The Right Address

by Carrie Karasyov

  “Please don’t do this to me, Holland!” she said, her soft voice breaking. “We had such a good thing going—”

  “Forget it. You’re way too high maintenance. Not to mention dishonest.”

  Olivia started to cry. “But I need you—”

  Whoa. Was this some kind of lesbo action? Holy shit. Arthur couldn’t believe his ears.

  “I’m not ghostwriting for Sweet Valley High, Olivia,” said Holland, with so much force on the word “Olivia” that it sounded as if she were saying “Bitch.”

  “But—” Olivia tried to interrupt feebly.

  “Your novel took a shitload of research and work, and I’m not writing one more chapter until you pay me the fucking fifty thousand dollars you owe me!”

  Arthur was . . . stunned. He literally put his hand over his heart, which was racing and breaking at the same time.

  “Holland, I’m begging you,” said Olivia, near tears. “I need those two chapters for my editor by the weekend. Please—”

  “Fuck the editor. I want my money. I am not writing another word of your bullshit sequel until I get it.” Holland tried to slam the door, but Olivia caught it. Suddenly the fragile, quivering timbre of her voice metamorphosed. The new iced poison tone was a spear through Arthur’s midsection, unseaming him from neck to navel.

  “I wouldn’t slam that door in my face, Holland,” she said coldly. “I am wired.”

  “Ooooh, I’m terrified.”

  “You should be. I can ruin you. I’m the next Mimi Halsey!”

  “Listen, Mimi, go ahead and try to ‘ruin’ me! No one in the East Village knows who you are or could give a shit about you. I wouldn’t have even known who you were if Rob hadn’t met you in writing class. You’re not capable of ‘ruining’ me.”

  Olivia lifted her arm and smacked Holland across the face. Both girls seemed stunned, especially when they realized that Olivia’s ring had drawn blood. Arthur, witnessing the violence from his staircase hideout, thought he might have a coronary. His little dove was officially a witch.

  “You psycho!” said Holland, aghast. “Fine, fucking hit me, you freak. I’m happy to call your editor—or better yet—one of your glossy uptown rags—and tell them you didn’t write one word of your society bestseller. And the whole truth, including your wallop across my face, will be in the papers if you don’t give me the money you owe me by tomorrow.”

  Holland slammed the door, this time successfully, in Olivia’s face. Olivia stood silently for a moment, then turned to go down the stairs. Arthur hid in the shadows by the utility closet and lurked there until he heard her familiar step go by. The front door closed and she was off, and that was it. He stood, frozen, in the closet for what seemed like an hour, pondering the surreal haze of his shattered ideal. He felt drugged by reality, slain by the truth. He was bowled over, weakened by what had unfolded. With a crush, it’s more about hope than reality. But now all dreamy walks through that perfect realm were over, and it was painful to him because all the things he cherished in this paradigm of grace and brains and beauty vanished in a slammed door. And his fantasy was dead.

  The door upstairs opened and Holland’s sneakered feet skipped down the stairs. Arthur didn’t mean to startle her, but when he said, “Miss . . . ,” she shrieked.

  “Don’t worry—”

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I’m Arthur—I-I-I swear I’m not a criminal. I just wanted to ask you—”

  “What?” she said, hesitating. Okay, he didn’t look like an ax murderer.

  “You’re Olivia Weston’s friend?”

  “Not a friend. Who are you?”

  Arthur looked at her face. It was still red around her mouth. He pulled out his handkerchief. “Are you okay? Wow, she really slugged ya.”

  “I’m fine,” said Holland, waving the handkerchief away. “What do you want?”

  “I, um . . .” He may as well just blurt it out. “Did she write Rhythms of Fisher’s, or did . . . you?”

  Holland paused. Who the heck was this dude? Probably one her uptown jack-off followers. Probably brought her book into the john and whacked it to that Scavullo portrait on the back cover. Ew.

  “I need to know,” he said, his face crumbling.

  Was he, like, crying over this? Sheesh.

  “Okay. I wrote it.”

  Arthur was shocked all over again to hear it from her lips, face to face.

  “I can’t believe it . . . I just can’t believe it was all bullshit.”

  Holland walked down and he followed her outside, in a daze. They walked down the street, Arthur virtually comatose, Holland sad for him but mildly amused. Jeez, her work must have really touched people.

  “Why are you so upset?” she asked him.

  “Because . . . I believed her. There’s no truth anymore.”

  “I’m sorry. I really am. Don’t worry.” Poor shnook.

  “I’m so disappointed.”

  “Most people are disappointing.”

  “But . . . I thought she was different from all those country club bores. She stood out from the crowd,” Arthur said wearily.

  “She pretended to.”

  “Why?”

  Holland paused. This guy really was crushed! He seemed sweet enough. Another victim of Olivia’s weird spell. Holland remembered when she first thought Olivia was so glamorous and mysterious. What a load of steaming crap that turned out to be.

  “Listen, Olivia wanted to be different just as badly as everyone else wants to assimilate into society. It’s ironic. They aspire to be her. They think she’s the real thing.”

  “I don’t know what the real thing is anymore.”

  “I’ll tell you.” She stopped and put a comforting hand on his shoulder and smiled gently. “The real thing is the person you have a true, meaningful connection with. Someone who exposes their flaws, their fears, everything—that’s how you get to know someone, from their cracks. When there’s nothing for you to fill in, no flaw, no problem, how can you ever know a person?”

  “I suppose.”

  “No, think about it.”

  “I can’t. I’m just stunned. Olivia, a plagiarizer! A bully! A fake! I don’t know what anything is anymore.”

  “Yes, you do. The real thing is someone who is open and honest and not afraid to show what’s at the chewy center. And Olivia has no chewy center. She had to pay me to invent one for her.”

  “I just thought Olivia was different. I hoped . . .”

  “No. Olivia Weston is a fantasy, a myth cobbled together by your dreams. She’s a white screen and people project what they want on it, their desires for class or beauty or whatever.”

  “But she’s . . . I just thought she’s what I dreamt about. She was everything good.”

  “You know what’s ironic? She holds none of these illusions, because she doesn’t even know who she is. She is lost. She’s nothing without her lineage or that face or a camera to snap her newest gown. She’s nothing but a party picture.”

  And with that, Holland walked away, leaving Arthur standing idly on the street.

  chapter 50

  Melanie entered the lobby with two bags of groceries from Fairway. She had selected them with care after deciding to make something other than reservations for dinner. And she was going to make it herself, much to her chef’s astonishment. Hey, if Nigella could make it look so easy and sexy, couldn’t she?

  While awaiting the elevator, Melanie saw Dr. Herb Stein exiting, toting an old school–style doctor’s bag for house calls. He was the head of internal medicine at New York Hospital, and his patient files were like a carbon copy of the Fortune 500 CEO list, which was a good thing, since he did not accept insurance and got north of two grand for a checkup.

  “Hey, Fred,” Melanie said to the doorman after Dr. Stein was out of earshot. “Is anyone sick? Why was Dr. Stein here?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied in a whisper, looking both ways as if he were revealing classified information to some
one with top clearance from Quantico. “It’s Mrs. Vance. She’s taken ill. Death of her friend. Hasn’t left her bed in days.”

  “Oh,” said Melanie, thinking of her own despondent spell mired in the stagnant sea of sheets and pillows. It was not a distant memory. Poor Cordelia. “That’s terrible.”

  As she watched the lit numbers of the ascending floors, Melanie felt a pang for her neighbor. Sure, she hadn’t been a fan of Jerome’s. That was putting it lightly. He sucked. Literally. And frankly, he was snobbishly cruel and spewed poison into the world with his toxic gossip and bitter, bilious words. She had been, in fact, relieved and even a little glad that he had died. One less person on a mission to ruin her life, and not only hers, but others’. He left a long list of people whom he had set out to destroy. But for some reason he was devoted to Cordelia, and Melanie knew he’d left a gaping hole in her life. And that was sad.

  It was odd, because the more she thought about it, the more she realized that Cordelia wasn’t like the other women in his flock. Sure, she was weirdly adrift and spacey, but compared to everyone else and the mean barbs they’d chucked Melanie’s way, Cordelia wasn’t bad at all. In fact, she had a sad serenity in her tone, a kind of zoned-out nurturing thing, as if she had the muscles to be warm but just hadn’t flexed them in a long time.

  After Melanie and Juanita had put away the wild mushroom ravioli and a battery of sauces and vegetables, Melanie sat down at her enormous desk and thought she’d finally put it to good use for once. She pulled out the first crisp piece of her new Mrs. John L. Strong stationery and drew a casual line through her last name so as not to seem too formal. “Dear Cordelia,” she began. She was about to write a very formal condolence letter full of very correct Guffeyisms, but then she reconsidered. Why not put down her real emotions? Why not say, “You know what? I know right now sucks for you, but it will get better”? That was more to the point anyway. And that was what she truly believed and felt.

  An hour later, with a flower- and cookie-filled basket in hand, Melanie got off the elevator to leave her package in the Vances’ vestibule. But just as she turned to get back into the elevator, the Vances’ front door opened. Melanie turned around slowly and was startled to see herself face to face with Cordelia, who had emerged in a robe, her face pale and her eyes weary from cataracts of tears.

  Each seemed equally shocked to see the other.

  “Oh, Cordelia, I’m so sorry—I just was leaving this for you.”

  “Oh, hello. I just . . . was coming to collect the mail.”

  Melanie turned and saw the pile on the upholstered bench against the wall. She handed it to her neighbor and was about to retreat when she felt emboldened.

  “Listen,” Melanie said warmly. “I know we don’t know each other very well. But I see you’re in pain right now, which is something I know a lot about. I just wanted to bring you some stuff to . . . maybe make you feel a little better and say I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Cordelia was not too out of it to be deeply touched. Even through her Percoset haze she was moved by the kindness this woman (whom so many people bullied) was offering her, in a moment when she felt thoroughly forsaken.

  “That is so kind of you.” Her eyes began to water just looking at the pretty basket. “So thoughtful. I really appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure,” said Melanie. “If there’s anything you ever need, I’m right downstairs. I know what it’s like to lose people. And to feel . . . alone in grief.”

  Cordelia looked at Melanie. She had never before been seen looking like such a mess. Even by her help. But for some reason she was not mortified. She was actually very relaxed. This woman got it.

  “Thank you so much, Melanie. It’s hard—every hour without Jerome has felt like an eternal battle.” Her voice broke. “He was my best friend.”

  “I know. And you think you won’t get through that blackness of the void, but you will.”

  “I hope.” Cordelia gave her a soft nod. “His funeral is tomorrow. I’m supposed to write a speech, and I just stare aimlessly at the paper.”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something beautiful to say.”

  Cordelia wiped a tear from her eye. “How do I summon the language? How can I reduce him to a page of words?”

  Easy, thought Melanie. Try two: ass and hole. No, Jerome’s wickedness aside, she sincerely felt for Cordelia. She knew this soft-spoken woman had a special rapport with him. Not to mention a whole other armoire of issues at home.

  “I’m sure you can do it, Cordelia. Just think of all the good times you shared. Trust yourself and don’t edit.”

  Cordelia looked at Melanie. She never paid much attention to the gossips, but she seemed to recall some silly banter about Melanie when she and Arthur wed. But she now saw that Arthur was truly quite fortunate.

  “Arthur is very lucky to have you, you know.”

  Melanie was surprised by this pronouncement. And flattered.

  “Thank you.”

  “Really. I don’t really know him, although I vaguely knew his first wife . . . um?” Cordelia couldn’t recall her name. How odd. She’d been on so many committees with her, and yet for the life of her she couldn’t think of her name.

  “Diandra.”

  “Yes. She was . . .”

  Melanie took a deep breath and waited to hear the superlatives that everyone used to describe how fantastic Diandra was. Brilliant. Witty. Stylish. Classy. Gorgeous.

  Cordelia looked at Melanie carefully. “Well, she was not the wife you are. She was . . . a little tough. Brittle.”

  Melanie was stunned. Cordelia was . . . bashing Diandra? This was a first.

  “No, no. Completely wrong for Arthur. He’s a very sweet man and a lucky man. You’re a very caring woman.”

  Melanie smiled gratefully. Cordelia was really nice. For the last two years, Melanie had chalked her up as a robotic Stepford beauty without a beating heart, and here she was breaking through, even in her sorrowful state.

  “You know what? There are givers and takers in this world. Diandra is a taker. And it doesn’t surprise me that her current marriage is collapsing.”

  Diandra was once again headed for divorce court? Interesting.

  “You’re caring as well, Cordelia. Take care of yourself, and good luck tomorrow with your speech. I know you’ll honor him beautifully.”

  Before Melanie turned to get back into the elevator, the two women looked at each other and shared a silent, mutually comforting smile.

  chapter 51

  Jerome would have been very pleased indeed with the turnout at St. James Church on Madison on a glittering, snowflake-blanketed Wednesday morning in early December. All of the pews were filled with designer-clad socialites whose names had appeared in bold print in WWD. Although it was mostly women, a few bereft wives had forced their husbands to zoom up from Wall Street for the occasion and offer their arm in place of the arm that Jerome had so lovingly lent them to cry on. As predicted, everything was exquisite and in good taste, none of the evidence of Jerome’s sordid or lascivious extracurricular side represented in any shape or form.

  Cordelia clasped Morgan’s hand so tightly that he felt the blood in his wrist clotting. But he deserved the pain, dammit, for what he’d put her through. When the minister finally nodded in Cord’s direction, Morgan had to physically heave her up onto her wobbling Sergio Rossi heels and practically carry her to the podium. He wasn’t sure she would make it through the speech. He just hoped she wouldn’t faint.

  Cordelia had never looked frailer. She was practically swimming in her black size-six Gianfranco Ferré suit. Her emerald and diamond earrings and matching necklace appeared to engulf her, and her face was positively gaunt. (Jerome, knowing his best friend to a tee, had delineated in his will exactly what Cordelia should wear to eulogize him, taking into account, of course, the seasons. If it had been spring he would have had her in the black crepe Calvin Klein, and summer would definitely have been cause for the linen Yves St. Laurent.
The accessories rotated as well. He amended this part of his will every year to take into consideration new purchases.)

  Cordelia stood at the podium and began to speak, but she was so far away from the microphone that the minister had to go over and adjust it and she had to start over again.

  “As you all know, Jerome was my best friend. He was one of the most unique and genuine people I ever met—so true to himself. There was nothing contrived or dishonest about him,” she began.

  Joan turned to Wendy and rolled her eyes.

  Cordelia continued. “We spent so much time doing Madison and the all the Bs—Barneys, Bergdorf’s, Bendels, Bloomingdale’s, Bonwitt’s in the old days—though never B. Altman’s. Jerome forbade it. Not even for underwear, he’d say.

  Wendy mouthed “Can you believe this?” to Joan as Cordelia sighed deeply and whipped her head back dramatically. She was consumed with emotion.

  “For Jerome. He was my north, my south, my east, my west. My gallant walker, the most wanted guest. My shopping companion, my sweet confidant, I will miss you dearly, best friend one could want.”

  Cordelia broke down in gasping sobs and had to be helped back to her pew. When the mourners filed into the Knickerbocker Club for the reception immediately following, there was plenty of fodder. Guests were swarming around the food, gobbling up canapés, and with feigned sincerity worrying about dear Cordelia—how will she survive?

  “Joan, I just talked to Cass again. She said Jerome was found with a leather dog collar and chained in some S and M position,” said Wendy. She had returned to the prime corner table where Joan had ensconced herself in order to attain the most spectacular vista of the affair. Wendy placed a Bloody Mary in front of Joan and slid into the booth.