“The man has a gift. He fully captured her essence,” marveled Wendy.
Just then, Joan noticed heads turning as lunch partners leaned in with wide eyes and whispering tongues. She turned to see who was entering: was it Brooke Astor with Kenneth Jay Lane? Aerin Lauder? No: it was the man of the hour. Arm in arm with Mimi Halsey, Billy Crispin strolled in, beaming. As every head turned to gaze at him, one socialite began to clap slowly, rising proudly from her chair. Her claps were met by a second pair of hands, then a third, until nearly the whole restaurant joined in the chorus of thrilled palms and approving smiles, which then snowballed into a full standing ovation worthy of La Scala. Butternut squash soup was left for the moment, Bibb lettuce with chives abandoned. As the writer walked to his booth past all the lunchers, he was greeted with approving nods and winks, visual high fives celebrating the brilliance of his oeuvre.
One woman boldly left her table altogether to pay homage.
“Billy, you’re a genius; you’ve made Melanie Korn into a laughing stock! Hilarious.”
“Billy, you were naughty naughty!” fake-chided another.
“I was nice,” said Billy as a hush fell over his neighborhood of tables and everyone lent an ear, as if listening for investment advice from Alan Greenspan. “That article was charity. You should have heard the other things she said! I didn’t skewer her,” he said. “I spared her.”
Spared her? What other tidbits had Melanie spewed that fell by the wayside? Joan waved over Gustave, the maître d’.
“Gustave, please send Mr. Crispin a bottle of your best champagne.”
“Oui, Madame Coddington, tout de suite.”
On their way out from lunch, Wendy and Joan walked through the grand revolving doors onto Sixty-fifth Street, still reeling. It was as if their lunch had evolved into a full happening, an event. And to think that Crispin had been gentle!
But before Joan and Wendy could make it to Park Avenue for cabs, the very same TAG maniac—that odious, fat, stinking man in a greasy army jacket and dirty blue overalls who had accosted Lady Harvey at Swifty’s—came charging toward them with a bucket of paint. Leaving no time for them to brace themselves, the bearded demon hurled blood-red paint on their fur coats as they tried to recoil. As if in slow motion, Wendy saw the thick liquid fly toward her as she opened her throat for her life’s biggest scream. But it was futile; she knew her sable was toast.
“MURDERERS! ANIMAL KILLERS!” he yelled with an almost drugged slur. “YOU’LL ROT IN HELL WITH DENNIS BASSO AND THE FENDI SISTERS!”
Joan fainted as the TAG maniac chucked the empty bucket and ran.
chapter 38
There are so many options as to how you want to spend eternity. Pine box or steel coffin. Cremated or buried. In a casket with silk lining or velvet folds. Ashes thrown over the edge of a boat or placed in an Oriental urn on the mantel. There were a thousand choices, and Arthur was an expert on every one of them. If there was a new technological advance made in the death business, Arthur knew about it first. He enjoyed being very hands-on in his work. That’s why he had the third largest rest home and funeral home business in the country. His retirement homes, Rest ’n’ Eaz, and his funeral homes, To Die For, were like the McDonald’s of elder care and death services in the United States. And his custom coffin business was also a huge up-and-comer, according to the most recent issue of Fortune magazine. And hey, death wasn’t going to go out of style anytime soon.
One of Arthur’s favorite things to do was to make impromptu visits to all of his outlets just to make sure all was going well, and that is what had brought him to the Lower East Side branch of his funeral home on a particular brisk November afternoon. Three funerals and four cremations were scheduled that day. Not bad, but they could do better. Arthur gave the employees a pep talk about ways to promote the business and was then on his way to his next stop. As the manager held open the door for him, Arthur took two steps onto the pavement and then stopped dead in his tracks. He was face to face with Olivia Weston.
“Oh, hello,” she said with a slight smile on her face. She flipped her eggshell cashmere scarf over her shoulder.
Arthur was so surprised to see her that he barely mumbled hello. She looked up at the sign of the building he was exiting and her face immediately changed from forced formality into genuine concern.
“Oh, I hope everything’s okay,” she said in a worried tone.
“Yes, sure. I was just surprised to see you,” Arthur said quickly.
“No, I . . . are you coming from a funeral?”
“A funeral?” Arthur looked around. “Oh, no! This is my place, I mean, not my place, my place of business.” Arthur flushed. Why the hell did he get so tongue-tied around her?
“Really?”
“Yeah, I own retirement and funeral homes.”
“Interesting.”
Arthur looked around. It was not the best neighborhood. He wondered what the heck she was doing there.
“Can I give you a lift?” Arthur asked, motioning to his car.
“Oh, I would love it, but I’m supposed to meet someone who lives over there,” said Olivia pointing across the street at a brick, loftlike building with a giant black door covered in graffiti. “My friend’s not home yet, so I was just going to head to that diner on the corner and wait.”
“Oh.”
Arthur looked down at the diner, where there were a few sketchy guys smoking cigarettes and a skinhead with tattoos over every visible part of his body drinking something out of a paper bag. They were being really loud and seemed a little dangerous. It was getting dark, and this whole ’hood was creepsville. Who would Olivia know who lived there? Maybe Preston was out of rehab? He really didn’t like the idea of leaving her alone there.
“You know, I don’t think a young woman such as yourself should be unaccompanied here. I have some time—if you’d like, I could join you for a cup of coffee,” said Arthur in his most formal tone.
“I don’t want to impose,” said Olivia, glancing around. It was scary there, and although it might be awkward to sit with a virtual stranger, she didn’t want to be raped.
“It’s no imposition.”
“All right then, thank you. You’re a real gentleman.”
After they had been seated at a booth and ordered coffee (Arthur also asked for a cheese Danish), they gave each other an embarrassed look. Arthur couldn’t believe they were sitting together. She looked beautiful—her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, her hair had been gently tousled in the wind, and she had on an ivory cashmere turtleneck sweater. He looked down at her beautiful fingers, which clasped the chipped white coffee mug. She had pale pink polish on them, so dainty. Sometimes he hated those very red nails that Melanie favored. They looked like claws. Every little detail of her interested him, and yet he had no idea what to say to her still.
“Oh! I read the rest of your book. It’s great.” His enthusiasm was more about his having thought of something to say rather than about the novel itself.
“You’re sweet.”
“Is it autobiographical? I mean, I . . . er, know the woman drowns herself at the end, but I meant, I mean . . .”
“Parts of it are. Tolstoy said to write what you know, so that’s what I try to do.”
“And this Preston character? Who’s he?”
“He’s really a composite.”
“I see. Well . . . it’s really inventive. That’s great that you can think up stories and stuff.”
“For my entire life, I’ve kept journals and scraps of paper where I would jot down little ideas, essays, even poems. Some may say it was foolish or nerdy . . .”
“Who’d say that?” asked Arthur, irate.
“Oh, my friends. They’re just kidding, though.”
“They’d better be, or maybe it’s time to get some new ones.” The nerve of those society dilettantes.
“No, they’re very supportive.”
“They should be. You’re great at it. You shouldn’t quit just
because some boob tells you it’s not fashionable.”
“Oh, I would never. I love to write.”
“Did you always know ya wanted to write?”
“Yes,” she said, smiling. Arthur watched her blow on her coffee. Her lips were a perfect shade of pinky red. She opened one of those tiny buckets of half-and-half and swirled it in with her spoon.
“How about you? Did you always want to . . . own funeral homes?”
“Me? No. I was a terrible student. I wasn’t going to be a writer, that’s for sure. I’m terribly dyslexic.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” she said, lowering her perfectly plucked eyebrows in sympathy. “So how did you get into your line of work?”
“It’s a funny story,” said Arthur, taking a bite of his Danish. “I grew up in Flatbush—not the good part, the wrong side of the tracks part. Anyhow, one day I was at my friend’s house—he lived in the nice part of town—and a big Cadillac pulled into the driveway across the street and a guy got out in a fur coat. I said to my friend—Lenny Shipman, I wonder whatever happened to him?—anyway, I said to Lenny, ‘I’m going to do whatever that guy does.’ ’Cause it seemed to me like he had so much money. Anyway, he had a funeral home. And that’s how it started.” Arthur chuckled to himself a little, remembering the old days.
“Well, I guess Six Feet Under has made your industry a little chicer,” said Olivia.
Just then her cell phone rang. “Excuse me, this may be my friend,” she said. She fumbled in her monogrammed tote and pulled out her phone.
“Hello?” she asked in her demure voice. “Holland! Where are you? . . . I’m right on the corner of your block . . . What? Listen, I need to see you.” Olivia looked at Arthur, who was staring, and then turned away to the side and whispered into the phone. “It’s urgent. Why are you avoiding me? . . . All right, I’m leaving now.” She closed her phone and put it back into her bag. She turned back to Arthur.
“My friend’s back, so I should be going.”
“Sure, no problem.” Arthur looked at the check and put down a twenty.
“Oh, no, let me pay! You were so nice to sit with me.”
“No way. A lady never pays.”
They got on their coats and walked out. Arthur’s car was waiting for them.
“Can I walk you to the door, make sure you get in?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll watch you go, just so I make sure.”
“You really don’t have to.”
“I insist.”
“Thanks very much, Mr. Korn.”
“Call me Arthur.”
“Arthur.” Her voice was like whole milk—heavy cream, even—cascading over his ears. He watched her walk down the street in her fur-lined white parka, her bag swinging in the air. He felt as if he had melted into a giant vat of creamy chocolate.
He practically floated uptown, but when he arrived, his mood was immediately ruined. He entered his darkened living room to find Melanie and Juanita heaping piles of the New York Observer onto the fire, the only source of light in the entire apartment. The room was about five hundred degrees as the fire raged, but Melanie was completely oblivious and in a manic frenzy.
“Where have you been?” she asked, wild eyed.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been calling and paging you all day. Where were you?”
“I was at the funeral home—I don’t keep my pager on there, you know. I don’t want to interrupt a ceremony.” He put his overcoat down over the edge of the sofa.
“They’re dead, Arty. You can leave your goddamn beeper on, for chrissakes.”
“Melanie, what’s going on?”
“What’s going on? I’ll tell you what’s going on. That Billy Crispin is the devil. So malicious! He destroyed me—he destroyed us.”
“What did he do?”
Melanie was so consumed with rage that Arthur didn’t know if she had heard him. Her hair was a disaster—as if she had stuck her finger in an electric socket. Her clothes were stained with newspaper print. Her mascara ran down her face from the tears and perspiration. This was not the Melanie he knew. She threw more papers on the fire, and the shadows in the room danced off the walls, making the entire atmosphere seem like a carnival fun house.
“You know what’s so annoying? It’s that I showed him kindness and generosity. I arranged a gourmet meal, catered, served by waiters. We’re talking white truffle risotto and lobster salad. We’re talking caviar amuses bouches. I gave him a tour of our home, and he dragged me over the coals! I still have char marks!”
She burst into convulsive sobs, and Arthur walked over and tried to embrace her. She allowed him to finally, and her heaving chest rested on his. Juanita continued hoisting the papers into the fire, faster and faster.
Arthur patted Melanie on the back. “So I’m assuming the article came out.”
“It came out, all right. And I am the talk of the town.”
“But isn’t that what you wanted? That’s why you hired a publicist.”
“You don’t hire a publicist for bad publicity.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“It is.”
“Come on.”
“Everyone slammed me. That Jerome de Stingol said, quote, ‘She was too cheap for my services, and I refused to renegotiate.’ I was not cheap! I was just under the assumption that that disgusting man was a decorator. Excuse me for expecting him to decorate. The guy just fluffs pillows and charges twenty thousand dollars for one room! What an asshole. And some unnamed source—probably Wendy Marshall—bashed me for trying to get on the board of the Met.”
Arthur rubbed his hand through her hair. “People are jealous of you. I’ve told you countless times to expect that. They’re twenty years older than you and not as beautiful.”
Melanie pulled back and looked him in the eye. “Arthur, this is something different. This is a vast right-wing conspiracy.”
“People will forget about it. They’re too narcissistic to care about an article on you.”
“Maybe.” She sniffed.
Arthur walked over to the stack of peach newspapers. “Let me see it. Wow, you have a lot.”
“I’ve had the driver take me all over town—we hit every newsstand on the Upper East Side, every vending machine. Every deli. I think I cleared out the entire Yorkville distribution, too.”
As Arthur perused the article, Melanie threw more stacks on the fire. “Juanita, there are more in the foyer. Please go get them.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Juanita raced into the hall.
Arthur’s supportive smile slowly started to turn into a grimace as he read the article.
“WHAT?! Melanie! You said, ‘Arthur always refers to all those Upper East Side party picture people as the Walking Dead.’ I can’t believe you said that! Melanie!”
“It was out of context, Arthur.” Melanie started sobbing again.
“You have to be careful! The press are vultures.” Arthur was not thrilled. He had been having such a nice afternoon with Olivia; it had felt like lying on a bed of feathers. And now Melanie, with her blind ambition and stupid remarks, made him feel as if he were writhing on needles. He didn’t want Olivia to see the article. What would she think? What does she think in general? He couldn’t figure her out.
“Oh, Arthur, I’m sorry. I’m so ashamed. I never want to leave the house again,” said Melanie, collapsing in his arms.
Arthur patted her on the back. “Don’t worry, kiddo. Don’t worry. People will forget.”
But they both knew that it would take a very long time or another very big scandal for that to happen.
chapter 39
“Hello, Mrs. Vance. I bet you didn’t expect to see me here,” said Maria, who was standing on the threshold of Cordelia’s front door.
“No . . .” said Cordelia, not quite remembering who this Mexican woman was. The Powells’ domestic? The saleslady at Wolford? The manicurist at Frederic Fekkai?
“You don’t remembe
r me,” said Maria.
“I . . .” said Cordelia, trailing off, hoping that Maria would fill her in before it became embarrassing.
“Maria Garcia—I worked at Brown Brothers. I saw you at Tiffany’s the other day.”
“Oh, Maria, of course!” said Cordelia, still wondering what this woman was doing here and how she could afford such an enormous fur coat. Perhaps she had been doing a bit of unfair racial profiling, but she had assumed that Maria was on the cleaning crew.
“I’m here for the flower arranging lesson!”
“Oh! I didn’t make the connection that it was you.”
“Yes, I know somebody who works at the Harbor who went to the auction and got me your lesson. I had to have it! I had to check out your house—oh, and I love flowers.”
“Why, thank you . . .” said Cordelia. Could she be Colombian wealth? There were some fine families in Argentina too.
“Not to mention that we’re pals now. We shop at the same fancy stores, you and me,” added Maria.
“Right,” said Cordelia.
Maria had pressed Morgan for the money, claiming that Schuyler had a heart murmur and needed a small operation. There was no way Maria would let an opportunity to see the inside of Morgan’s apartment and hang with the missus slip through her fingers. Nah-uh.
“Well, please come in. Welcome,” said Cordelia. A maid appeared out of nowhere and helped Maria off with her fur. “What a lovely coat,” Cordelia said.
“Thanks. My boyfriend got it for me,” said Maria, beaming. When she unswaddled herself, she revealed her interpretation of an appropriate flower arranging outfit: fire-engine red glittery pants with black stiletto boots, a gauzy low-cut black blouse, and a huge eighteen-carat gold chain. It was as if Miami threw up on her. She also had several thick, clanging gold charm bracelets on both of her wrists.
Cordelia raised her eyebrows. She was in her uniform: beige slacks with a pencil-thin black belt, an ivory blouse, and suede loafers. Her only accessories were a watch and her wedding ring.
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