The Address, page 12
Although, to be fair, Tony had stuck by Melinda and was basically supporting her lavish lifestyle these days, at least until the trust fund kicked in. A good boyfriend to have. He had widely spaced eyes, sparse eyelashes, and a jet-black, gelled mane that shot out of his hairline like the edge of a well-manicured lawn. He’d gone to either Oxford or Cambridge, and Bailey knew better than to ask again and risk his derision for failing to remember the correct answer.
Tony ordered another round of drinks. Bailey got the steak frites and dove into the bread basket as soon as it arrived.
“Take it easy, tiger,” said Melinda. “It’s like you haven’t eaten in days.”
She put the piece of bread back on her plate and took a sip of seltzer. The place was buzzing with coke-fueled energy. Being here sober wasn’t much fun. Too loud, impossible to talk.
Tony said something and she leaned forward. “What did you say?”
“You’re looking awfully good these days. Rehab agrees with you.” He looked her up and down and she squirmed.
“He means you’ve got a figure, doll.” Melinda pointed to Bailey’s breasts. “Filled out.” She turned to Tony. “I blossomed before Bailey, even though she’s a year older than me.”
Bailey put her elbows on the table, eager to stop Tony from checking her out further. As if this could get any more uncomfortable.
“Remember the holiday visit when you tried on one of my bras and we stuffed it with socks?” Melinda threw back her head and laughed, exposing her neck. “My mother took one look and practically spit up her tea.”
Certain memories were made to be quashed, and that was one of them. The pressure of the bra around her chest had been unfamiliar and tight but made her feel grown up, and she’d draped one of Melinda’s soft cashmere sweaters over it. She thought she stepped into the room full of adults looking like one herself, but her father had turned beet red and her mother had gasped before insisting she change right away.
“I do remember.”
“We were silly kids.” Melinda linked arms with Tony. “In fact, Tony and I were just discussing the possibility of having kids of our own the other day, weren’t we?”
Tony patted her arm. “Right.”
Thank God the subject had changed.
Melinda put her face right next to Tony’s. “Can you imagine how cute our baby would be?” She kissed him on the cheek before wiping off the waxy smudge with her finger. “Or babies. You know, twins run in my family. They’d be the perfect mix of my brains and your good looks.”
Bailey almost choked on her seltzer, and she could have sworn Tony grimaced.
“Your brains?” he inquired.
Melinda leaned over the table and spoke in a mock whisper. “Tony never passed his exams at university, but don’t tell anyone that. He doesn’t like to talk about it.”
Tony bristled. “Only one exam, my dear. I’d like to see how you would have fared. Not well, is my guess. In any case, my family is known for its brilliant men. My cousin, in fact, is going to win a Nobel Prize for science sometime in the near future, I am quite sure of that, so you might want to rethink your judgmental attitude.”
“Sorry, Tony.” Melinda batted her eyelids at him. He sniffed and seemed to calm down.
Bailey took another piece of bread. “What’s your cousin done that’s so amazing?”
“He’s invented a way to match DNA to the person it belongs to.”
“I don’t understand. Of course DNA belongs to the person it came from.”
“It’ll be used in criminal cases. Like if someone leaves a drop of blood or hair at a crime scene, they can tell exactly who did it. So, say they get a suspect in custody, they do this test and know for certain that they’ve got the right bloke.”
“Gross. Can we not talk about hair and blood right now?” Melinda made a gagging sound.
Bailey ignored her. “He certainly deserves the Nobel for that; it almost sounds like magic more than science. Did he go to Cambridge as well?”
Tony gave a quick shake of his head, annoyed. She’d got it wrong. “Oxford. Our family always matriculates at Oxford.”
“Right. Sorry.”
The food arrived, her steak glistening with juice, but she barely had a few bites before Tony insisted they leave. Bailey didn’t want to go clubbing; she preferred to stay there and finish her dinner, but sitting alone at the table would be humiliating. She grabbed a few more fries before following them out the door and into a cab.
They pulled up to the former church, where a line of impatient partygoers wrapped around the block. Bailey had every intention of continuing on uptown, but Melinda yanked her out of the taxi. From there, it was as if a magnetic force took over, pulling her past the bouncers and over the gaping maw of the threshold. She vowed to spend only ten minutes or so at the club, as a test of her willpower, until Tony and Melinda were distracted by new friends and new drugs. She checked her watch. She’d be home before midnight and would wake up early, in time to attend the eight thirty AA meeting.
The theme for the night was “Bare as You Dare.” Long, skinny limbs erupted every so often from the mash of bodies on the packed dance floor. The lights flashed to the beat of a Tom Tom Club song, and at times the dancers seemed like they made up one organism, a pleasure-seeking, pulsating beast.
Once inside, Tony and Melinda had peeled off to the right. They were probably in search of more coke, which usually could be found in one of the tiny rooms downstairs, the private areas where club goers could writhe around one another or drop acid or do whatever else they’d regret in the morning.
She climbed the stairs for a better view and leaned over the balcony, scanning the crowd. No familiar faces. Four months ago, she would have been treated like royalty from the minute she passed the bouncer. As part of Tristan’s entourage, doors opened and people sucked up.
“Well, if it isn’t the backstabbing bitch Bailey.”
Speak of the devil. Tristan.
And not only Tristan but Wanda and a couple of assistants from the firm, who hovered in the background, trying to look bored and cool.
“What are you talking about?” She knew it was better to go on the offensive with him but couldn’t think of any other response.
He glowered at her. “You took over Melinda’s job, did you? How’s that going? Everyone knows your cousin can’t pay up. And how do they know that? I told them myself.”
That explained the missing crew. Tony’s money would solve that problem, but for now she had to deal with Tristan.
He’d given her so much, had taken her in and trained her, made her feel smart and talented. She’d once been a lowly assistant, but he’d noticed that she always made the extra effort by staying late and doing whatever it took when an emergency cropped up.
“Look, Tristan. I’m sorry for that. Really. Melinda’s throwing me a bone here. Like you said, she can’t even afford it yet. Why would you even want to be bothered with that?”
“You’re doing me a favor, is that how you justify it?”
“No, I don’t mean that.”
Wanda thrust her long neck forward. “She totally scooped it out from under you, Tristan. I was there.”
Tristan sniffed. “I got you to rehab, and this is what I get in return?”
He was right. Whatever defenses she had left crumbled. “You’ve done so much for me, Tristan, I’m sorry. I should have come to you first, but it all happened so fast. I was desperate. I didn’t have any money, a job, a place to stay. Melinda offered all three. At least temporarily.”
He cocked his head, mollified for the moment. “You can have your cousin’s apartment. But it’s the last job you’ll ever do. I won’t have you poaching my business. Remember, I can ruin you in this town.”
They left Bailey shaking, one hand on the balcony and the other over her heart, which beat as if she’d inhaled an eight ball.
Tristan had the power to shut her out of her career completely. Why hadn’t she seen that? In rehab, her counselors had advised her to make a plan for when she got out, and she’d considered moving somewhere else, like Los Angeles or San Francisco, to make a fresh start. But that was hard to do when you had no money, no contacts.
She should call someone from AA. Or her roommate from Silver Hill. Confess that right now all she wanted was a shot of tequila. Something searing and quick to take the pain away and the edge off. But the idea of standing on a street corner, putting quarters into a pay phone and waking up a girl she barely even knew, was pathetic. Desperate. She wasn’t that. Not yet.
One drink. That’s all she’d have. Then she’d walk out of here and never come back.
Her purse held only a few subway tokens and a five-dollar bill. She went through all of the side pockets and almost cried with joy when she spotted a twenty. Her emergency fund.
The tequila was as good as she’d expected it to be. No, better. Hot fire. She would leave after saying good-bye to Melinda and Tony, warning them that Tristan was pissed. She found them in what used to be the undercroft of the church, now decked out with funky couches and low lighting. A line of coke was laid out on the table in front of them, a bottle of champagne in a bucket on the floor.
“Bailey, where have you been? Sit here, give me a kiss.”
Melinda was sloppy, happy, and a mess.
Bailey sat beside her. “Tristan’s on the warpath. He’s mad that you hired me. Really mad.”
“Screw him. I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry about a thing.” She poured Bailey a glass of champagne, spilling some on her lap but not noticing.
“No, I’m not having any more.”
Tony leaned forward, a curled-up dollar bill in his hand. “You’ve already partaken?”
“Just one.”
Melinda let out a cackle. “Go on, have a glass of champagne.”
The warm feeling from the shot was beginning to dissipate. She could sneak out the back way and catch a cab, go home thinking about the steak she never got to finish. Or she could stay in this one room, deep in the bowels of a building where generations of New Yorkers had found absolution from their sins, and make herself feel good for the next hour or two. Feed that particular appetite.
It wasn’t even a toss-up.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
New York City, November 1884
As promised, the carriage stood waiting on Seventy-Second Street in front of the Dakota at precisely eleven o’clock. Once inside, Sara removed her long cape, glad that the evening was quite temperate, and smoothed her dress. She’d spent the past three nights hard at work at the tailor’s sewing machine, narrowing the silhouette and adjusting the sleeves to bring it up to date, and while it wasn’t perfect, it would do. Her hands were clammy in her gloves.
At Fifty-Ninth Street, the carriage stopped abruptly. The door opened and Mr. Camden appeared, lit from behind by the lamplights.
“Are you ready to see the worst of society?” He took a seat next to her and handed over a delicate mask decorated with peacock feathers, the blues and greens iridescent. His was painted an antique gold.
Even in evening dress, he looked like he’d just come from a fight. With that crooked nose, there was no getting around the fact that he wasn’t at all like the upper class. But the delicious discord between his fine clothes and his rugged build took her breath away.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” She clutched the ties of her mask tightly. “It wouldn’t do for you to be seen with a member of the staff of the Dakota. They’ll have my hide. And yours.”
“I’ve informed them that my second cousin, Imogen Cuthberg, will be joining me. We’ll flit around the edges before making a run for the door. No one will notice, I promise.”
“‘Imogen Cuthberg’? Is that the best you can do?”
He gave her a mock pout. “I’ll have you know I do have a second cousin named Imogen Cuthberg, and she’s a delightful soul.” He paused, thinking. “Her teeth are quite crooked and she’s not the quickest wit, but delightful nonetheless.”
“I can only imagine what you see in me, in that case.” The darkness made her bold.
“Lovely teeth and a rapier-sharp wit, if you must know.”
Thankfully, he couldn’t see the pink glow that stole up her neck to the top of her head.
The carriage finally lurched to a halt in front of the Rutherfords’ mansion. Sara took a deep breath and descended. Now that she was wearing a proper gown, all of her mother’s admonishments regarding posture and deportment kicked in, and she glided along the sidewalk to the enormous front door encased by white marble columns.
Inside, they found themselves in a crush of guests. Mr. Camden had said the invitation list numbered over a thousand, and for that she was thankful, as it encouraged anonymity. Everyone was trying to squeeze into the great hall, and Sara let herself be swept along, with Mr. Camden’s hand on her elbow providing reassurance. He maneuvered them into a corner of an enormous ballroom where they could gape without being trodden upon.
If this night weren’t already a dream, the great hall was designed to be just that. Its recessed fountain alcoves and climbing stone vines turned the world inside out. The weight of the rusticated walls added to the soaring illusion of the trompe l’oeil sky that covered the vaulted ceiling.
“Your dress is lovely.” Mr. Camden took a few steps back, his lips parted. No mirror was needed to know that she filled out the gown nicely—his face showed his delight. “It matches the flowers.” He pointed to the vase of blush roses that blocked them from view, only one of hundreds of similar arrangements in hues from ivory to crimson. The current craze for indoor greenery was evident as well, with enormous palms and ferns clustered around the marble columns.
“It’s like a jungle.” She was proud and bashful and eager to deflect his attention.
“A jungle with wainscoting stripped from a château in France.”
“I believe their fireplace rivals ours,” Sara noted.
Mr. Camden studied it. “Carlisle stone and carved oak. Looks about twenty feet wide. The one in the Dakota dining room is a slight fifteen feet wide. I do apologize for that, Miss Cuthberg.”
“As you should.”
He might as well have shouted out her true name for all the attention, or lack thereof, they garnered. Mr. Camden purloined a couple of champagne glasses from a passing tray and handed one to her.
“Come, let’s explore.” He took her down a hallway that led away from the crowds, the tails of his dress coat fluttering behind him.
“How many servants does it take to keep a place like this running?” she asked. The champagne bubbled in her nose and she coughed.
“A little under forty, from what I’ve heard.” He opened a door and raised his eyebrows. “Here we go.”
They stood inside a library, the grandest Sara had ever seen. Bookshelves lined every wall, three levels in all, ringed by narrow balconies. The fireplace of bloodred marble reminded her of a piece of raw steak, streaked with fat. She drew closer, drawn to the figures carved along the mantel: a row of a dozen fat babies, all grabbing at one another in anger or churlishness.
“What on earth?”
Mr. Camden drew closer and sighed. “I know, awful, isn’t it?”
“I would have thought cherubs would be better suited for such a grand space.” She gestured up at the coffered ceiling. “Not these devilish creatures.”
“Now do you understand my frustration? To have so much money, to waste it on such garishness.” He turned to her. “That’s why I want to get away from Hardenbergh, start my own firm and begin changing the world. One building at a time. No more European flourishes. Straight lines soaring into the sky.”
“You’re talking about remaking the entire city, aren’t you?”
“Maybe I am. Someone must.”
Sara studied the stained-glass windows and porcelain vases. “How do you know what’s truly valuable, when everything is valuable?”
He laughed. “Precisely.” His mask covered his expression, but his eyes danced with pleasure.
Sara froze as a deep voice from the hallway drew closer. “Someone’s coming. What shall we do?”
Mr. Camden took her hand and pulled her into an alcove off the main room, out of sight.
She resisted at first, but it was no use. They were trapped.
Mr. Camden put his mouth close to her ear. “We’ll stay here, quiet, for a moment. They’ve probably come for a smoke and will leave soon enough.”
Sara squeezed as far back as she could. Shelves lined the alcove, but instead of leather-bound books, they contained artifacts of all sorts. Ancient manuscripts sat alongside gleaming swords, and grotesque figurines from some foreign land leered back at them. Terrified she’d knock something over, Sara stood as still as possible.
The squeak of leather, followed by the smell of cigar smoke, indicated that Mr. Camden was correct. The men’s voices rose.
“They’re running rampant.” The speaker had a grumbly wheeze. “Why, Mrs. Rutherford was almost leveled by one on Fifth Avenue the other day. Our carriage driver had to give the kid a good beating. No sense, those street children.”
“I wish we could put them on a boat and send them off somewhere,” answered another. “They make New York City a dangerous place.”
“Such generous souls,” muttered Mr. Camden, so quietly Sara could barely hear him. He picked up a knife that lay on a shelf about hip level. The long, single-edged blade ended in a pointed tip, and the hilt was decorated with gold and silver that had been hammered and patterned into swirls. “I’m sure the child would’ve loved to get his hands on one of these, show them what’s what. I know I would have. Pompous fools.”
“We shouldn’t touch anything.” She mouthed it more than said it.
A woman’s high voice broke through the men’s murmurs like shattering glass. “Mr. Rutherford, you can’t stay hiding in here. It just won’t do.”
