Camilla, following his look, nodded. “It’s always very swell at Pauline’s,” she said.
“Is there an occasion for an evening like this? I mean, is there a guest of honor, or is it a birthday or an anniversary, or something like that? Or do you people out here just have sixty for dinner with rare wines and a flown-in orchestra on a nightly basis?”
Camilla laughed. “You’re right. It is quite special. I shouldn’t act like I take it for granted, but I’ve been coming to parties here for so many years that I might have lost my sharp eye.”
“You mustn’t ever lose your sharp eye, Mrs. Ebury,” said Philip. “Or ear, for that matter. You might miss something.”
Camilla looked at Philip, interested. “Camilla,” she said.
“I’m Philip,” he answered.
“I know.”
“What kind of people are these?” Philip asked, holding his hand out to indicate the guests. “Aside from the former President and the film star, I mean.”
“Oh, the core, I suppose. My father used to describe them as the kind of people who can keep things out of the newspapers,” said Camilla.
“What kind of things?”
“Oh, things.”
“The woods are full of bodies, you mean?”
She laughed. “In a manner of speaking.”
Philip looked around the room again. “This is all quite glamorous in a way. At least it is for me.”
“I suppose it is when you’re traveling like you are, staying a few days or a few weeks; but if you were to stay longer, you would begin to see that each evening is a variation on the same theme, except at the Mendelsons’, where it’s a little more extravagant, but then the Mendelsons aren’t really Angelenos in the sense that the rest of us are who were born and brought up here. There are about two or three hundred of us who dine together in various combinations, and we rarely widen the circle, and you rarely read about us in the newspapers.” She smiled almost apologetically and made a helpless gesture.
“Go on. I’m fascinated,” said Philip.
“Well, we never mix with the movie crowd, and only sometimes with the people from Pasadena, except for civic evenings or certain charities, like the museums or the Music Center. I’m not saying it’s right, but it’s the way it is and the way it always has been. If you want to know the truth, I’d love to know a few movie stars.”
Philip laughed. Camilla looked at Philip and saw that he gave her his full attention. She moved in closer to him and spoke in a lowered voice. “Now that you mention it, I think there was originally a point for this party. We all thought that an announcement was going to be made tonight that Jules was being sent by the President to Brussels to head up the American delegation at the statehood of Europe. It would have meant staying there for the whole of nineteen ninety-three, at least, and Pauline was looking forward to it enormously. She speaks perfect French, and I think she sometimes gets bored here.”
“It’s not to be?” asked Philip.
“Oh, yes, it is to be, but not to be announced as yet, apparently.”
Philip nodded. “Good soup,” he said.
“Marvelous.”
A Mendelson party was, even for the initiated, a heady experience. The food was prepared by their own chef, a famed figure in gastronomic circles, and the wine, from Jules Mendelson’s own cellar, was superb. There were orchids, and antiques, and priceless art on every wall in every room. In the library, which the Mendelsons used for a sitting room when they were alone, there were more French paintings, and English furniture, and armchairs and sofas covered in glazed chintz. There was a long table for photographs in silver frames, including several of Pauline and Jules with Presidents and First Ladies at White House dinners, as well as signed photographs from the monarchs of Spain and Great Britain. There was a matching table on the other side of the room for magazines, changed weekly or monthly, and newspapers, changed daily. Tall French windows, elaborately curtained and swagged, opened onto a terrace with umbrellaed tables, and a garden beyond, and a lawn beyond that. People who visited the Mendelsons always said about this room, “How marvelous!” So Philip Quennell, a newcomer to such grandeur, can be excused for gasping and exclaiming aloud when he wandered into this library, looking for a lavatory, and saw van Gogh’s White Roses, which just happened to be his favorite picture, hanging over the fireplace.
“Good God,” he said, walking over to it and staring upward. It was worth, he knew, forty million dollars at least, even in a depressed art market. He wanted to touch the thick vivid paint, and almost did, but resisted. Then he had a sense that he was not alone in the room. He turned, and there was Pauline Mendelson, sitting in a chair by the telephone, or, rather, perched on the edge of a chair by the telephone.
“That’s my treasure,” she said, about the painting. “It was my wedding present from Jules twenty-two years ago.”
She looked, as she always looked in the photographs he had seen of her, resplendent, and was dressed, he was sure, from Paris, from the couture, black velvet cut in a classical fashion, having nothing to do with the trend of that season. She was more elegant than beautiful, although beautiful was always the word used to describe her in social columns and fashion magazines. She was tall and slender, and, even without the two strands of grape-sized pearls she was wearing, he would have noticed her astonishing neck. In a flash he remembered the Avedon photograph of her exquisite neck. It was no wonder that she was married to one of the country’s most powerful men. It would have been unthinkable to imagine her in a lesser sort of union.
“I saw this picture at the van Gogh exhibit at the Met,” he said.
“So you did,” she replied.
It couldn’t possibly be, he thought, that she had been crying, but there was a trace of moistness in her eyes and something about her face that was in disarray. She rose and walked over to a table over which hung a Chippendale mirror. From a box on the table she took out a compact and lipstick and expertly and quickly rearranged her face. He noticed that she seemed quite comfortable away from her sixty guests and in no hurry to be finished with him to return to them.
“I often wondered who owned it. I remember it said ‘On Loan from a Private Collector.’ ”
“That was its first and last loan-out, believe me. I’ll never let it go out of this house again. It was a nightmare. It seemed as though the whole mountain was blocked off when they took it out of the house to fly it east.”
“Why?”
“Security. You wouldn’t believe all the security, even police helicopters hovering above. They were terrified it was going to be hijacked, because of all the publicity. It’s worth, they say, oh, I wouldn’t even dream of telling you what they say it’s worth, but it’s ridiculous, I know, considering that poor Mr. van Gogh was never even able to sell it.”
She spoke rapidly, barely stopping for commas and periods, in a low whispery voice, with that kind of accent that no one can really duplicate who hasn’t had English nannies and French governesses and been educated at a school like Foxcroft. Philip understood why fashionable people were intrigued by her, quoted her, imitated her.
“Besides,” she went on, “I missed it, all the time it was gone, hanging there over the fireplace. I find it such a comforting picture, and this room was forlorn without it. I kept trying other pictures there, but nothing looked right, after the White Roses. I’m mad about that color green in the background.”
“Oh, yes,” he replied, looking back at it.
“Is it true that Reza Bulbenkian threatened to break your legs?” Pauline asked, unexpectedly.
“Yes.”
“Do you think he meant it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Hmmm,” she said.
“Do you know Reza Bulbenkian?” asked Philip.
“Jules is on his board, and he’s on Jules’s board, and I sometimes have lunch with Yvonne Bulbenkian when I’m in New York.”
“She’s a piece of work.”
“Isn’t s
he?” Pauline agreed, smiling. “Hector says—have you met my friend Hector Paradiso? Terribly naughty, but very amusing. Hector says that Yvonne has calluses on her hands from social climbing.” Pauline laughed. “She called her twins Oakley and Ogden, can you imagine, and speaks to them in French, poor little creatures. New York is so changed now. I’ve rather lost my taste for it, I’m afraid. It’s not at all the way it was when I lived there.” She walked over to a cymbidium plant and picked off a dying bud. “How long will you be staying in California?”
“Several months, if all goes well. I’m here to write a film.”
“I heard that. For Casper Stieglitz.”
“You do know everything.”
“I don’t know Casper Stieglitz. We don’t see many of the movie people.”
“Except Faye Converse.”
“Faye’s different. Faye belongs to the world, not just Hollywood. Faye talks about things, not just what’s going on on the set, which is so boring, don’t you think? Movie talk drives Jules mad.”
“It was nice of you to ask me tonight, Mrs. Mendelson,” Philip said.
“You’re quite an addition, having been threatened by Reza Bulbenkian; and it’s Pauline, not Mrs. Mendelson, and, of course, I’m going to call you Philip. You seem so young to have caused so much trouble. How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-nine until midnight, and then I’m thirty.”
“Heavens, we must do something to celebrate.”
“Oh, no, please,” he said, meaning it. “I would hate that. I’m sure you don’t remember, but we met once before.”
“Indeed, I do. At the theater, at that silly play. You were with Mary Finch. Her stepmother was one of my bridesmaids, in my first wedding.”
“How’s Rocky, whose plane crashed and whose two pilots were killed?”
“What a memory you have! Rocky’s completely recovered. Getting married again. Even bought a new plane.”
“Atta boy, Rocky,” said Philip.
“How are you getting on with Camilla?”
“She’s very nice.”
“Recent widow.”
“She told me her husband dropped dead in Barcelona.”
“He did. You know who she is, don’t you?”
“No.”
“Sam Worthington’s daughter.”
The name meant nothing to Philip. “Is that good?” he asked.
“Natural gas.”
“I guess that’s good,” said Philip, and they both laughed.
Then Jules Mendelson came into the room. His massiveness filled the doorway. “Pauline, people are looking for you,” he said.
“Yes, I’m coming, Jules,” said Pauline, turning to him.
“I feel lost at these parties unless you’re there,” he said to her, as if Philip were not there.
“Oh, Jules, don’t be silly.”
“It’s you they come to see, you know. Things slow down when you’re not there.”
“Isn’t he sweet, this husband of mine?” asked Pauline, looking at Philip and indicating Jules with a wave of her hand.
“What are you doing in here?” asked Jules.
There was a pause, and she said, “Kippie called.”
Jules looked at his wife. “Kippie? Called from France?”
“No, here. He’s back.”
“Here? In Los Angeles?”
“Yes.”
“Is he coming over?”
“No.”
“Where was he calling from?”
“I don’t know, Jules. He wouldn’t say.”
“Everything all right?”
“No,” she replied. For an instant they looked at each other.
Aware of Philip’s presence, Jules persisted in the conversation, but in a lower voice, as if Philip could not hear.
“What did he want?”
“Money, what else?” answered Pauline, matching his lowered tone.
“I won’t.”
“I know, Jules. I told him that.”
“We’ll talk about it later, after the party. I’ll wait up,” he said, looking over at Philip.
“Yes,” said Pauline. Philip was struck by the sadness in her voice.
“Your friend Hector changed the place cards,” said Jules, in a chiding voice meant to distract his wife from her problem.
“I know he did. It’s a long story. I didn’t realize Hector and Rose aren’t speaking at the moment,” said Pauline. Philip noticed that Pauline was making an effort to shake off her sadness over whatever was troubling her and return to her hostess role. “But you know Hector, Jules. By tomorrow everything will have been straightened out between him and Rose, and he’ll make a hilarious story out of it.”
“My enthusiasm for Hector is more restrained than yours, I’m afraid,” replied Jules.
“Not now, Jules. Have you met Philip Quennell?”
“How do you do, Mr. Quennell,” he said, offering Philip a hand to shake. He seemed not to remember having met him an hour and a half earlier in his own hallway.
“Did you like the red wine?” Jules asked Pauline.
“Marvelous, Jules.”
“From the Bresciani auction. Château Margaux.”
“Oh, I know, darling. Everyone commented at my table.”
“Did you notice the color? And the body? Jean-Pierre said it has all the characteristics of une grande année.”
“Superb. Everyone thought so,” said Pauline.
“What did you think of the red wine?” Jules asked Philip.
“I’m afraid I’m one of those people who put their fingers over the rim of the glass when the waiter pours,” answered Philip.
“Don’t drink?”
“No.”
“You must try this. It’s exceptional. The quintessential ’eighty-five Bordeaux.”
“No, thank you. I won’t,” said Philip.
There was an unmistakable look of disdain on Jules’s face, as if to say his young guest was a fool to pass up such an opportunity to sip, for free, one of the great wines of France. “A problem?” asked Jules, in the direct manner he had of asking blunt questions.
“Far less dramatic,” answered Philip. “Simply no taste for it.”
Pauline, observing, quickly came to Philip’s rescue. “As you can see, my husband is a wine enthusiast. Philip has come out to write a film for Casper Stieglitz,” she explained.
Jules, disinterested, nodded.
Pauline was not deterred. “It was Philip Quennell’s legs that Reza Bulbenkian threatened to break,” she said.
Jules turned to him now, his interest captured. Suddenly his stern face broke into a wide grin, and the sternness evaporated. “So you wrote Takeover. I thought your name was familiar,” he said. “Whoever told you all those things?”
Philip smiled but didn’t reply.
“You were pretty damned accurate, I’ll say that for you. You must know you’re high on Reza’s shit list,” Jules continued.
“Oh, yes, I know.”
“It’s all talk, though. Reza Bulbenkian wouldn’t hurt a fly. Or, have a fly hurt.”
Philip wasn’t so sure of that, but he replied, “I’m sure.”
“It’s inexpensive to have someone killed, but it’s very expensive to have someone’s arms or legs broken, because they can identify you,” said Jules.
“What curious information to have at your fingertips, Jules,” said Pauline.
“Reza, you know,” continued Jules to Philip, “was the only one who didn’t go to jail.”
“Yes, I know,” replied Philip. “He didn’t go to jail because he testified against his former partners.”
Jules looked at Philip. “Can’t wait to tell Reza that you’ve been here to dinner,” he said, chuckling at the thought.
“Will he be annoyed?”
“If he is, he won’t say anything.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Pauline said, “If you should move hotels, or take an apartment, Philip, make sure you let Miss Maple know.”
<
br /> “Miss Maple?”
“You met her when you came in, at the guest book. She’s Jules’s secretary. I’ll want her to know where to reach you.” Philip understood that he had passed inspection. He was going to be invited back.
“Pauline,” said Jules again, giving a toss of his head toward the music to prompt her to return to her party. She put her hand beneath his arm.
“Tell the orchestra not to play too loud, Jules. It kills the conversation. Remember what happened at Rose’s party? The music was so loud everyone went home by eleven, and they hadn’t even wheeled out the birthday cake yet.”
“That was because Rose was loaded and forgot to tell them to wheel it out,” said Jules.
“Oh, darling, you shouldn’t say that,” said Pauline, giggling. “Poor Rose. She’d die if she heard you say that.”
“You mustn’t let her drive home tonight,” said Jules. “She’s in no condition to drive anywhere.”
“I’ve already told Blondell to turn down the bed in the guest room,” said Pauline.
Jules patted her hand in approval.
“Somebody’s kissed you,” said Pauline. She took his handkerchief from his breast pocket, touched her tongue to it, and wiped the lipstick off his cheek.
“Rose,” he said, grimacing.
Pauline laughed and put the handkerchief back in his pocket. Jules smiled at her, and they returned to their party. Philip watched them. However rarefied their existence, he thought, they were married, a couple, committed, bonded in long wedlock. It was what he wanted for himself.
When Philip got back to his table, Camilla Ebury was not there. He looked out at the dance floor and saw her being whirled around by a tall, dark man, too tanned, who was almost too good a dancer, Philip thought, like an instructor in a tango palace. He moved too elegantly, too sleekly, his left shoulder assuming a slightly delicate twist as he steered Camilla through the dancers. Camilla was laughing in a carefree manner, and Philip, to his astonishment, felt a twinge of jealousy, although he scarcely knew Camilla Ebury.
On the other side of him, Rose Cliveden, drunk, was waving her arms as if she were leading the orchestra, and the red wine in her wineglass spilled onto her blue satin dress. Rose, Philip decided, was in her fifties, looked older, because of drink, and must have been very pretty at twenty, thirty, and forty.
An Inconvenient Woman Page 2