chapter 34
Eddie and Tom, the doormen of 741 Park, were standing side by side, their wide eyes looking right and left as if following a tennis ball at the U.S. Open. But it was not that kind of moving sphere they followed so carefully. It was pairs of breasts. Watching the posh women of the tree-lined avenue balancing on their high, pointy shoes, wrapped in sensuous fabrics, and ornamented in fineries the porters’ combined salaries couldn’t dream of acquiring was a never-ending intoxicator. A high school girl sauntered by with a cigarette and a pleated school uniform rolled up at the waist to hike the school-enforced dreary hemline, revealing her coltish thighs.
“Look at that little nymphet,” said Tom, practically salivating. “I could teach that student a thing or two.”
“Come to papa,” echoed Eddie under his breath.
Olivia Weston strolled out, every silken hair in place, in a cropped Prada bomber and swirly Marc Jacobs skirt.
“Hello, Ms. Weston!”
“Hello.” She never learned their names.
Her exit was followed by more girl watching, then helping batty Mrs. Cockpurse out of her car. Drew Vance then came in with his tweed jacket and cocky swagger. Just the daily upscale foot traffic at the swankiest residence in town.
“Cowabunga,” said Eddie, drooling over a Euro-trash trophy wife with platinum Donatella locks and amped-up boobs. Keeping her in his leering gaze, he followed her stride around the corner.
“Good afternoon, mademoiselle,” said Tom, straightening his posture respectfully.
A small dog in a full Burberry outfit entered the lobby. It was Mademoiselle Oeuf, the sole heir to an infinite fortune, prancing across the marble to the elevator, led by her trainer.
“That bitch is so unfriendly,” said Eddie.
“Which, the pooch or the dyke trainer?”
They shared a hearty laugh until a distinguished-looking African-American gentleman approached them, interrupting their harmonic chuckle.
“Deliveries at the back,” said Tom before the man could say a word.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just around the corner. You’ll see the door,” said Eddie.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Korn. It’s not a delivery.”
“Oh, uh, hold on. What’s your name?” As soon as the man said it, Eddie put up his hand sternly. “Stay right here,” warned Eddie before going inside to buzz his tenant. He came back out and offered an unspoken “oops” with his guilty, doofus smile, then said, “Go on up.”
Melanie was doing some last-minute pillow fluffage when she thought she heard the doorbell.
“JUANITA! Can you get the door? JUANITAAA!”
She couldn’t even hear her own voice over the vacuum cleaner racket. Melanie rolled her eyes and walked toward the door to answer it herself. In an unfortunate coincidence, it was Guffey’s day off. Melanie was in a panic that she would have to be interviewed by the Observer without him, but Arthur calmed her down. He reminded her that Guffey was a butler, after all, not Emily Post or Albert Einstein. Let him get back to dusting and pouring, and Melanie could handle the rest. Melanie was unsure, but she had no choice.
“Hi, welcome!” She flashed her best newly whitened smile.
“Hello. I’m Billy Crispin from the New York Observer.”
“It’s nice to meet you—come on in. I have a whole lunch set up for you. Feasts and Fêtes catered. Daniel Boulud’s company . . .”
“Splendid,” he said, looking around curiously.
“But first, why don’t I give you the grand tour? It’s going to be in all the magazines.”
“I’m sure it’ll be photographed as many times as the Boardman sisters.”
She laughed, hoping he was right. What a compliment! She led him across the hall to the grand parlor, decorated by Ann LeConey, who was Diandra’s favorite. She was so proud of the massive renovation she’d had done in less than two months; she’d paid triple the normal rates to rush everything, but what’s money for if you don’t spend it? And while the armies of decorators has been installing, she had been all over town swinging paddles relentlessly at all the auction houses, amassing a new collection of artworks that would make everyone foam at the mouth. She proudly led the way like the Price Is Right girls through a showcase showdown, past the mahogany balustrade of the large staircase into the massive drawing room, swimming in silks and satins.
“Of course, you may have read that we purchased this chair at the JFK auction. Such a tragedy about the son. And the wife! Caroline Bessette!”
“Carolyn.”
“Right. Such a horror. People with real class like that are like an endangered species. There are very few women of taste left,” she said, unconsciously counting them on her fingers.
“You’re obviously including yourself in the glittering pantheon,” said Crispin, baiting her.
“Oh, you!” said Melanie, flattered and unsure how to react. Crispin stared at her, waiting for her response. “Well, everyone aspires to be the best,” she offered.
“You’re absolutely right,” said Crispin, amused. “And I believe Olivia Weston will carry the torch for the future. Doesn’t she live in this building?”
“Yes, she does. Such a sweetie. I was at her house the other day.”
“Oh, you two are tight?”
“No, er . . . no.”
“But you are friends?”
“I like her very much,” said Melanie.
“You seem like such opposites.”
“Well, I guess . . .”
“I suppose people are more alike than you think,” offered Crispin.
“Yes, that’s true!” responded Melanie with alacrity.
Crispin squinted and scribbled something down on his notepad. Melanie decided to move on by highlighting the exquisite provenance of various decorative objects around the room (“This bar cart was Pamela Harriman’s”; “And this ashtray was Babe Paley’s!”). She guided him into the ornate library complete with the rare leather spines of a bibliophile’s first-edition fantasy.
“And this, this was Slim Keith’s cigarette case—” She held it up to him, smiling, hoping for a reaction as if to say, “Love me, Daddy!”
“You smoke?”
“No.”
Silence.
“Um, let’s go into my office!”
She led him up the stairs, passing a large painting in a gilded frame.
“This is a Claude Monet. There’s one at the Met just like it, but ours is better, scholars have said.”
“Lovely. What scholars?”
“Um . . .” Melanie was flummoxed. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”
As they ascended, two cute (but not that cute) twenty-somethings walked down, holding various notebooks and invitations.
“Oh, Billy, this is Susie, my assistant.”
Susie nodded politely.
“And this is Emma, Susie’s assistant.”
At the top of the stairs, there was another large entrance hall with eagle sconces she and Arthur had bought at auction for four hundred thousand dollars. She showed them to Billy, who couldn’t help but realize that she was pointing them out in the very same way a flight attendant would demonstrate where the emergency exits are.
She stopped by a pair of micro mosaic side tables.
“These were in the Rothchilds’ country estate in England. Not the suicidal Rothchilds, mind you, a different branch. Provenance is very important to us.”
“Pedigree is primary.”
“That goes without saying. We have a similar one at our home in the Ham—” She’d caught herself, thank god. “At the beach. We were foolishly planning on living out there full-time. I mean, it is twenty thousand square feet, forty acres—we’d be fine! But we scrapped that idea.”
“I see.”
“I used to think I was a country girl, but I soon realized I was a country house girl.”
They made their way back downstairs, pausing by a Degas statue of a forlorn-looking ballet dancer in an aged yellow tutu. Melanie was leading him toward the dining room when Billy stopped.
“What’s this door?” Billy asked, leaning for the filigreed antique knob.
“Oh that’s—”
Before she could answer, he turned it and opened the door.
“NOOOOOOO!” screamed Melanie, as if being stabbed by a machete-wielding maniac. Billy was alarmed by her ear-piercing shriek. But the damage was done: before his eyes was Arthur’s private office, complete with his black leather Jennifer Convertibles furniture from his days across the river. Yankees memorabilia lined the walls, and autographed balls and jerseys were displayed in lit glass cabinets. Melanie, unable to recover in her momentary shock of The Press seeing her husband’s sports garbage, caught her breath and swiftly closed the door.
“Oh, this junk is all just Arthur’s loot. His hideout, you know.”
Trying to paint over the visual faux pas that was her husband’s lair, she swiftly led her guest into a stunning chamber with painted rococo panels and a Georges V desk.
“Voilà! This one is my office.”
Billy looked around. Clearly he was impressed, thought Melanie.
“What do you do, exactly, Mrs. Korn?”
“I’m a philanthropist,” she said, as is she were saying, I bring water to ailing souls in a hospice. “I work entirely on behalf of the people who are less fortunate than Arty and myself.”
“How does your work compare to say, that of Joan Coddington or Blaine Trump?”
“Well, Joan Coddington works out of a phone booth at the Colony Club. She doesn’t have a setup like this!”
“Is there any . . . rivalry among women in your philanthropy scene?”
“No, no, no . . . I mean, not on my side, that is. Most of these socialites are all talk and don’t actually do anything but coast on the Roman numerals at the end of their husbands’ names.”
“So you fancy yourself as different.”
“Different compared to whom? I mean, I don’t just want to throw money around so I get good tables at charity balls. I mean, I’ll be honest—I want good tables at events as well, but it actually is really important to me to make a difference. ’Cause if you don’t, then what’s it all about?”
“So whom do you compare yourself to?”
“Well, I really admire Brooke Astor. Everything she has done has been so incredible.”
“So you consider yourself the next Brooke Astor?”
“As far as my charitable ambitions.”
“So, yes?”
“If that’s the case, then yes, I’m the next Brooke Astor.”
As the sides of his mouth slowly lifted to a bold smile, Billy’s small cassette recorder in his breast pocket was lovingly reeling the thin brown tape in, printed with her every murmured word. It sucked all her stridently confident banter into little audio codes, ready for playback and transcription in an hour’s time at the East Sixty-fourth Street Observer offices, to be savored forever. And Crispin was smelling a cover story.