The Address, page 11
“In a hundred years, Mrs. Astor’s list will be mocked. These demarcations are no longer important. Eventually, the entire lot will have intermarried themselves into oblivion.”
The forcefulness of his words shocked her.
He leaned up on one elbow. “May I ask you a rather personal question?”
“What might that be?”
“What became of Mr. Smythe?”
“He never existed. It’s for work purposes only. The tradition of lines and lines of housekeepers, probably going back to the Middle Ages in England, is to be a Mrs. The irony being that if a housekeeper did marry, she’d be out of a job.”
“Better off to remain unmoored to another person. Look at Mrs. Camden. She is a member of the land-rich, cash-poor aristocracy, and where does that get her? With an obnoxious American as a husband who refuses to play the silly games. You have so much ahead of you, having taken the leap to come to this country. I hope you’ll take advantage of it.”
His confidence in her future thrilled her. What could she become, if she really tried?
“May I ask how you became involved in architecture, Mr. Camden?”
“You certainly may.” He continued drawing as he spoke. “My stepfather, a brute who worked in a grain mill, never liked my artistic leanings. He liked to say I might as well have been doing needlepoint. I drew everything. Flowers, faces, whatever was in front of me. One late Saturday afternoon my friends and I, troublemakers all of us, snuck into a mansion that was being built outside of town. It was an empty shell; the framing had been completed but little else. Inside, I found a set of plans, and while the other boys ran around playing chase, I studied the drawings like they were a treasure map. Which they were. I was entranced, and took them with me when we left.”
“Did you get caught?”
“Of course. My stepfather dragged me back to apologize, and the foreman insisted I work as a site rat for a month to atone.”
“Sounds awful.”
“Oh no. I was in heaven. Picking up nails, bringing the workers water, watching as the one-dimensional design came to life in three dimensions. Extraordinary.”
He blotted the drawing before handing it over to her.
The delicate pen strokes captured a handsome cottage with three gabled windows above a trellis dripping with wisteria. A wooden door with a solid knocker was offset by a large window carved with diagonal muntins and a smaller round window on the other side. The asymmetry lent the building an unexpected jauntiness. She asked him to sign it, and he did so with a flourish before rolling it up for the ride home.
On the way back to the Dakota, Sara’s bike hit a large hole. She stayed upright, but her front wheel began to wobble. She disembarked near the statue of Daniel Webster and examined the tire.
“Something wrong?” Mr. Camden asked.
“Looks like this needs to be tightened.” She pointed to the hub of the wheel.
He leaned his bike against the statue and knelt down to examine hers. She wished he didn’t have a hat on, as she’d have liked to see what the top of his head looked like, how the hair whorled this way or that.
He looked up suddenly, his eyes wide. Her own expression had been unguarded. She gave him a quick smile and looked away, unable to meet his gaze.
He stood, one hand on her bike’s seat, and spoke quietly. “I’ll have one of the staff take it to be repaired. Thank you for a remarkable afternoon, Mrs. Smythe.”
The vibration of his voice practically undid her. He was so close, and it was as if the sound traveled through her skin and muscles and into her bones.
She loosened her grip on the bike handles. “Off I go, then. I must check in and make sure there have been no fires that need putting out.”
“Wait, you must take this.” He dug into the picnic basket and handed over the rolled drawing.
The act felt overly intimate and improper, as if he were handing her a lacy chemise in the middle of a city street. She took the paper and hid it behind her back, embarrassed. “Thank you, Mr. Camden.”
She ran off without waiting for his reply.
“There you are. Sit and tell me the day’s gossip.”
Sara took her usual place in Mr. Camden’s library. Even though it was only two weeks since the opening, the Dakota ran as smoothly as if it had been occupied for two years: Boys brought coal up to the apartments, past maids carrying buckets and mops, while downstairs, residents ascended into their broughams with the help of the porters. Fortunately, the new residents were far from the demanding upper-crust guests the Langham catered to, apart from the irritable Mrs. Horace Putnam. The men were debonair and kind and the women, while discerning in their tastes, exuded an unexpected warmth.
Not that her job was easy. While the deliverymen were obsequious enough, the clerks of the companies they worked for balked when Sara registered even the most minor complaint. Yesterday, she’d showed up in person at the offices of the kindling supply company after sending multiple letters complaining of damp bundles. The clerk refused to believe she was in charge, insisting that she instead send the “true manager.” She’d fired the company on the spot and directed Daisy to find a suitable replacement.
Each day at four in the afternoon, when Mr. Camden returned from his office, they shared tea and ran through the day’s events. What a relief it was to speak with a man and not have to prove herself. He encouraged a friendly banter, as if she were his equal.
“I’m afraid Mrs. Putnam’s son wore his skates in the parlor. The floors will need to be redone.”
Mr. Camden froze, cup half-raised to his mouth. “He did what?”
She smiled. “I’m joking. Sorry, couldn’t help it. She has insisted we polish the silver inlay of her floors twice a week, however.”
Mr. Camden burst out laughing and barely got the teacup back on its saucer without spilling. “That image will haunt me for days, thank you very much.”
“No, no gossip to tell today, I’m afraid. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”
“Not at all. Between the good notices in the papers and the current residents’ satisfaction, I’ve been told we have a waiting list pages long for residence here at our private village.” He idly lifted an invitation from the table beside him. “That’s a shame.”
“What’s that?”
“The Rutherfords are having one of their mad masquerade balls on Friday. Mrs. Camden would have loved to have gone.”
Sara forced a smile. His wife and children were due the following week. The apartment had been furnished with their overstuffed armchairs and delicate French tea tables, and was just waiting for the rest of the family to arrive. She’d so enjoyed Mr. Camden’s company these past few weeks, but their relations would have to become more formal once Mrs. Camden arrived from London. It was only right.
For the first time, she reconsidered her mother’s relationship with the Earl of Chichester. Sara had never been able to imagine how her mother had fallen into the man’s hands, made herself so vulnerable. But perhaps they’d been united by the common goal of running a large manor, leading to shared confidences and a mutual respect that wasn’t bound by class. The loss must have been insurmountable, if that was the case. Her mother’s livelihood, and her love.
“Mrs. Smythe?”
She looked over. Had he said something? “I’m sorry?” Her face flamed with embarrassment.
“I said you should go with me.”
“To where?”
“The Rutherford ball.”
“No, of course not.” He was mad. A glorified servant did not attend balls.
He sat back and ran his finger over the thick card stock. “Too bad, as I’d love to show you the interior work. And they’re known for their soirees. Last year they held a costume ball for twelve hundred people, and even the discerning Mrs. Astor showed up.”
“What was her costume?”
“Good question. I’ll have to find out. You always stump me, you know that, don’t you?”
“In any case, there’s no reason you shouldn’t go unescorted.”
“I don’t want to go for any other reason than to prove to you the level of inanity the world has attained.”
That again. She hoped he wouldn’t go off on another tear. “I can read about it in the newspapers every day; there’s no need to go to a ball.”
“I suppose you’re right.” He sighed. “In any case, I’d forgotten we’d also have to find you proper clothes.”
Sara looked down in her lap. This morning, knowing she’d be performing an inspection of the basement rooms, she’d worn her gray day dress, her shabbiest outfit, and shame flooded over her. There was no use pretending to be Mr. Camden’s equal, exchanging witticisms and teasing him, when really she was no better than a scullery maid in appearance and social ranking.
Yet the man ought to be put in his place. “I’ll have you know that I own a lovely ball gown.”
He slapped his knee. “Of course, I forget that you’re the daughter of nobility. How awful of me to assume otherwise. Then it’s settled, we must.” He didn’t give her an opportunity to answer. “It’s a masked ball. I will introduce you as my second cousin from England. We will enter, I’ll give you a quick tour, and then we’ll leave. It’s the perfect opportunity. Perhaps the only one.”
True. Other than being hired as their housekeeper, Sara would never set foot in a house like that in her life.
“Please go with me. Sara.”
The use of her Christian name stopped her cold. What on earth was she thinking?
“I couldn’t.”
“One night, for ten minutes. We’ll leave in separate carriages, then I’ll join you nearby.” His face grew serious. “I think we both know this time next week our friendship will be swallowed up by society’s dictates. Shall we enjoy it now, while we have it?”
He held her gaze. “No one will know, I promise.”
Had her mother heard the same words, at some point?
No. Sara was wrong to romanticize her mother’s relationship with his lordship. That wasn’t the case at all. The man was known as a beast throughout the county, one who whipped the boys who poached on his land. Her mother had been tricked, seduced against her will. The offer from Mr. Camden was nothing like that. He was American, for a start, and believed that all people, regardless of standing, deserved a chance. He’d seen something in her back in London and given her the greatest opportunity of her life. And now he was asking her to the ball, but not as Prince Charming. As a co-witness to the madness of the elite. This was the class of people the residents of the Dakota wished to be like, in their heart of hearts. By attending, she’d gain a deeper understanding of the resentments, frustrations, and aspirations of the very people for whom she worked.
Ten minutes out of her life. Ten minutes of being on Mr. Camden’s arm.
Only ten minutes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
New York City, September 1985
“Where the fuck is everyone?”
Melinda tore through the apartment like a well-coiffed whirlwind, dropping her Birkin bag with a thud on the floor.
Bailey had been in the kitchen, furiously trying to reach the contractor on the phone, with no luck, when she heard the front door slam and knew exactly who it was. Now, as they faced off down the long gallery, Melinda reminded Bailey of a bull in a bullfight, about to charge. A bull wearing Candie’s high heels.
“So, where are the workers?”
Bailey’s footsteps echoed through the empty apartment. “I’m trying to reach Steve to find out. I don’t remember him saying anything about taking the day off; they know we’re on a tight schedule.”
“You bet we are.”
“I have to ask, did you pay their bill, for the next installment?”
Melinda rolled her eyes. “I think so.”
She had her answer. “My guess is they’ve been pulled away on another job.”
“Why is that?”
“Because they’re due the next installment on their payment, and they haven’t gotten it yet.”
“Jesus Christ. Steve knows I’m good for it. I told him my situation.”
“I’m sure you did. But they don’t only work for you. If another job comes along, they jump if they aren’t happy.”
Melinda’s shoulders dropped a few inches. Progress. Bailey kept talking. “I’ll try calling them today, see if I can entice them back. But right now the only thing we know for sure will work is a big fat check.”
“Fucking Fred won’t give me anything early. I’ve tried already, trust me.”
“Then maybe it’s a good idea to wait until you have the money in hand to continue.” Bailey hated saying this. It meant she’d be at loose ends, and broke, for an extra month. Unlike Melinda’s idea of broke, hers actually meant it.
“I’ll ask Tony. He’ll front me the cash.”
“How soon can you get it?”
“I’ll go by his office today. Tonight we’re hitting the Limelight, so he’ll be in a good mood later even if he’s cranky when I ask for the money.”
The Limelight. Bailey’s jaw tightened and her heart raced. Like Pavlov’s dog, she only needed to hear one word. The many nights they’d spent dancing and drinking and doing coke until dawn had imprinted themselves on her.
She’d hit an AA meeting at a small church on Sixty-Ninth Street a few nights ago. The place had been packed and the coffee strong. She listened to the stories and nodded encouragement, but felt like a fraud, like an actor in a movie about recovery. Playing the role of the penitent sinner. Until one woman brought her to tears with her story about waking up in an apartment in the Bronx, beaten and sore, not remembering how she’d ended up there. The bruise around her eye had faded to a shadow, but her words and anguish were still raw. So many nights, especially during the last year, Bailey hadn’t been sure how she’d gotten herself home. She’d dodged a bullet. Maybe a whole cartridge of bullets.
As she’d turned to leave, she spotted Renzo standing in the very back. He disappeared in a flash, but she was sure it was him. It made her feel defenseless and small, knowing that he had stared at the back of her head the past hour. Knowing that he knew.
A couple of days later, when she’d been showing Kenneth the wallpaper choices for his bathroom, Renzo stopped by to inspect the work the plumber was doing. She tried to shape her expression into a smile that meant Your secret’s safe with me, but he had barely made eye contact. Maybe none of the other tenants knew he had a problem, and he wanted to keep it that way. That was fine with her. Still, he could have been nicer.
Melinda picked up her Birkin and brushed imaginary dust from her denim culottes. “You should come with us tonight, Bails. It’ll be like old times.”
“Are you kidding? I just got back from rehab. The Limelight is the last place I need to be.”
“Fine, then come to dinner with us beforehand at the Odeon. You don’t need to drink and it’ll be better than sitting in this tomb. You look so pale; have you had any fun since you’ve been back?”
“I don’t have the funds for fun right now.”
“It’s on me and Tony tonight. Okay? Our treat.”
If Bailey had another slice of pizza for dinner, she’d lose her mind. The thought of a real meal, with cloth napkins and waiters, seemed like an exotic expedition. She could use the change of scenery.
“What time?”
“Nine o’clock.”
So late. “I’m not sure. There’s no way I can go back to partying like I used to.”
Melinda punched her playfully on the arm. “I know. I don’t mean to push you. I just want to get you back in my life. I’ve missed you.”
“You have me. I’m not going anywhere. Unlike your contractor.”
“And I’m so happy about that, and I want you to join us. Okay?”
Bailey agreed, touched by Melinda’s insistence.
Her choice of clothing for the evening was limited. She had some indigo jeans and a pair of high heels, but the only “nice” item for going out to dinner was a sequined top that tied around her neck and exposed much of her shoulders. She found it wedged into a corner of her suitcase, underneath the sensible T-shirts she’d brought with her to rehab. It was risqué for the Dakota, but not for Odeon.
Of course Renzo was in the porter’s office as she passed through the porte cochere. She looked like she was heading out for a good time, and it put a lump of guilt in her belly.
He waved at her from the window, and she waved back without smiling. What business was it of his where she was going or what she looked like? Who was he to judge? The man was the super of a building in New York City, not a potential client or friend. The need to please him pissed her off, and the feeling didn’t go away until she was in a subway car hurtling downtown.
Tony stood and pulled out a chair for her as Bailey entered the restaurant. The room was loud and crowded, and a couple of men’s heads turned as she walked by. It was nice to know she wasn’t all washed up. The liquor bottles behind the bar glittered like jewels as Prince sang about raspberry berets from the speakers.
She ached for a drink. If she wanted to stay in New York, she’d have to learn to manage temptation, and tonight was her first real test. Her hand fluttered to her throat—it was all she could do not to claw at it—as she ordered a seltzer with lime, before thanking Tony for letting her be a third wheel.
“Not at all. We missed you terribly.”
His accent was so posh, the fact that most of what he said was gossip and self-congratulation tended to be forgotten by his listeners. Including Melinda, who doted on the man. The few times Bailey had asked Tony what exactly he did for a living, he’d brushed her off with tales of dashing around Ibiza with his university chums. He had an air of wealth, which meant the other details didn’t matter.
