The Right Address

by Carrie Karasyov

  She would often walk down the street and spy a matron who she knew would report the sighting (Melanie’s appearance, outfit, etc.) to the whole Swifty’s set. When she saw one of these women, she’d casually dart into a random store or coffee shop, and she accidentally discovered many new places as a result. Example: a little day spa when she decided to get a pedicure without fear of some society hag sitting in the leather throne next to her. And believe it or not, the little Korean nobody who cut her cuticles was actually better than Mila at Frederic Fekkai. Who would have thought? Another time, she thought she saw Pamela Baldwin on Columbus Avenue (she must have been on her way to pick up her son at Collegiate), so Melanie popped into an avant-garde art gallery that featured Romanian bronzes, which were actually quite original. Melanie purchased nine, then later rethought it and gave them to Juanita.

  One afternoon, Melanie decided to walk around Midtown and see what the world was like south of Fifty-seventh Street. She crossed Thirty-fourth Street and suddenly saw Maggie McSorley, a Met trustee, heading toward her. Before she could even wonder what the hell a woman like that was doing in the land of Denny’s and Dunkin Donuts, she turned into the grand revolving door of the Empire State Building. Relieved to have avoided the close call, she walked in a lemming trance down the marble foyer, through security, and up in the majestic elevators. She stood in line—incognito—for what seemed like an eternity, and, zombielike, followed the crowd up to the busy observation deck.

  Wow. This glittering vista that spread out before her was truly awe-inspiring. She could see everything. Amazing. Melanie even put some quarters in the telescope and found her apartment. Who’d have thought the Empire State Building was so neat?

  Melanie walked toward the goosebump-inducing view and drank in the flea-size cars and the collage of silhouetted rooftops. An hour went by. She stood there, bleary eyed, thinking of all the cinematic kisses set here, which she had seen flickering on Floridian Mall Multiplex screens. Those embraces always made New York beckon as if it held the promise of romance and escape, no matter who you were or where you came from.

  “Melanie? Oh my god! Is that you?”

  She was snapped abruptly out of her reverie to see a weathered blond mom of three looking at her quizzically.

  “Yes.”

  “I knew it! Hi, it’s Sandy! Sandy Braddock! Formerly Sandy St. John? I haven’t seen you since high school!”

  “Oh, yes—right, of course.”

  Sandy St. John. Melanie’s former nemesis, who’d made her life a living hell. The one who led the gang and convinced everyone that Melanie was a big slut from a little trailer park. Well, today the tables were turned. Here Melanie was, decked in jewels and looking . . . well, fabulous.

  Melanie looked at her former classmate. What was it about high school hierarchies that always dragged you back by the knapsack to the tenth-grade hallway? It was as if the twenty years that had gone by had never happened and—poof—she was back in the bleachers, watching Sandy’s posse swooning over the football jocks. And now look at Sandy. There she was, wide in the hips and with three towheaded tots that looked right out of a Children of the Corn, Part 7 casting call.

  “It’s soooo good to see you!” squealed Sandy. “You look fantastic!”

  “Thanks. You do too.” Lie. She looked like ass. Her blond, once-shiny hair sported dark roots that were in dire need of a bleach job. She wore too much base, which didn’t match the skin tone of her neck. And it was obviously time for Weight Watchers.

  “So what happened to you? What have you been doing for the last twenty-something years?” said Sandy, who then honked with laughter.

  “I live here in New York. On Park Avenue.”

  “Park Avenue! My, my, look at you, little miss fancy pants! Well, you were always pretty. You must have landed yourself quite a gentleman! ’Cause I see by that giant rock that you’re married.”

  “Yes, I have a wonderful husband.”

  “And what does he do?”

  “He’s an entrepreneur.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful! We were always wondering what happened to you, Melanie Sartomsky. But you seem like you’ve really arrived. You look, well, terrific.”

  Sandy was always a haughty little bitch, but here she was almost kissing Melanie’s butt. How odd. One of Sandy’s little kids yanked her skirt, and Sandy had to depart with her brood, Le Sports Sac in hand.

  “Okay, okay, we’re going,” she said to calm her kid. “Great to see ya, Mel. Time is on your side!” she shouted as she wandered away.

  “Right! You too,” said Melanie, halfheartedly. Her kids sure were cute, though. Minus the JonBenet leopard-print leggings.

  Melanie exhaled and gazed out on the magnificent rooftop buffet. She shook at the coincidental flashback to high school, another miserable moment in her life. It was as if on that deco deck there was a wrinkle in time transporting her back through the years, back down to her shitty home, her father’s sentencing for thirteen counts of fraud, her complete isolation, the gossip in the hallway. She was now, thanks to the scandal she got herself wrapped up in, right back in high school. There used to be whispers in the locker-lined hallways, and now there were whispers in velvet-lined banquettes. The only difference was that in high school there was a light at the end of the tunnel; she knew things would get better. And they did . . . for a while. Now, in the face of total solitude, she was experiencing the same pit of despair, this time without the hope of being lifted out.

  Melanie left the famed building and walked. She kept walking and walking until the light turned darker. The sun set, and the sky went from burnt orange to azure blue as she walked through a rush hour–packed Columbus Circle. She walked by a lit-up Lincoln Center and watched a gaggle of New York City Ballet dancers run across the marble, pitter-pattering the expanse of white with their little steps on their way backstage. At Seventy-second Street, she made a left and walked west. She strolled up Riverside Drive, surveying the stunning Gothic buildings and charming townhomes, watching the children come and go and play in the park as their daddies came home with briefcases. She saw fit women in yoga clothes making their way home with ripe groceries from Fairway, Citarella, and Zabar’s. She spotted busy Columbia students looking brainy in their Elvis Costello glasses, hustling to study groups and seminars on Foucault and rallies for women’s reproductive rights.

  And that’s when it dawned on her.

  New York was not just her tight-ass zip code. It was a whole world. She wasn’t “ruined”! She always thought because her life with Arthur had been, by her design, a revolving door of the same faces at the same benefits, the same restaurants, the same salons, that the world was tiny. But here she was in this gorgeous neighborhood she had never even seen, and she had it all to herself. She knew most of the supposedly glitzy socialities would break into hives if they stepped one Louboutin-covered foot west of Central Park West. And what a loss it was for them. And for her. All these years and she’d never walked this tree-lined, river breeze–filled avenue. It had taken this scandal sequesterage to get her here. The looming gargoyles overhead didn’t just scare off the evil spirits—they scared off her fears. Miraculously, with this revelation, all her cares and nervous energy seemed to flow out with the tides of the Hudson.

  She felt as if she had jetted to some weird, foreign, European city. Forget forking out buttloads of money to go abroad; people should just hop over the park. She glanced around her and there was . . . life, as usual, just in a new locale. Perhaps this was a life better than everyone knew. They didn’t even sell Billy Crispin’s crappy paper here. She inhaled the crisp air and began to walk home, feeling armed with a new hope of getting over her whole wave of worries. Life was just too short. And her city was too big.

  chapter 43

  Wendy was nervous. Why was she nervous? It was so silly, really. She checked her reflection again in the mirror. Joan had said to wear her sexy black V-neck dress and her diamond pin that her ex had gotten her for their seventh wedd
ing anniversary. She had wanted to wear the one she received for her eleventh (and final), the diamond and emerald, but Joan said, “You don’t want to dazzle him too much.”

  Joan was setting her up with an old friend of Phillip’s from Tuck Business School. He had recently been divorced, had recently moved to New York, and recently made a billion dollars in some sort of telecommunications thing of which he had been lucky enough to get out early. Joan had been pressing Phillip for months to get things moving and make the introduction, but Phillip had been noncommittal in his usual way, until Joan finally had to pick up the phone and do it herself.

  The doorman rang up and announced that Joan and Phillip were waiting in the car downstairs, and Wendy walked into the family room to say good night to her kids.

  “So how do I look?” she asked them.

  George and Nina barely glanced up from Friends. “Fine” and “Good” were all they could muster.

  “Don’t sit so close. You’ll ruin your eyes,” said Wendy, walking over and pecking them on the forehead. “And don’t stay up too late. Love you.”

  “Huh,” they murmured.

  After one final glance at her reflection, she was off. This was the first thing that she had looked forward to in ages. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been set up, and she felt out of practice and strange. She crossed her fingers that it would go well. How great would it be to find a man? Even if she didn’t get remarried, just had someone to go to foreign movies with and maybe take in the theater. Have late-night suppers at cozy Italian restaurants and maybe visit the south of France together. Maybe rent a house on the Vineyard and . . . Stop, Wendy, she reprimanded herself. Her fantasies were getting ahead of her, and she hadn’t even met the man! As she descended in the elevator to meet Joan, she pushed all of her hopes to the back of her mind and took a deep breath.

  “Now, don’t be nervous,” advised Joan as they entered Elio’s. “Tom is a very nice man. His ex was a bore—a total bore—I couldn’t stand her. Very Fairfield County, just dullsville. I think she had too many electroshock treatments. I mean, she was a real mute and very frowny. The children I believe take after her—the daughter is really a dog—but don’t let that put you off; you wouldn’t have to deal with them that much. They’re off at boarding school somewhere—and somewhere good, by the way—at least they’re smart and ugly. Because ugly and dumb is just a curse, as we both know. You know who I’m talking about: yes, those Goodyear children. Sorry, but true. They’re as dumb as rodents. But these girls get the brains from Tom, not from the mother. How funny—I can’t even remember her name anymore: she made that much of an impression on me! That cat ran off with her tongue, because the woman was a virtual Helen Keller. Now, what was her name? Something silly and stupid like Libbitz. Hopeless, really hopeless. And you should have seen their house in Darien! Oh, my, a total disaster. She used the same green chintz fabric on the sofas, chairs, and curtains! Can you imagine? Like a set from one of those suburban sitcoms on television. You’d expect to find the Newharts there! Good thing he got out of there. You’ll do fine, just don’t worry.”

  Throughout Joan’s diatribe they had been following the hostess to a prime table in the back. Tom had not arrived yet.

  “Now, Phillip, you sit there, and Wendy, you are there,” ordered Joan.

  Phillip and Wendy followed her instructions.

  “You know what? That’s not good. We need Tom to face the wall so he’s not distracted. There are so many attractive people here tonight. If he’s over there, he will only be able to see the tables on his right, and we’ll just hope some old fogies are seated there. So Wendy, switch places with Phillip.”

  They followed her instructions.

  “Hmm . . . now I’m not sure . . .” began Joan before Phillip interrupted.

  “Joan, I’m not moving again. Now, I’d like a scotch,” he said, turning to the hostess. “Neat, a double.”

  “And what can I get you ladies?”

  Before Wendy could say anything, Joan answered for her. “Two chardonnays.”

  “Lovely.”

  “Now, Wendy, just remember not to talk with your head lowered. Keep it raised at all times. Otherwise, that little extra flesh under your neck pops out a bit.”

  Wendy immediately touched her chin. “Really?”

  “Nothing to worry about, really. But just make sure your chin is the same level as Tom’s eyes. And look who’s here!”

  Wendy turned to see Tom Fairbanks approach their table. He was in his mid-fifties, with the lean body of a tennis player and a full head of steel gray hair. Very handsome. Wendy felt her heart quicken.

  “Hello, Joan, Phillip,” said Tom, kissing Joan and shaking Phillip’s hand. “And you must be Wendy. Tom Fairbanks.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  He had an appealing sense of confidence, and Wendy approved of the way he sat down, ordered a drink, and didn’t pussyfoot around. He was no Phillip. Wendy watched him curiously as he engaged in the usual perfunctory persiflage and nodded with approval when he gave his order to the waitress. It was going well.

  “So, Wendy, Joan tells me you’re a writer,” said Tom.

  “Writer? Oh, well, I used to be an editor at Mademoiselle; that is, before my marriage, quite some time ago,” said Wendy, nervously laughing but at the same time shooting Joan a look.

  “But Wendy, you have been working on your memoirs,” reminded Joan.

  “Oh, yes, well, that was really more just keeping track of my ex’s whereabouts and the expenditures of our previous life together—the life I became accustomed to—for the divorce lawyers. Our settlement took a long time.”

  “I see,” said Tom. There was an awkward pause.

  “Tom, Wendy, you both go to Millreef Club.”

  “Really?” asked Tom. “When do you go down?”

  “Every March.”

  “We’d go every Christmas,” said Tom, taking a sip of his drink. “But actually, I won’t be going anymore. My ex got the house.”

  “Oh. That’s a shame. It’s beautiful down there.”

  “Yes. Great golf course.”

  “Oh, do you play?”

  “Every chance I can. I’m going next week to golf camp, actually, down in Florida.”

  “Oh. Fun.”

  “Do you golf?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I’ve always wanted to take it up.”

  “You should. Great game.”

  The hostess brushed against Tom’s sleeve as she seated a middle-aged couple. “I’m sorry,” she said, touching Tom lightly on his shoulder. “No problem,” he said, turning his head. He glanced at the couple she was seating next to him.

  “Tom! How are you?” the man asked.

  “Great, Frank. Hi, Liz,” he said to the couple.

  “We’re here to celebrate Ginny’s graduation from law school. Second in her class at Yale.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  At that moment, a stunningly beautiful woman approached. She had long blond hair and green eyes, and was wearing a slinky red top and a short skirt that showed off her fabulous legs.

  “Here’s Ginny now. You remember Tom Fairbanks?”

  “Of course I remember Tom Fairbanks,” she said, pecking him on the cheek. “Even though you canceled out of our Labor Day party at the last minute,” she said teasingly.

  “I’m sorry! I had to go out of town. Please forgive me!”

  “Okay, but you’d better come next year,” she said, flirting heavily.

  “I will.”

  There were brief introductions all around. Wendy watched Joan watch Ginny, who had seated herself at her parents’ table with an air of youthful self-assuredness that she knew would put Joan off. She watched Tom study Ginny and felt uncomfortable.

  “So, Mr. Fairbanks, my pop here said you just made a bundle on the sale of your company,” said Ginny from her seat, again in a teasing voice.

  “Ginny!” said her parents
in unison, laughing.

  “Oh, Ginny, you always were one to say what was on your mind,” said Tom with amusement.

  Tom turned back to his table as Joan raised a disapproving eyebrow. As they returned to their conversation about the usual—golf, whom they knew in common, what clubs they belonged to, holiday plans, and so on—Wendy had the strong sensation that Tom had checked out. His mind was on Ginny and the table behind him. Wendy looked over again at Ginny out of the corner of her eye. She was one of those girls who had it all—looks, brains, confidence. And she also definitely had that only child thing going—her parents worshipped her, indulged her, thought that she was God’s gift to the world and that everything that came out of her mouth was the most witty and fascinating utterance possible. Wendy could not compete with that.

  “And her son flunked out of Choate. I mean, really . . .” Joan was saying.

  “Excuse me,” said Tom, interrupting. He stood up and Wendy watched him walk to the back to go down the stairs to the men’s room. Joan leaned in.

  “So, what do you think? Handsome, right?” asked Joan.

  “Very. But not interested.”

  “What are you talking about? I think he is.”

  “Joan, he’s had his eye on the young lady behind us for the entire evening.”

  “Nonsense!” said Joan vociferously. She twisted her neck to catch a glance of Ginny. “Don’t you think it’s nonsense, Phillip?”

  Phillip shrugged. “She’s attractive.”

  “Phillip! You are useless. Men, Wendy. Please ignore my husband. He—like others in his breed—catch none of the subtleties.”

  “Yes, just ignore me,” repeated Phillip sarcastically. “Doesn’t matter what I say anyway.”