“I just heard even better from Fernanda. She said there was all sorts of gruesome paraphernalia around him, really vile stuff.”
“How could he?”
Sandra Goodyear approached the table and greeted her friends. “It was a beautiful ceremony,” she said solemnly.
“Divinity,” nodded Joan.
“Perfection,” agreed Wendy.
“Jerome would have been so happy,” said Sandra.
“Thrilled,” agreed Joan.
“Ecstatic,” murmured Wendy.
“The minister’s speech was so profound,” added Sandra.
“Touching,” said Joan.
“Wise,” agreed Wendy.
There was a pause. “So, what are you doing after? Do you want to go downtown?” asked Sandra.
“You mean, like, Saks?” asked Joan.
“Gosh, no, not that far. I was thinking more like Chanel. The spring trunk show has arrived.”
“It’s a date,” agreed Joan.
“I can’t wait,” said Wendy.
“I’ll find you later. We’ll take my car.”
“Fabulous!” said Joan as Sandra walked away. Joan turned to Wendy. “She’ll have a good scoop if we pump her hard. Nigel is BFs with Jerome’s executor.” Joan crossed her fingers to show how tight they were.
“Good,” said Wendy, surveying the room. “I just don’t want to walk anywhere.”
“I wonder where Cord is,” mused Joan.
“She was so distraught, Morgan had to take her home to bed. It’s such a pity—she would have loved these canapés.” Wendy took a bite of a peppered goat cheese puff.
“Jerome would be so upset she missed this little shindig.”
“I’m sure that he planned for that in his will. That’s why it’s being videotaped,” said Wendy, motioning to a discreet camera propped up in the corner.
“What, does he think they have VCRs in hell?” scoffed Joan.
“Oh, Joan, you’re too much!” said Wendy, bursting into giggles.
“The good news is, Jerome would have wanted us to laugh.”
“And to dish,” said Wendy, glancing around. “Wonder if Melanie Korn will come.”
“Of course she’ll come!” said Joan confidently. “For her, it’s poetic justice to have her worst critic, the very one who had recently vilified her in the press, drop dead of a heart attack in a fleabag with some guy’s penis in his mouth. She couldn’t have dreamt of a better scenario. She’ll probably wear an orange dress.”
“But she’s been absent from the scene for a lifetime.”
“She’ll recover very well from her obliteration,” said Joan. “She got lucky yet again. This is the best thing that ever happened to her. Jerome’s salacious death has eclipsed her scandal. She’s been exhumed.”
“Well, we always knew he’d go out with a bang.”
“A bang that will bring one social climber back to life,” added Wendy.
“It makes me shudder,” said Joan, shuddering.
chapter 52
After tucking Cordelia into bed for the afternoon, Morgan had gone out to get her favorite chicken salad from William Poll. She had refused to eat since she had heard of Jerome’s demise, and Morgan was increasingly worried. He had ordered in every one of her favorite dishes—arugula salad from La Caravelle, artichoke vinaigrette from Le Cirque, chilled melon and prosciutto from Daniel, but to no avail. Those lips would simply not open to ingest anything except pills. The chicken salad was a last resort. When Morgan returned to 741, Tom the doorman greeted him with a serious face.
“Mr. Vance, I thought you should know, there’s been a death,” said Tom somberly.
“I know, Tom. I was at the funeral today.”
“No, not Mr. de Stingol. I’m afraid one of our own has passed on.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” said Tom, looking down gravely. “Mademoiselle Oeuf.”
Mademoiselle who? Oh yeah, the dog. “That’s terrible.”
“Yes. She was walking on one of those expandable leashes and, well, got too far ahead of her walker. You know how it is. She fell down the open chute leading to the basement of Nello’s.”
“Horrible,” said Morgan. He bent his head down. A walker dies dressed up like a dog, and then a dog dies because of his walker. Were the gods trying to tell them something? “Well, it’s been a sad day all around,” said Morgan, walking toward the elevator, where Melanie Korn was waiting.
Melanie was holding a newly purchased yoga mat and a stack of brochures on European bicycle tours.
“Hello, Melanie,” said Morgan. He looked carefully at her. Something was very different. Her face appeared to be freshly scrubbed. He wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn that she wasn’t wearing any makeup. Whatever it was, she looked fabulous.
“Hello, Morgan. I’m so sorry about your loss,” she said with sincerity.
“My loss? Well, I didn’t know the dog that well.”
“No, I meant Jerome. I know he was a dear friend.”
“Oh! Jerome. Yes,” he said, putting out his arm to let Melanie enter the elevator first. “He was very nice to my wife.”
But truth be told, he really hadn’t been all that crazy about Jerome. He had always seemed slimy. And he charged exorbitant sums for his “decorating” work.
“Was he a friend of yours as well?” asked Morgan.
“No.”
“Oh.” That made sense, he thought. Jerome was such a snob. The Korns would never have made his cut.
“How’s Cordelia feeling?” asked Melanie.
“She’ll be fine, thanks. How’s Arthur?”
“Great.”
Morgan cocked his head and again studied Melanie. He really couldn’t pinpoint the change, but she just seemed genuinely nice. She’d had a dash of the tramp factor before, but now she seemed truly at ease and calmly put together.
“You know, you and Arthur should come up for dinner one night. Something casual.”
“That would be great,” said Melanie, getting off on her floor.
“I’ll have Cord call you to set it up.”
That was sweet. With an exuberant flair in her gait, Melanie leapt into her apartment and found Arthur sitting in the dark living room, reading a book with only the small glare of the Tiffany lamp. Arthur had been acting a little quiet and strange in the past few days. Depressed, even. Maybe he was coming down with the flu.
“What’s up, buttercup?” asked Melanie, moving his feet off the coffee table and sitting down on the sofa beside him.
“Nothing much.”
“Morgan Vance just invited us to dinner.”
“That’s great,” said Arthur, gloomily. “Didn’t you go to that guy’s funeral?”
“You know, I thought about it, but it would have just seemed dishonest. I mean, for lord’s sake, we detested each other. Just because it’s a big whoop-de-doo social event doesn’t mean I should parade my mug around his funeral.”
“Makes sense.”
Melanie flipped over his book to see the cover and scrunched up her nose. “Why are you reading Olivia Weston’s book?”
“I don’t know.”
“I heard it sucks.”
“No, it’s . . .” Arthur began to defend it and then stopped. “Well, it does suck. It’s really overwritten and bad. A disappointment.”
Melanie snuggled up next to Arthur. She put her head on his shoulder.
“Those people really don’t impress me anymore,” she said, yawning.
“Me neither.”
“I mean, a few weeks ago I would have been ecstatic to be invited to the Vances’, because of who they are. Now I’m just excited because I think they’re pretty nice. And if they never even call and follow through, I’ll be fine with that. Isn’t that strange?”
“Yeah,” said Arthur, staring at the wall.
“You seem so far away, Arty. What’s up?” asked Melanie, cocking her head to see his eyes.
“Nothing.”
“Are y
ou sure?”
“Yup.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
Melanie kept looking at Arthur strangely. He went back to his reading, but she wouldn’t stop staring.
“What is it?” he asked finally.
“I want to ask you the same question.”
He sighed. “I don’t know. I’m just thinking about things . . . it’s just strange how much you can change your impression of people.”
“Like who?”
“No one in particular. It’s just, don’t you sometimes think people disappoint you?”
“All the time,” said Melanie. “That’s why I don’t expect things from anyone. You’ve got to do things for yourself or be disappointed. People will always let you down. Especially this crowd we hang around with.”
“Why do we hang around with this crowd?”
Melaine was about to launch into her spiel of how these people were the crème de la crème, the elite, and how once you wined and dined with them you were something. But she stopped herself and realized that she didn’t believe that anymore.
“I don’t know!” she said, laughing. “Why do we hang with these . . . jerks!”
Was it because of Diandra? If so, that was pathetic. Diandra was a fool—she had given up Arthur. Why would I want to be anything like that idiot? She giggled at how absurd she was.
Melanie’s laughter was contagious, and soon Arthur was laughing his ass off.
“Come on,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Let’s go get some Chubby Hubby.”
chapter 53
The morning had not started well for Joan. Actually, that was not entirely true, because she had woken up in a great mood, but things had only deteriorated from there. Stupid stuff was the first source of irritation. The dry cleaner had failed to get the balsamic vinegar stain out of her tan skirt, her housekeeper had thrown out yesterday’s New York Observer before she’d had a chance to read it, and she’d found a small tear in the fabric on the love seat in the den. Vexing, but manageable. It was Phillip who’d really set her off.
“Did you ask Larry Powell to write a recommendation for Camilla?” she inquired over breakfast. Larry was on the board of Hamilton College, which was their daughter Camilla’s first choice.
“Nope.” Phillip didn’t even look up from his newspaper.
“Phillip, we have to get that done. Applications are in, and already seven people from Camilla’s class have declared it as their first choice.”
Phillip didn’t respond.
“Can you please call him and ask him?”
“If I have time.”
That was annoying. If he had time? “And what, pray tell, are you so busy with, Phillip, that you don’t have time to make a call on behalf of your daughter?”
Phillip lowered his paper and stared at Joan. He didn’t say anything and finally returned to his paper. Joan was irate. He was useless, useless!
“Phillip, I want you to answer me.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t start . . .”
“Don’t start what?”
“You know, your usual nagging, whining. What, are you bored? Why don’t you run off to tea with Wendy?”
Joan was seething now. “Phillip, I’m getting pretty fed up with you.”
He looked her in the eye. “So, what? You’re going to leave me? Ha,” he scoffed.
“Why do you always bring that up when we discuss anything important?” He didn’t answer. “If we ever get into a discussion that you don’t want to have you bring up leaving me or divorce or something like that. It’s childish,” Joan complained.
“Here we go.” Phillip sighed and took a swig of his coffee.
“Well, I do think it’s important to discuss things.”
“Like what?” he said with sarcasm.
“Like the fact that you don’t do anything, Phillip! You spend all day at the Racquet Club, where you sit around, read the paper, get a massage, take a nap, play backgammon, and maybe, just maybe, play some racquetball! Or you go to your Scottish club, where you sit and fiddle around on the Internet or yak with those other bores! It’s pathetic, Phillip, really pathetic. Work means nothing to you—you don’t even bother with the guise that you have a real job. Sure, you put on a suit, but that’s only because the Racquet Club requires one! You do nothing! Nothing! I am supporting this family, and I am getting tired of it!” After Joan had finished her rampage, she took a deep breath. She had really worked herself into a lather.
Phillip stared at her. “Are you finished?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” he said, and returned to his paper.
“Don’t you want to say anything?”
“What do you want me to say, Joan? It’s the same old argument.”
Joan purposely took deep, loud breaths, in and out, in and out.
“Well, do you think it’s true?”
Phillip threw down the business section and shrugged. “So what? I like going to the club.”
“But don’t you think you should be out supporting the family?”
“We have money.”
“But it’s my money. And you lie around and do nothing!” Joan was hysterical now.
“Well, Joan, yes, it is your money. But if it was my money, you probably wouldn’t hesitate to spend it. And by the way, don’t forget that you did not earn that money yourself. You inherited it. Some distant relative hauled his ass to work and you are reaping the benefits. So don’t start with me about work ethic, because you have none.”
“You are not a man! How can you be so comfortable sitting idle? Don’t you want to contribute to society?”
“Like you?” he said, venom in his voice. “Now let’s call a spade a spade, Joan. What do you do that’s so important? So different from what I do? You just run around in your five-hundred-dollar shoes from one fancy restaurant to another, where you eat twenty-five-dollar bowls of lettuce and gossip about every woman that walks in the door. You’re petty, you’re two-faced, you’re jealous, you’re bored, and no matter what happens, you are stuck with me. Because you see Wendy and her little lonely life and you wouldn’t wish that on your worst enemy. So stop critizing me, stop nagging me, and get up, get dressed, and go do whatever it is you waste your time doing!”
There was nothing else to say. Joan did as he said, and dreamed of a life where she had a rich, successful, uxorious husband who bought her diamonds and didn’t care about her love handles.
Hours later, in the elliptical stenciled room at the Carlyle, Joan enjoyed a quiet tea with Mimi Halsey. As they sipped cinnamon and red zinger brews and sampled crustless sandwiches, Joan broached a subject that she had wanted to talk to Mimi about.
“We’re having it on Tuesday at the Pierre. With full high tea. It’s a done deal.”
“Another shahtoosh party? Well, Joan, my dear, perhaps you should wait—”
“Why? It’s all set. I just would love it if you’d spread the word with some of your pals whose addresses I don’t have. It’ll be fabulous.”
Before Mimi could answer, Wendy burst into the room in a frenzy of apple cheeks and panting breaths.
“You’ll never guess what happened!”
Joan almost gagged on her watercress. “My god, what?”
“What? Pray tell,” said Mimi calmly.
Wendy cleared her throat dramatically.
“Divulge this instant!” said Joan, with rising anticipation. For Wendy to race over here with her hair looking like that . . . well, it had to be juicy.
Wendy looked both her attentive listeners in the eye. “Cordelia Vance has been arrested.”
“No.”
“Oui. I can only chalk it up to the grief she’s been suffering from Jerome’s violent and untimely death.”
“What happened?” said Joan, about to shake the gory deets out of her friend.
“Apparently she casually strolled out of her building—no makeup—and went—on foot—to Cartier.”
“No,”
said Mimi.
“On foot?” asked Joan.
“She asked to look at some rings, put them on her fingers, and walked out of the store, but not before being apprehended and forced to the ground by security. She was cuffed right there on Fifth Avenue. Can you think of anything more humiliating?”
Joan thought back and recalled an episode when one of her three-inch Chanel heels snapped off in a metal grate in front of sidewalk lunchers at La Goulue. Wendy revisited a ghastly moment when she’d come out the ladies’ room at La Caravelle with a trail of toilet paper attached to her calf. Mimi thought about the time when she had accidentally eaten a crouton that had somehow landed in her salad.
“No,” said Joan confidently. “I can’t think of anything worse.”
“Me neither,” said Wendy.
“Not I,” said Mimi.
“So what’s going to happen?” asked Joan.
“Well, I don’t know. I had to tell you, and now I’m dashing back home to get on the phone. Poor Cordelia,” added Wendy, remembering that it was appropriate to show concern at this stage.
Immediately Joan and Mimi’s faces fell on cue.
“Poor dear,” they both murmured.
“Well, I’m off. I won’t interrupt you anymore,” said Wendy.
“Oh! Well, we uh . . .” said Joan, desperate now to depart and hit the phone lines.
“We were just finishing,” said Mimi. And although they still had another tea cozy coming, they quickly paid the check and taxied home to get all of the juice.
chapter 54
Morgan paced anxiously in his foyer as his lawyer, Sy Hammerman, wrapped up a call to the D.A., who thankfully happened to be a law school and squash buddy from their New Haven days.
“Thanks, pal. Okay, Jasper, sounds great . . . and send my love to Ellen . . . Terrific, see you then. ’Bye.” He hung up, sighed, and turned to his client, giving him a supportive pat on the back and a look as if to say “no sweat.” Morgan looked relieved.
“We’re in the clear,” Sy said, smiling. “Let’s go get her.”
The two walked from the Vances’ apartment three blocks to the Nineteenth Precinct on Sixty-seventh Street between Lexington and Third. The red-brick facade was accented by cop-car blue window ledges, and walking up to the attractive building one would never guess there were thugs inside. (Although the hordes of parked squad cars might be a giveaway.) This wasn’t a standard New York Law & Order–style precinct with greasy perps being dragged around in cuffs—there were the occasional violent criminals, sure, but mostly it was the jurisdiction where the white-collar ilk resided. As Sy walked up to the officer at the front desk to inquire about Cordelia, Morgan surveyed the scene and noticed a man who seemed familiar. Racquet Club? No. Hmm . . . Lyford? He couldn’t place him.
The Right Address Page 29