chapter      1

“She has zero taste.”

“Zilch.”

“What’s that outfit all about? One-way ticket on the Tacky Express.”

“Like Roberto Cavalli threw up on her.”

“And her apartment . . .”

“You’ve been?”

“No. But the Kincaids have.”

“And?”

“Constance said it looks as if it was decorated by Charles and Wonder.”

“Oh, right, the cheesy firm that just did that new Architectural Digest cover from Hades?”

“No. I’m talking Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder. Only a blind person could select those horrendous fabrics.”

“Oh, Joan, you’re too much!”

As Wendy Marshall and Joan Coddington reapplied their lipstick and skewered their fellow guests at the Bateses’ cocktail party at the Union Club, Melanie Korn sat paralyzed, in earshot but out of view. She had been unlocking the door to her stall in the powder room when she heard her name in the same sentence as the words “cheap,” “classless,” and “fried hair.” She froze. At first she thought they must have been speaking of someone else. But as the duo continued, sharpening their swords and tongues, rendering her a decimated Melanie-kebab before her very ears, the blood slowly crept to her face. With stealth moves, she relocked the door to the stall and crept back to the toilet, where she sat down on the lid and pulled her legs up to her chest so no one would know she was there. She felt like the little boy in Witness, only she was the murder victim.

“I mean, did you see those hideous metal cranes that she gave the Bates as an anniversary gift?” asked Wendy, incredulous. “Ugh! It was like Bangkok exploded in the foyer.”

“Tell me about it,” said Joan. “The worst.”

“Admit it: they look shipped over from some Thai junk shop. You’ve got to be certifiably insane to buy those.”

“Regina said they went right in the trash.”

“I’m sure.”

“She couldn’t even give them to Goodwill. It would be bad will to rewrap those.”

“Poor Arthur. He totally downgraded wives. I don’t think he has a clue that Melanie is so déclassé and malelevé. Most men trade up with their second wives.”

Trying to avoid Oksana Baiul–style waterfalls of Max Factor, Melanie lifted a quivering finger to her eye. She had thought those cranes were so chic. She’d seen something similar in the Powells’ apartment in House Beautiful. And hell, they were expensive.

“Diandra Korn, she was another level entirely.”

“A class act.”

“I heard Arty was devastated when she bailed.”

“Destroyed.”

“I mean, she was the embodiment of refinement. This one will never have it.”

“You wouldn’t think it would be possible for one person to get everything so wrong. Her nails? The red is like secretary red. So much orange in it.”

“Like I said, what do you expect from a pageant queen–turned–stewardess?”

As their laughter mixed with the sound of compacts snapping shut and Judith Lieber bags being reclasped, the two women exited to the dining room in a flurry of silks, gold, and perfume. As Melanie’s knees were shaking both from squatting in a full-on Ashtanga yoga position and from sheer humiliation, she rose unsteadily to her feet. She listened again to make extra sure that her pummelers were gone, then walked out to look at herself in the mirror. What was wrong with her outfit? Roberto Cavalli was on Madison! Maybe it was a little tight, but hell, she had the figure for it, didn’t she? Her jewelry seemed right—Catherine Zeta-Jones had worn this very necklace to the Oscars. Arthur had told her just minutes ago that her hair looked very pretty. No one could accuse her of having roots. Until her spill of tears, her makeup had been perfect. She didn’t understand—what was so wrong with her? Why were people snickering behind her back?

As she rinsed her hands, she felt her sorrow morph into fury. That there had been no welcome mat put out when she married Arthur was enough to deal with. She had assumed it was because this social set preferred the status quo. But what had seemed at first to be a few idle comments about how wonderful Arthur’s first wife was had cascaded into a tidal wave of glowing superlatives. Everyone—from the ladies who lunch down to the waiter at Payard and even her own butler, Mr. Guffey—seemed to belong to the Diandra Korn Fan Club. The stiletto shoes Melanie had to fill just kept getting bigger. How could she compete? Even Arthur had once said there was “no comparison” between the two.

Melanie finally pulled herself together enough to leave the bathroom with her head held high, but when she saw Joan and Wendy passing before her, she ducked behind a sweeping Brunchwig & Fils patterned curtain. They fluttered by with gale-force velocity, blind to their cowering, shattered eavesdropper. It seemed so harsh that they could be so happy-go-lucky after savaging her evening.

In the car home, Arthur Korn put a comforting hand on his wife’s knee.

“Are you okay, sweetie? You’ve been pretty quiet. Which is not like you, my little chatterbox.”

“I’m fine,” she said. Somehow she just couldn’t bring herself to confide in Arthur and tell him about the Melanie-in-Cuisinart remarks she had overheard.

“Boy, that party was like a casting call for Night of the Living Dead. Boring zombies at every turn. I was dying for an ejector seat. That snob Philip Coddington talking my ear off, with his family crest blazer. Doesn’t let anyone else say a word. What was that crest, anyway? It’s like Bambi and a tree or something.”

“I’m not sure . . .” murmured Melanie.

“It’s ridiculous, whatever it was. Looks like the stupid deer is taking a piss in the woods. What’s so fancy about that? He’s so proud of his moron ancestry.”

Melanie was barely listening. She stared out the drizzle-splattered window, lost in her thoughts. She was motionless except for her right thumb furiously moving over her index finger, chipping away the “secretary red” nail polish. And as the Korns’ Bentley glided up Park Avenue, piece after piece of fire-engine-colored lacquer fell to the floor.