The Private Lives of Pippa Lee

by Rebecca Miller

  Poker-faced Craig had ventured out onto the porch. I followed and stood beside him. I felt I was standing on the prow of a huge, beached ship. The sky stretched up from the horizon, a dome over our heads; occasional perfectly formed clouds were frozen in the blue expanse. All below – glittering water, white-blond sand – was awash in heat and light.

  ‘Can you imagine owning a house like this?’ I asked.

  ‘We do own it, honey,’ said Craig, his hand sliding down my back. ‘I just bought it, remember?’ I leaned on the railing and surveyed the beach. Several people were having a picnic down there. A woman in a red bathing suit and long black hair – Gigi – was wading in the water. Several others reclined on multi-colored bath towels. I sipped the sweet, cold tea. The best I’d had in my life. ‘We probably shouldn’t have invited so many people with a new cook in the kitchen,’ I said.

  ‘They’ll be so drunk, they won’t notice the food,’ said Craig with a convincing drawl. He took to the role of a rich man easily. In fact, he was poised for a huge success; within ten years he would be one of the highest priced artists of his generation.

  The others ambled onto the porch. ‘I’m gonna go down to the beach,’ said Jed, our current odd man out. ‘Maybe there’s a single lady down there in need of a real man.’ Terry and Calvin smoked in silence. Gigi was looking up at us now and waving. We all descended the splintered wooden stairs to a narrow path that led us down the dune. I clung to the fantasy of ownership, breathing in the salty air, looking back at the gleaming glass house proprietarily. ‘We have to get those stairs fixed,’ said Craig in his deadened voice. When we got to the beach, though, it was over.

  Gigi was on her belly, recumbent on a cerulean towel, a cherry red bathing suit clinging to her impossible form. Her black hair was drying in brittle, serpentine waves down her back. As we approached, she propped herself up on her elbows, clamping together her cleavage. ‘Hello!’ she said. A bronzed, lithe young man sat beside her. He had a sharp-ridged, hawklike nose, which seemed to stretch the skin on his face very taut. He gave us a surprised look from under bushy black brows. We must have looked like aliens, the druggy-pale, black-clad, sleep-deprived clutch of us standing on that costly stretch of coastline.

  ‘This is Sam Shapiro, the novelist,’ Gigi announced. ‘Sam, this is Craig Simms, the painter I was telling you about. And these are his friends, let me see …’ Craig introduced us all again. Gigi smiled at us vaguely, taking nothing in. I was hot in my dress, socks, and boots. ‘Do you have your bathing suits?’ Gigi asked. I had mine on under my dress, but I didn’t feel ready to reveal my pasty form to this goddess. Gigi jumped up and took Craig by the arm. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘Let’s discuss the commission.’ They were off. Jed sat on the sand, legs splayed, his ancient black raincoat spread out behind him, ebony hair glistening down his back, and glared at the sea.

  ‘It’s fucking hot,’ said Terry, tugging off her T-shirt. Her bright purple bra encased large, soft breasts that jiggled like mounds of custard.

  Sam smiled. ‘Don’t mind me,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Terry, leaning back on her elbows and squinting at him.

  Ornery Calvin lit a cigarette. ‘So there’s going to be a party tonight?’ he said.

  ‘There’s always a party at Gigi’s house,’ said Sam.

  I got up and walked toward the water. When no one seemed to be watching me, I unzipped my tattered thrift store dress, unlaced my boots, rolled my sweaty socks off my feet, and left it all in a neat pile. My bikini top didn’t match the bottom. I was hoping people would think this was intentional. My icy blonde hair, fried by Terry’s dubious skills as a colorist, was wound up into two little onions at the top of my head. I walked into the water, looking down at my skinny, pallid body. The water felt cold. I splashed the backs of my knees, then dove under a wave and swam a few strokes. When I came up, I was less than a yard away from two men paddling in the water, talking. I recognized one of them as Herb Lee, Gigi’s husband. He had a cigar in his mouth. The other man was wearing thick, black-framed glasses. His hair was wild and graying. ‘I don’t see how you can possibly think,’ he was saying, ‘that I should cram all that into part one.’

  ‘It’s like I told you,’ said Herb in his deep New York yet somehow aristocratic voice. ‘Those scenes belong to the childhood.’

  ‘But I’m moving back and forth in time. That’s the structure of the thing! The narrative is liquid.’

  ‘What I’m saying is,’ answered Herb, ‘let the sequences build up more power – less staccato. You want it to be a good read, don’t you?’ I had drifted a little closer to them by now and was eavesdropping shamelessly. Herb turned and acknowledged me. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Are you with our party?’

  ‘I’m with Craig, you bought his painting? We met at the opening …’

  ‘Oh yes, sorry, this is Max Kessler, Max this is …’

  ‘Pippa Sarkissian.’

  ‘What kind of a name is that?’

  ‘Swedish and Armenian.’ Max Kessler had paddled away and was struggling toward the shore, dragging his feet through the undercurrent, his black swim trunks clinging to his legs, shoulders bowed.

  ‘You’re very welcome, Pippa,’ said Herb, the laugh lines driven down the sides of his face deepening slightly, his light eyes twink ling with amusement – at life itself, it seemed. Standing in the waves now, cigar clamped between his teeth, he looked mischievous and anarchic, like some distant cousin of Poseidon, ruling his patch of sea.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, diving back into the water.

  As the sun lowered on the horizon, spattering the sea with its golden, trembling reflection, the butler and the maid trudged down the path to the beach lugging a large wicker basket, each of them holding a handle, faces flushed. Inside the basket, bottles clinked against one another promisingly. Several other guests had joined us for predinner drinks. All of them cheered as the butler arrived. ‘Hurrah for Jerzi!’ they cried. The gloomy butler allowed the corners of his mouth to turn up very slightly at this welcome. Guests hurled orders at him as he unpacked the full bar.

  ‘Ask him anything,’ said Herb, ‘he knows it.’

  ‘Can you make a Maiden’s Prayer?’ asked Trudy, the wife of Max Kessler, herself a writer, who was wearing a patterned head scarf pulled tight over her hair, her mouth a fuchsia slash. The butler nodded solemnly and took a bottle of gin out of one of the baskets, a jug of orange juice. Cointreau.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ exclaimed Trudy, sipping the drink, her eyes closed with pleasure.

  ‘And what about Pippa Sarkissian?’ asked Herb. ‘What would she like?’

  ‘Crème de menthe,’ I said.

  ‘An old-fashioned girl, underneath it all,’ said Herb, chuckling.

  Gigi tossed her head. ‘Crème de menthe isn’t a cocktail, it’s a liqueur,’ she said.

  Herb turned to her. ‘Rubbing alcohol for you, my love?’

  ‘A big glass, please,’ said Gigi playfully, plonking herself opposite Herb with a swiveling movement, her long legs folding graciously beneath her. Somehow she had managed to change into a diaphanous coral halter dress and was fully made up. Yet I hadn’t noticed her leaving. Herb took out a bottle of champagne and poured her a glass. I wondered if their corrosive banter was for real or not. Gigi drank and sighed, looking around her with half-closed eyes, like a contented lioness. The sky had begun to go pink. ‘After this,’ said Gigi, ‘everyone can get ready for dinner and the others will arrive.’

  Back in the transparent box, Craig and I walked up the metal staircase, down the hall, which was open to the rest of the house, and into our room, described to us by Gigi airily as the ‘third door.’ The smell of jasmine was heavy and sweet. The drapes were shut. We flicked the light switch. Two identical lamps shone a warm light on a stainless steel bed, a quilted white bedspread, embroidered linen pillowcases. And, laid out on the bed neatly, were all our clothes, our books, and, in a small Baggie, the drugs we had brought for the
weekend: a handful of pills, a lump of hash, and a singed spoon, which Terry and Jed always brought with them, just in case, though neither of them was a junkie.

  Craig grimaced. ‘That fucking butler.’

  ‘He’s a humorist,’ I said, bouncing on the bed and opening the Baggie. Craig clambered on top of me, jabbing me with his elbow. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for a big sex procedure, so I made him come with my mouth, then brushed my teeth, resolving to go to the party straight, but for one little Valium, which didn’t count, it just took the edge off, made me slightly numb. I didn’t want to give that nasty butler the satisfaction of being high. But also, I didn’t want Herb to see me high. I didn’t admit it to myself, but in the back of my mind, I was already thinking that I wanted him to like me.

  Poker-faced Craig was still showering. He was intensely vain, so it always took him ages to get ready for anything. I walked downstairs alone, my steps echoing on the metal staircase. Sam Shapiro was standing beside Herb. They were looking out the immense glass wall, talking, drinks in their hands. Hearing me, they both turned and looked up.

  ‘The artist’s girlfriend,’ Herb said. I was wearing an old ballet tutu with a light blue bodice and my black lace-up boots. Bright red lipstick, shiny black nails. ‘Come. Talk to us.’

  I sat down on the couch. Sam and Herb sat opposite me. They were looking at me as though I were a specimen from a newly discovered tribe of pygmies.

  ‘So. Pippa,’ said Herb. ‘What do you normally have for breakfast?’

  Sam broke into laughter, a painful, honking guffaw.

  ‘I don’t really eat breakfast,’ I said.

  ‘Does she look like she eats breakfast?’ said Sam.

  ‘Now there’s your first mistake,’ said Herb, wagging his finger at me paternally.

  ‘Do you go straight into the studio, then?’ asked Sam.

  ‘I don’t have a studio.’

  ‘You must be an artist, dressed like that,’ said Sam.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘What are you then?’ asked Herb.

  I shrugged. ‘I work in a clothing store.’

  ‘You must have some ambition,’ said Herb.

  ‘Why?’ I asked him. He looked startled, as though he had noticed something odd about my face.

  ‘Well, I congratulate you,’ he said. ‘You are the first person who has ever walked across the threshold of this house who isn’t riddled with ambition, frustrated or otherwise. Even the butler is writing a short story. He broke the news to me yesterday.’

  Gigi stormed out of the kitchen, flushed and upset. Herb stood and went to her swiftly. They conferred in whispers for a few moments. He put his hand on her shoulder. She wiped tears from her cheeks. Sam looked at me and raised his eyebrows, whispering: ‘Watch out for the wife.’

  The other guests trickled in over the next hour or so. Gradually, it became clear that Herb and Gigi had different tastes in people. Herb’s friends were the intellectuals, an ironic, serious lot. The women, as they appeared, had no scales on their eyes and hadn’t for years; they looked like they had seen it all. The men glowered at one another and huddled together, conversing intensely about matters of importance. Gigi’s gang was younger, decadent. There was a theater director who arrived in a one-piece terry-cloth pantsuit; an actress who, it was whispered, had worked with Warhol; and the maverick playboy scion of a famous record label. Craig and the rest of us had clearly been invited to tip the balance in Gigi’s favor.

  Once it was dark, tiny torches flickered all along the path to the beach. The house was twinkling with candlelight. I milled around, a ginger ale in my hand, listening to shards of conversation. Magnificent food was displayed on various tables. Now and then, Gigi would reach into a small drawer in the dining room table at which she and a few others were sitting with their plates and pull out a little silver bell. It made a pretty, tinkling sound. Whenever she rang it, the butler or the maid would appear, and Gigi would order another bottle of champagne, or something special that had to be concocted to order. Looking up at the maid, making a face like a hopeful child, she said, ‘Alfonsa, could you please, please ask Maria if she could make me a little tiny chocolate mousse, just for a taste?’ Alfonsa smiled, glancing at the elaborate desserts already piled high before her mistress, and walked off. The poor cook.

  I glimpsed Herb here and there, conferring with the serious men or listening to Gigi’s flamboyant guests with an alienated smile. I had the strange sensation of knowing what he was feeling; I could read his face. I could tell if he was uninterested, or impatient, or delighted. After a while, though, I lost track of him. Sam Shapiro came up to me on the porch as I sat with poker-faced Craig and Terry. The two of them were laughing, hugging, and I was wondering if they wouldn’t make a nice couple. I had grown tired of Craig, with his puffy eyes and frozen face, his blond hair that stuck straight up on his head. He was the most gifted of the bunch, but he was a cold person, and in bed there was a wooden reserve in him I found dispiriting.

  ‘Beautiful night,’ said Sam. I turned to him and wondered what it would be like to kiss him. It was clear that he was wondering something along the same lines. But I found myself excusing myself in the middle of our conversation. The truth was, I thought, as I meandered through that house, looking up into the night sky through the great glass roof, every star visible, the truth was, I didn’t want anyone anymore, or anything. I wanted to sleep for seven months. I was burned out. Exhausted. Bored. I suppose I was depressed, but I didn’t think about things like that in those days. There was a light on in the little yellow cottage, I noticed. I wondered if it was all right to walk inside, or if that was Gigi and Herb’s private domain, the place where they played out their mysterious relationship. The door was slightly ajar. I peeked through the window. The TV was on; a football match was playing. Men in helmets tumbled over one another, landing in a pile. On the couch, his arms spread over the back, was Herb. I opened the door and walked in.

  He looked up. When he saw it was me, his face creased into a smile. ‘Just the girl I want to see,’ he said. ‘You like football?’

  ‘I used to – I have four brothers.’

  ‘Have a seat. Refresh your memory.’ We sat watching the game for a few minutes. I snuck a look at his profile. His Roman nose and high forehead, the thick, silver hair rising from his face like a wave, made him look like an emperor. I had never seen a man who exuded such authority. He offered me pistachio nuts and a Coke from a little fridge near the TV.

  ‘This is the most amazing house I’ve ever seen,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not a house, it’s a hellhole,’ said Herb. ‘Not one comfortable piece of furniture, except this couch. It’s like living in an aquarium.’

  ‘Why do you live here then?’

  ‘My wife,’ he said, with a gesture encompassing the cottage, the house, the sea beyond. ‘I couldn’t afford to live like this. Not that I’m a poor man.’ We watched another play. When the commercial came on, he turned to me. ‘So, little Pippa,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think it’s time to change your life?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Doesn’t it get dispiriting to be so aimless? I mean, I see that you’re young, but a person of such unusual sweetness –’

  ‘I’m not sweet.’

  ‘People can be experienced and sweet. I’m talking about an innate quality. It’s a long time since I’ve seen it in a person.’ I was shocked to feel tears well up in my eyes. Herb was sweeping my face with his gaze, as though he were hungry for my emotion. Just then, the door swung open, and Gigi ran to Herb, giggling, and pulled him off the couch. The party was going to the beach. ‘Andiamo!’ She led him off by his long arms, and he trotted out of the room awkwardly, like a goat walking on its hind legs.

  Everyone skipped or ran or shuffled to the beach. I broke up with Craig with quiet brutality on the way down the path. I explained that I needed a hiatus from romance. Not that our relation ship was romantic. He was slightly morose after that
, but Terry did her best to comfort him, and within half an hour he was stripping with the rest of my friends. It looked like a bluefish feed, all those people, some buck naked, some half-clothed, chopping up the water. I remained dressed and thought about sharks. I was feeling somber. Something had stirred in me. About five yards away, I saw Herb, also dressed, watching his wife as she frolicked in a bra and panties, looking like Aphrodite born out of the sea complete with lingerie. I had never seen such a perfectly formed woman. When I looked back at Herb, he was turned in my direction. I couldn’t tell for sure, but I thought he was staring at me.

  The next morning, we all played tennis. It was Craig and I against Gigi and Jed. Herb stood by and watched, a towel draped around his neck. He had already played singles with Sam Shapiro. Gigi threw herself into the game. Whenever she scored, she jumped into the air, elated. When she missed the ball, she ran to Herb, ducking her head into his chest. At one point, after missing two shots in a row, she let her racket clatter onto the court, turned, and ran off toward the house. Herb didn’t miss a beat. He ambled on with his loose-limbed gait, picked up his wife’s racket, and served.

  *

  Back on Orchard Street, Terry was now shacked up with poker-faced Craig, so I got her room, which she had painted puce in a fit of jealousy years before I was adopted into the group. In the old, Jewish days of the Lower East Side, this loft had been devoted to the manufacture of ladies’ girdles and crammed, no doubt, with hollow-eyed women and children, sewing their lives away elbow to elbow for a starving wage. But times had changed. The neighborhood was now given over to longtime Hispanic residents, a few artists desperate for cheap rent, and of course the junkies.

  When they found the place, Jed and Craig and Calvin put up the Sheetrock walls themselves, creating a space with several bedrooms and studios. The tall, dusty windows let in plenty of light. The place was bright but filthy, with a damp towel perpetually drooped over the glass door of the jerry-rigged shower stall, hair wound around the creviced bar of yellowing soap. The kitchen was in the hall and consisted of a hot plate set on top of a small refrigerator. When you walked barefoot, you got sawdust on your feet. The air smelled of cigarettes, oil paint, and the polyurethane that Jed used to laminate his sculptures: stuffed animals set into elaborate, upholstered frames skillfully painted in the style of Tiepolo. My clothes and hair reeked of this cocktail of odors.