“Bitters, I thought. Bitters and soda. You know. I first got into these when I did my year abroad in Italy.”
Pansy reached for the brilliant orange bottle of Campari and began mixing her and Cassandra cocktails. If they both happened to be home on any given evening, that was what they did. They made a ritual out of it. Orange, as it happened, was one of Pansy Chapin’s favorite colors—and all the more striking a predilection, that, because so few people could pull it off; but Pansy, with her deep, moneyed tan and streaky blond hair, could. It was right after the Fourth of July. Pansy had just gotten back to the city from the Hamptons, and Cassandra from a weekend spent at a horse show in the Pennsylvania countryside with Edward. The orange of the bottle of Campari matched exactly the orange of the silk scarf that Pansy was flaunting, jet set–style, in her hair.
That Pansy dressed like this even in the privacy of her own home was only confirmation of her supreme glamour to Cassandra.
“Do you remember…” she began, accepting Pansy’s cocktail. “Cheers.”
“Cheers! Do I remember what?”
“When you used to make martinis for us?”
“Hmm…?”
“At Bennington. Sylvie and I were living in the Pine Room then. Remember! I think it was our sophomore year. We had a fireplace, remember, and Alphie the security guard used to come and bring the logs and build the fire and everything. You would come over, and you’d make us dinner in the kitchen. You’d make us steak and Caesar salad and double-stuffed potatoes and real martinis.”
“As opposed to fake martinis?” Pansy yawned.
“Well. I guess what I mean is—real, adult martinis. It all seemed terribly adult to me anyway. When you used to come over and cook for us.”
Imagine cooking a group of girls dinner, Pansy thought, when everybody knew that the reason one learned to cook in the first place was to please a man.
“Are you ever going to learn how to cook, Cassandra?”
“Oh! That. Well, yes. I’m hoping to—now that we’re settled into the apartment.”
“Oh good. Feel free to use any of my cookbooks if you want.”
“Thanks! And, oh! That reminds me. If I learn to cook one of these days, then I can start using my great-grandmother’s wedding silver.”
On the very night they’d moved into the apartment, Cassandra had been positively giddy to show Pansy the silver, unfurling from the blue velvet depths of the box the long-stemmed scalloped oyster forks and ice cream spoons, to Pansy’s squeals of delight and approval.
“What I recommend is: learning a signature dish.”
“Yeah. Like what?”
“Steak, to start,” mused Pansy.
“Yeah. I think I can get the hang of steak. I hope.”
“My signature dishes are veal scallopini and Chicken Marbella.”
But I want those to be my signature dishes! Cassandra thought, with a wholly illogical sense of betrayal and indignation. Those are the perfect signature dishes for a girl to have.
“Fish, too. You ought to know how to do something with fish if you’re with a guy who prefers it. Some guys do. Sole Véronique, maybe…” Pansy was lost in thought. “That’s the one with the grapes.”
“Pansy.” Cassandra got up the courage to ask, for she had a certain grave matter on her mind. “What are your thoughts on monogamy?”
“Monogamy?” Pansy merely laughed.
“Oh, I thought so,” said Cassandra, relieved.
“Thought what?” asked Pansy suspiciously.
That you were a complete and total slut, Cassandra knew better than to say out loud.
“Oh, just that you would be—understanding.”
“What’s going on? Is there a guy? A new guy?”
“Well”—Cassandra hesitated—“kind of. Did you ever take a class with Professor Sobel?”
“Professor Sobel! The opera guy? Yeah, come to think of it I did. For one day! But he made us sit outside in the meadow just so he could smoke his precious cigarettes and I just couldn’t bear it anymore. It was February.”
“Yeah, he was famous for making his classes do that. Well, anyway. I was kind of a favorite of his back at Bennington, and then I ran into him earlier this year in New York, at this concert I went to with Edward. When I first moved to the city, he invited me to lunch at La Grenouille, to celebrate…”
“La Grenouille!” shrieked Pansy. La Grenouille was her favorite. She was jealous, suddenly, of a man taking Cassandra to La Grenouille, because Cassandra wasn’t as hot as she was, and girls who weren’t as hot as she was were, generally speaking, undeserving of the finer things in life.
“Oh, it was so much fun. I got the cheese soufflé. Have you had their cheese soufflé?” But of course Pansy Chapin had had the cheese soufflé; Pansy Chapin knew how to make cheese soufflé. “Well, and then after that he invited me to Le Bernardin.” Cassandra paused importantly. “For dinner.”
“But in a way, lunch is more chic than dinner, I think.” Pansy was recalling with a pang the reckless afternoon assignations, the gorgeous champagne breakfasts, of her youth. “Dinner is more obvious.”
“I think so, too! That’s exactly what I thought. But still, dinner is more…”
“Of a clear-cut invitation,” filled in Pansy. “From the man’s point of view.”
“Yeah, so…I’m attracted to Professor Sobel, but. The thing is, I’m not that into monogamy, actually, but Edward is.”
“Oh no, he isn’t,” Pansy assured her.
“Pansy.”
“No man is. Not really!”
“That’s a little cynical of you, don’t you think?”
“When you’ve been with as many guys as I have…” Pansy trailed off, reminding herself that Cassandra was something of a late bloomer, compared to herself. At age fourteen Pansy had lost her virginity on a private beach in Bar Harbor to a brutish Dartmouth senior who was summering there and had never looked back: thus began her storied romantic career. So how did you lose your virginity? was a bottomless subject at Bennington. An unusually large number of the girls there had scintillating stories to tell; Lanie Tobacco, for one, had been dismantled of her maidenhood on a pool table by the drummer of a band called “Leftover Crack.”
“I like older men myself,” Pansy said, changing the subject. “I mean, I like the idea of older men. I think I’d go quite nicely with one.” She paused, picturing herself, quite without qualms, as the ultimate accessory; a gold pocket watch, a vintage Jaguar in a snazzy color. “But the thing is, I’ve tried before, and I just can’t get into their bodies!”
“I’ve never been all that hung up on bodies, though. I just feel like physical attraction can be based on so many different things. You know?”
But Pansy didn’t know. She said: “As a matter of fact. What I really go for are black guys. Did I ever tell you about the time I dated this incredibly hot Cuban guy who turned out to be a crystal meth dealer? Oops! Did I say Cuban? I meant Haitian!”
“No!”
“Well—” Pansy began, but Cassandra interrupted.
“Is it true what they say about black guys?”
“What they say about their cocks?”
But Cassandra didn’t even have the patience to listen for Pansy’s answer, jumping in just to make clear: “Sex is a really intellectual thing with me.”
“Oh,” said Pansy Chapin, getting up to make herself another cocktail. The bottle of Campari was now half-empty. She would have to replace it; Pansy hated half-empty or tarnished things; they upset her love of physical perfection. “Oh, Cassandra, Cassandra! You’ll get over that.”