Queen Takes King

by Gigi Levangie Grazer

  “I love you,” Margot said.

  “Beyond,” Cynthia replied. She gave her one last kiss, and ran off in her Valentino.

  TWO HOURS of ballet before dinner could try the most dedicated of balletomanes. Cynthia and Margot had worked the corps relentlessly; their dedication showed. All the parts fit together in a liquid jigsaw—edges blurred and fluid. The married Ukrainians, previously sidelined by a new baby, old injuries, and passionate temperaments, surpassed even their own expectations. The wife, a flaxen-haired vision with a hair-trigger temper, was having a torrid affair with a Russian oil billionaire that would soon hit the papers (she’d given him stitches with a target-sensitive flying ashtray). But tonight, as she pirouetted in the circle of her husband’s arms, even the back rows could feel the steam coming off their bodies. Perhaps tonight would be theirs to heal, to fall in love again, to make another baby, Cynthia thought.

  The tall, redheaded American with the porcelain skin reveled in her singular athleticism—and so did her audience. Cynthia watched in awe: If only Bruce Harold Raymond could appreciate the genie finally being released from the bottle.

  The corps de ballet performed with more emotion than dutiful precision—their movements went beyond perfection; they were wonderfully, vulnerably human.

  Had she and Margot pulled it off? Cynthia wondered. Had they really pulled it all off? Cynthia sat motionless for the entire performance. If someone said she hadn’t blinked, she wouldn’t be surprised.

  She didn’t think about Jacks, who had finagled his way into the seat next to hers, a seat put aside for luminaries and established patrons. The minute he’d sat down, he grabbed her hand, and he’d rubbed her fingers throughout the performance—until finally she’d placed his hand back in his lap, indicating in no uncertain terms that he was not to attempt to touch her for the rest of the night. There would be nothing to distract her. Not his sighs. Not him reaching inside his jacket pocket for his PowerBar. Not his dry cough. (Not the apoplectic calls from Ricardo Bloomenfeld demanding to know if she and Jacks were reuniting.) None of this would bother her.

  Cynthia was no longer responsible for Jackson Power.

  Her responsibility lay on that stage and in the hours ahead, at the dinner at the Pierre. As she watched, she felt herself dancing on the stage behind the Ukrainians. Muscle memory caused her feet to twitch, her calf muscles to bounce. She was airborne, legs scissoring, arms stretching out to touch the sides of the stage, feeling strong hands on her tiny waist lifting her, finding the sky and staying there—

  Seating charts disappeared, dessert menus combusted, personality disorders vanished. The fog of the dance had rolled out row by row and had blanketed all distractions seen and unseen.

  Cynthia unthinkingly grabbed Jacks’s hand as she descended, in her imagination, the pads of her toe shoes finding the wooden floor. Jacks turned and smiled at her.

  Her eyes remained on the stage.

  BALLET? What fucking ballet? Adrian squirmed in his seat. He felt like a kindergartner whose mother was on a murderous cultural mission. Had it even registered with Cynthia that he was there? He was five rows behind her, with a bird’s-eye view of the back of her head.

  She never turned her head. Not once. Adrian’s stare reached right through to her brain. He’d kept his eyes on her throughout the performance. Turn. Turn your fucking head. Turn. Turn. Turn.

  Cynthia never even flinched. Impossible. The weight of trying to make her head spin around exhausted Adrian’s faculties. After the performance, he was barely able to stand. Why hadn’t she acknowledged his existence? How about a nod? A wink? I wasn’t THAT bad, was I? And what the fuck was she doing sitting next to Jacks Power?

  He read their body language as though he were reading a haiku—a missed noun, a misunderstood verb would derail the meaning of the entire piece. And he saw what he needed to see: their shoulders never touched; her head never once leaned toward his big noggin.

  Jacks’s head, on the other hand, never stopped moving. His tics were out in full glory tonight. Looking around at who was watching him. Cracking his neck. Scratching his crown. At least, Adrian thought, someone else was feeling pain—as much as a sociopathic narcissist could feel.

  And then he saw Jacks kiss her ear. A wet kiss. He could practically feel the spray from his seat. Cynthia tilted away from him.

  Adrian stood on his wobbly legs to lead the ovation.

  SILKS…silk satin, satin crepe de chine, China silks, crepe back satin, silk chiffon, charmeuse, shantung, iridescent taffeta, satin jacquard, silk velvet…

  Cynthia stood outside the grand ballroom of the Pierre, having ordained the color of the season (to be featured in Vogue with ample pictures from tonight’s festivities). Red—fire-engine red! Cynthia had been afraid to try the dress on—she’d already selected cream as her color, to match the décor and the centerpieces she’d chosen so carefully—callas, her favorite. However, Vivienne, of course, insisted. Forget Muted Cynthia, Vivienne had told her, we want the new Cynthia to come with a warning label.

  Reception line: Cynthia posed with the young, aggressively blond socialite who’d failed marvelously at law school and then a ballyhooed trip to L.A. to explore acting, before penning a children’s book and finally slinking back to New York to remake herself as a fashionista. Always with a tossed-from-the-shoulder quote: “I wish there were train police here!” she’d cry to a mag staffer. “Everyone keeps stepping on my dress!”

  Cynthia had the younger woman on posture; the socialite had her on height. Cynthia had her on name; the socialite had her on currency. A draw. The picture would look as if each would happily give the other a kidney.

  Imagine, Cynthia thought, if photographs really reflected what we’re thinking? Cynthia loved reading the society pages—C’mon, fess up, who doesn’t?—sorrowfully average faces and manes wasting hundreds of dollars’ worth of hair and makeup. Wrinkled elbows and flat backsides and fleshy spillage wrapped in organza. Priceless jewels adorning crepey necks and gnarled fingers. (Gorge on caviar, then tell the driver he can’t get a raise.) We’re all having the best time, the photographs lied. We have perfect lives. Don’t you wish you were one of us?

  The socialite flashed her a smile, then moved on. Snap, Cynthia thought, admonishing herself, enough with the mean girl attitude. You’ve been in the city too long.

  Cynthia turned to see Adeline Crisp standing in front of her, wearing the same dress and the same expression she’d worn at their brief lunch. Cynthia stifled her gasp.

  Adeline sniffed. “Do you know what Gandhi said, Cynthia?”

  “I’m hungry?” Cynthia tried to joke.

  “Full effort is full victory,” she said. “Congratulations. I’ll be wanting an exclusive with Margot Ashford. Everyone loves a comeback.”

  WHILE Jackson waited his turn before the cameras, he did what he always did on these nights—he stuck his head inside the ballroom and counted the tables. This was Cynthia’s baby, but he wanted to know.

  The number disappointed him. It was too high. He counted again as he walked through to the single-digit tables—clapping this guy on the back, shaking that one’s hand—just a wink for the one over there, don’t even look at that creep, he doesn’t deserve half an eyebrow lifted, ooh, look at that piece of shit, he got so old, crissakes, pull it together, man—hey, how you doin’?

  Christ, look at that one’s tits. Are those new? ( Jacks pulled at his jacket.) Where’s that power table? Right in the middle, right up front.

  And look at the flowers, look at those fucking flowers—if that didn’t seal the deal with Cynthia, he didn’t know what would. An island? Should he buy her an island?

  Nah. All she needed was a little sensitivity—just what he was showing her tonight.

  Jacks looked at the fruit of his labors. All seventy-six tables. Close to eight hundred people. And in the middle of each table, a beautiful, outstanding, ferociously expensive bouquet of yellow roses.

  He did that. A million calls, a
few bribes. Et voilà, as the fucking French would say. He found his table, but didn’t sit. No one sat. No one. Everyone waited for everyone else to sit. Like a nursery school game. Except it was the opposite of musical chairs—no one wanted to be the first to sit.

  That meant you had nothing left to brag about to the others who were standing.

  But once a big name did park himself—then everyone else would sit immediately. If the mayor sat, if Jacks sat, if a few Gargoyles-in-training sat—then so would they. Follow the money. Follow the Power.

  Jacks made his way back outside the ballroom to the phalanx of photographers, well-wishers parting like the Red Sea as he approached his beloved.

  Cynthia was nearly blinded by the ensuing flashbulbs—nary a photographer paying attention to the dancers, the celebrities, the Oscar-winning actress, the Broadway producer, the famous novelist, chronicler extraordinaire of the city, and in his equally famous white pinstripe suit!

  No. The cameras had but one focus: the King and Queen, Jacks and Cynthia Power—“Over here, over here, over here, please, good to see you back together, over here, can you give us one over here, could you look this way, I didn’t get that, you look beautiful, Mrs. Power, love the color, who are you wearing…”

  And Jacks. Jacks drinking it in as if the moment alone could slake his unquenchable thirst for publicity.

  Cynthia got through the photographs as quickly as possible—easier to take the photographs than to explain that though she and Jacks had arrived at the gala together, they were not actually “together.” Under cover of smile, she hiss/whispered (hiss-pered) to Jacks, “Get your hand off my back, please.”

  Jacks barely registered the rebuke. He was too busy imagining Page Six tomorrow. This is great. Lara will see these pictures, serves her right. Who leaves me? I’m Jacks Power! This is great. Maybe this will work, this thing with Cynthia.

  Finally the moment was over. Most of the revelers had already made their way inside, to the post-performance dinner. As Jacks stayed on to take a few more photos, Cynthia turned toward the open doors of the Pierre Grand Ballroom.

  CYNTHIA thought that her eyes were playing tricks on her. Practical jokes masquerading as flora springing up on table after table. Giant centerpieces displaying not her beloved, carefully chosen callas, but crass, overblown ornate bursts.

  Yellow roses. Huge, spitting bouquets of bright yellow roses. Everywhere her head turned, with every swivel, every uncomprehending blink, all she saw, in her mind’s eye, were screeching canaries.

  She stifled a scream with the back of her hand as she floated, seemingly held aloft by her supporters, to Table One.

  ADRIAN had buffeted his way through the crowd, head down, arms tight to his sides, searching for Table One. As he started to check the name cards, Cynthia arrived, her face pale and taut.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, reaching for her elbow.

  Cynthia nodded, curtly, before being swallowed up by another wave of dance patrons—“Brilliant!” Adrian heard. “Innovative!” “Courageous!”

  Adrian stood there, waited out the crowd.

  Seconds later, a familiar voice reached out, strangling him with its tone.

  “What. The fuck. Are you doing here?” Jacks said, as he loomed over him.

  Adrian turned. “Good to see you, too, Jacks,” he replied. “Robert Jordan—you remember me? We shared a brief conversation not long ago.”

  “I want my wine back,” Jacks hissed. “I know every bottle in that wine cellar—and five are missing. I want them back.”

  “I know. I’m sure you think it’s odd that I’m here—we did just talk about the fact that I was going away for a while—”

  “Jacks!” Cynthia was momentarily alone, standing in front of the two men—who seemed so close to be almost kissing. “You’re unbelievable. I know this is your handiwork!”

  “Darling!” Jacks said, grabbing Cynthia around the waist. “We were just figuring out seating arrangements—”

  “We’re just having a little friendly reunion,” Adrian said.

  “Jacks, this is Robert—wait—you know each other?” Cynthia asked, momentarily thrown off the path of her rant.

  “No—,” Jacks began.

  “Yes,” Adrian said. “It’s a funny story.” Oh, you’re not getting rid of me that easy, Power.

  “Funny,” Jacks said in a low, calm voice. “That’s right. A funny story.” I’m going to kill you—no, no, I’m going to keep you barely alive and torture you for the rest of your small, small life, you mother—

  “You know what else is funny, Jacks?”

  Adrian and Jacks looked at Cynthia; her face held no promise of amusement.

  “No…?” Jacks said.

  “The fact that I could have been married for so long to someone as insensitive as you—”

  Jacks started to laugh—That’s my wife, folks! Such a joker! “Cynthia, darling, dove, what are you talking about?”

  Cynthia pointed at the screaming yellow centerpiece in the middle of their table—“That!”

  “The centerpiece? You like them? I knew you would. I—”

  “Oh, man.” Adrian shook his head. “How clueless can you be? She hates roses—”

  “She does not! My Cynthia loves yellow roses! She’s always—”

  Cynthia cut in. “I hate them, Jacks,” she hissed. “I hate everything about them—for the last twenty-five years, every time I saw a bouquet of yellow roses, I knew you had cheated on me!”

  Adrian covered his face with his hands.

  Jackson ducked his head closer, his voice low. “Cynthia, come on, now—let’s not get hysterical—”

  “How could you?” she said, starting to beat his chest with her little fists. “How could you?!”

  “Now wait just a minute,” Jacks said, grabbing her hands before she could attract more attention. “I worked hard for these roses—I scoured the entire country for these roses—some of them came from fucking Belgium or something—you know how much this cost me?”

  “That’s all you care about, isn’t it?” Cynthia looked at him. Adrian’s eyes flashed on the silverware. He knew he could grab Cynthia before she reached for a knife—but did he want to?

  Yes. But only because Vivienne had just walked up. She wore an off-the-shoulder jersey dress and heels. Her hair was up, curls framing her cheekbones. Manhattan, meet your Aphrodite.

  “Mom? What’s going on?”

  “Your mother’s mad at me—about roses!” Jackson huffed.

  “You ruined the night for me, Jacks,” Cynthia said.

  “Oh, now, wait a minute,” Adrian said, interrupting. “Don’t let this clown ruin your night—”

  “You stay out of this!” Jackson roared.

  “Wait,” Vivienne said, now staring at Adrian. “What are you doing here?”

  “I, ah,” Adrian stammered. Think fast, you idiot, think fast. “I’m a dance patron—”

  “You know each other?” Cynthia asked Vivienne.

  “He’s nothing, nobody,” Jacks said. “And Mr. Nobody was just leaving—”

  “This gentleman is a guest at my table, Jacks,” Cynthia said, warning him.

  “Him? Yeah, sure. Not going to happen—”

  Adrian could see Vivienne’s confusion. Had they shared a moment, or hadn’t they?

  “We do know each other,” Adrian said. Vivienne smiled.

  Oh, that smile.

  “Mom, remember that…thing I told you about…” Vivienne said. She tilted her head playfully toward Adrian. She didn’t notice her mother blanching.

  “Oh. Oh, my gosh,” Cynthia said. “Wow. Interesting. Really?”

  “Your mother and I are getting back together, Vivienne,” Jacks interrupted, as though making an announcement to the press.

  “No, we’re not,” Cynthia said.

  “But…we…you slept with me,” Jacks said.

  “You slept with him?” Adrian asked. “Recently?”

  Cynthia shrugged. She was an adu
lt—a full-fledged adult (finally!) at forty-five. She had no one to answer to (if her mother weren’t asking).

  “Oh, Jesus,” Jacks said. “Cynthia, you slept with this idiot?” Heads swiveled toward the group.

  “Mom?” Vivienne asked. “Did you sleep with Adrian?”

  “I…um.” Cynthia was about to answer. Then: “Who’s Adrian?”

  “I’m going to kill you!” Jacks said, lunging at Adrian.

  “What is your problem?!” Adrian yelled, and dodged Jacks’s grasp as he ran around the table—which had now become center stage for the second great performance of the evening, this one clearly in need of Margot’s choreography skills.

  “Stop it!” Cynthia yelled. “Stop it this instant!”

  “You’re dead!” Jacks screamed, as he leapt on top of the table, knocking the dreaded centerpiece to the ground and throwing his body on top of Adrian—

  “You’re crazy!” Adrian shouted.

  They hit the floor with a thud.

  Vivienne and Cynthia screamed and tried to pull Jacks off of Adrian. Patrons dodged the rolling explosion of fists and legs and elbows.

  Security arrived, but not in time to save rows of tables, thousands of dollars’ worth of silk draperies, platter after platter of salade and untold numbers of Belgian roses.

  “I’m Jacks Power, goddamn it!” Jackson screamed as he was muscled outside. “Cynthia! Cynthia, darling, tell them!”

  Adrian looked back at Vivienne, who was standing next to her mother, watching him as he was dragged from the ballroom on his heels. He had one thought as he tried to remember the feel of her lips on his, now bruised and battered.

  Had he just ruined the rest of his life?

  “OH MY GOD,” Cynthia said, observing the wreckage, her hands in her hair. “All my hard work. Destroyed in seconds.” Vivi put her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “Come on, Mom. Cheer up—you hated the roses.”