looked north, providing a sweeping view of Park Avenue and all of the little arterial side streets coursing into it. A marshmallow and coffee Stark carpet covered the chocolate stained floorboards. Some gold-framed charcoal drawings of women in various positions of repose hung above a Chinese lacquer chest, and a few interesting bronzes on a commode. But Melanie’s eyes were immediately drawn to the Jasper Johns American flag over the mantel—pretty much the sole burst of color in the room. She could sniff out the cash prizes a mile away.
“Hello, Mrs. Korn,” said Brooke Lutz, the housewares heiress (really pots and pans if one was being technical), as she pranced into the room in her Gucci pantsuit and Jimmy Choos.
“Oh, please, call me Melanie! I’m your age—don’t make me feel like an old hag.”
“Okay. Melanie. Did you enjoy the Botanical Garden party? Wasn’t as good as last year,” she said, plopping on the sofa.
“That’s because Fernanda Wingate was the chair. Really, they have to get some new blood into these organizations, shake it up a little. Dullsville!”
“Why don’t you try and become chairman?”
“I really could breathe some life into it.”
“Why don’t you call Royton Carlson? He’s the man who runs it.”
Before Melanie could answer, Olivia entered the room with a pregnant Charlotte von Peltz (everyone knew she had forced her husband to add the “von” when she married him). She was soon followed by Adriana Pierce (emerged out of nowhere and quickly ascended the social ranks—oodles of moolah) and Jenny Grossberg (a dog, poor thing—the sister was so much prettier—but at least she possessed a family brokerage account more impressive than the Rothschilds’). Their eyes widened when they saw Melanie, but they said nothing. Melanie chitchatted with Charlotte and Adriana for a while, learning about Adriana’s impending move to London (“The Brits are so much more civilized. Plus, we’ve done New York”) and Charlotte’s decision to send her daughter to Sacred Heart rather than Spence (“The girls at the convent have more morals than the Spencies . . . While, yes, it’s true the Hilton sisters did go there, the fact is we want Serena to go to school with all types of girls, not just children of billionaires”). Melanie made a mental note of every accessory, every jewel, and every label the ladies in the room were wearing. She also watched carefully as Rosemary Peniston and Lila Meyer made their entrances. A cow and a worm. If Melanie were Lila, she would be scared that Rosemary would eat her for
dinner.
A fully uniformed maid appeared from time to time to refill cups and make sure the coffee was still hot. There was a plethora of William Poll crustless tea sandwiches (because really, who can deal with that change in texture with crusts?), Greenberg cookies, and Payard petits four laid out on china platters, but none of the women touched a thing.
At long last Jane Roberts, on whom they had been waiting, assumed Melanie, arrived. Jane had elbowed her way onto all these committees by virtue of force. She had been a complete nerd at Chapin and in order to make up for the cool girls’ rejection had spent every weekend immersed in breeding and showing her Airedales. When she got older and learned that money was a lot more powerful than going to third base with the hottest guy at Collegiate, she threw it around, hired a publicist to photograph her extravagant parties, and became a queen bee.
“Charlotte, I have to talk to you,” said Jane with great urgency. She nodded to Melanie and Adriana but focused all of her attention on Charlotte.
“Okay . . .” said Charlotte awkwardly, aware of Jane’s rudeness.
“It will only take a minute. It’s very important.”
Melanie watched as Jane led Charlotte to the corner. They were both about six months pregnant, but you could tell only if you looked at them from the side, and even then you had to strain your eyes. Melanie leaned back on the sofa in order to find out what was so important.
“So. I just came from Schweitzer Linens, and I was in complete shock to find that the monogrammed crib linens set takes sixteen weeks to arrive! I couldn’t believe it. There’s just such a backlog. So you have to run—I mean, literally, right after this—and put your name down. It’s just chaos. It’s imperative that you get down there before it’s too late.”
“Jane, my goodness—thanks! You’re a savior!”
“Seriously, you don’t want to miss out. And they’re almost all gone.”
Melanie rolled her eyes. What lame-o’s. These gals had just too much time on their hands. But that would change when they had sobbing tots in a few months, not that they’d ever see them. Melanie knew women like that just wanted a new accessory, a toy doll to spice things up since their husbands were tedious suits from hell.
The conversation buzzed for another ten minutes, and more tea was consumed. Melanie realized, listening to their snippets of chatter, that she was just as bored with this crowd as she was with the older folks. What a letdown. So they came out of the womb a little later—so what? They were still the same stiffs yakking about the same meaningless stuff. But this group had a faux seriousness that irritated her. Jane monopolized the conversation about the coffee table book she was doing about Upper East Side libraries. Virtually every girl in the room would be featured. When Charlotte left the room, everyone whispered about how her daughter was not accepted to Spence, and that’s why she was going to Sacred Heart. Plus, there were some eyebrows raised over little Serena’s mental capacity at her kindergarten interview (poor little thing had apparently been trying to jam the square block in the triangle-shaped hole). Brooke talked about how hard she worked, when everyone knew that although she had an “office” at her family’s company, she did jack. Rosemary talked about her purebred poodle having puppies that she had no idea what to do with. Lila moaned about no single men in New York. Adriana complained that she couldn’t find a costume for Jane’s Madame de Pompadour party. There was the usual banter as well, and every cutting remark was couched in concern, every snide barb followed by a “just kidding.” The only one who didn’t really partake in the conversation was Olivia, Melanie noticed. Smart cookie. That’s probably why no one really said anything bad about her.
“So, when do we get down to business?” Melanie finally asked loudly. She had to get out of there soon or she’d fall into a coma.
“What do you mean?” asked Rosemary, surprised.
“I mean, this is a committee meeting. When do we talk about the gala?”
The women all looked at each other. Lila smiled slyly.
“Oh, well, what’s there to talk about?” asked Olivia.
“Well, don’t we organize something?”
“Not really,” said Adriana.
“Then what is the meeting for?”
They all glanced at one another. “Well, to catch up, regroup,” said Charlotte.
“That’s all?” asked Melanie.
“Yes,” they all said, almost in unison.
Bizarre, thought Melanie. And a shame. It seemed like this group could really put not only their wallets to use but also their brains and think up some creative charitable events. Something radical for them, like maybe actually visiting the sick patients or underprivileged children that they raised money for.
“Well, then, I’ve got to be going,” Melanie said, rising. “Great to see you all.”
Olivia walked out to the foyer with Melanie. “Can I use your restroom?”
“Sure,” said Olivia, wondering why she couldn’t just go at home. “It’s through my office,” she said, pointing down the hall.
“Thanks, and don’t worry, I’ll show myself out,” she said, turning around. “Oh, and let’s have lunch soon.”
Melanie entered Olivia’s office and looked around. The peanut butter–walled room was definitely set up like a writer’s dream office—rare leather-bound first editions lined the shelves; a collection of antique globes (as if for research purposes) were displayed on a large Campaign chest, and a reclining chair sat in the corner. An arty-looking drafting table hosted a laptop, a Tiffany glass lamp, a silver cup full of architect’s pens, and a diary. Melanie walked over to the desk and spied a bright-colored piece of cellophane poking out from the slightly open top drawer. Hmm, what’s this? Melanie reached for the pewter handle and pulled it open. Wow. Not Percoset, not Demerol, not Valium, but Ding Dongs, Reese’s Pieces, and Twinkies were her drugs. Grinning and in shock, Melanie moved her hands over the Entenmann’s explosion of chocolate-coated doughnut holes and half-eaten cookies next to picked-at pound cake and cinnamon filbert swirls. It was as if Sara Lee herself had stocked the carb- and candy-loaded drawer. Melanie’s eyes widened as she beheld the gazillion-calorie extravaganza. Interesting, very interesting. And the chick was a twig. Bulimia? Obviously. So this was what Olivia Weston was all about. Who would believe it? So graceful and perfect on the outside, and yet if a coroner were to slice her open he’d find a sea of M&M’s and Ho-Hos. Her refined, revered hostess was an addict of Hostess. And Melanie was the one they all called white trash?
chapter 34
Eddie and Tom, the doormen of 741 Park, were standing side by side, their wide eyes looking right and left as if following a tennis ball at the U.S. Open. But it was not that kind of moving sphere they followed so carefully. It was pairs of breasts. Watching the posh women of the tree-lined avenue balancing on their high, pointy shoes, wrapped in sensuous fabrics, and ornamented in fineries the porters’ combined salaries couldn’t dream of acquiring was a never-ending intoxicator. A high school girl sauntered by with a cigarette and a pleated school uniform rolled up at the waist to hike the school-enforced dreary hemline, revealing her coltish thighs.
“Look at that little nymphet,” said Tom, practically salivating. “I could teach that student a thing or two.”
“Come to papa,” echoed Eddie under his breath.
Olivia Weston strolled out, every silken hair in place, in a cropped Prada bomber and swirly Marc Jacobs skirt.
“Hello, Ms. Weston!”
“Hello.” She never learned their names.
Her exit was followed by more girl watching, then helping batty Mrs. Cockpurse out of her car. Drew Vance then came in with his tweed jacket and cocky swagger. Just the daily upscale foot traffic at the swankiest residence in town.
“Cowabunga,” said Eddie, drooling over a Euro-trash trophy wife with platinum Donatella locks and amped-up boobs. Keeping her in his leering gaze, he followed her stride around the corner.
“Good afternoon, mademoiselle,” said
Tom, straightening his posture respectfully.
A small dog in a full Burberry outfit entered the lobby. It was Mademoiselle Oeuf, the sole heir to an infinite fortune, prancing across the marble to the elevator, led by her trainer.
“That bitch is so unfriendly,” said Eddie.
“Which, the pooch or the dyke trainer?”
They shared a hearty laugh until a distinguished-looking African-American gentleman approached them, interrupting their harmonic chuckle.
“Deliveries at the back,” said Tom before the man could say a word.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just around the corner. You’ll see the door,” said Eddie.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Korn. It’s not a delivery.”
“Oh, uh, hold on. What’s your name?” As soon as the man said it, Eddie put up his hand sternly. “Stay right here,” warned Eddie before going inside to buzz his tenant. He came back out and offered an unspoken “oops” with his guilty, doofus smile, then said, “Go on up.”
Melanie was doing some last-minute pillow fluffage when she thought she heard the doorbell.
“JUANITA! Can you get the door? JUANITAAA!”
She couldn’t even hear her own voice over the vacuum cleaner racket. Melanie rolled her eyes and walked toward the door to answer it herself. In an unfortunate coincidence, it was Guffey’s day off. Melanie was in a panic that she would have to be interviewed by the Observer without him, but Arthur calmed her down. He reminded her that Guffey was a butler, after all, not Emily Post or Albert Einstein. Let him get back to dusting and pouring, and Melanie could handle the rest. Melanie was unsure, but she had no choice.
“Hi, welcome!” She flashed her best newly whitened smile.
“Hello. I’m Billy Crispin from the New York Observer.”
“It’s nice to meet you—come on in. I have a whole lunch set up for you. Feasts and Fêtes catered. Daniel Boulud’s company . . .”
“Splendid,” he said, looking around curiously.
“But first, why don’t I give you the grand tour? It’s going to be in all the magazines.”
The Right Address Page 19