The Best People, page 10
“Thank God for small favors,” Jim said. “All right, Lester, if that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is. I believe you’re a man of your word.”
“And you’re a man of discretion. So let’s keep this conversation strictly between us, huh? I mean, what I said about secrets still goes. I’ve told you the truth. But you’re the only one who knows. So hang in there. It’s important. I mean it.”
The significance of his words did not escape Jim. He could not tell even Tony that Lester was verbally committed, for fear that Tony would slip and let Weinberg know he knew. They’d all have to live through this childish game a while longer. Jim only hoped Lester was leveling with him.
“Guess I’d better get back to work,” Jim said. “And let you get a few things done. I appreciate your confidence, Lester. And I give you my word that I’ll respect it.”
“I know you will. You got breeding. That’s why I like you. Oh, by the way, Gertrude’s thrilled about dinner at your house. She’s nutty about those old Park Avenue apartments. Dying to see yours. Who else is coming?”
Only Lester would have the chutzpa to ask for the guest list. “The Gordons and Tony. And we’ve asked a couple of people who live in the building. A very nice lady named Mrs. Simpson and a Dr. Basil and his wife. He’s a psychiatrist.”
“A shrink?” Weinberg clutched his head. “Oy-veh. That’s the one thing Gertrude hasn’t thought of. Next thing you know I’ll be on the hook for fifty bucks an hour.” He laughed indulgently.
“I don’t imagine the doctor will be pitching for new patients,” Jim said coldly. “And from what I know of Gertrude, if she’d ever considered analysis, she’d be in it by now.”
“Yeah,” Lester said, “I think you got something there. Not much gets by that little lady. Especially if it’s expensive.”
“See you on the tenth. Casey and I are looking forward to it.”
“Same here. And remember, kid. This morning is just between us. For the time being, of course.”
“Of course,” Jim said.
“Meantime, take the heat off those poor devils at your shop. Don’t have to tell ’em why. But I don’t need to look at any more campaigns. I’m satisfied, baby. You know that.”
“Fine. That’s the best news I’ve had in quite awhile.” I only wish, he thought, that I really believed it. On the way out he gave Becky a wink and a confident, jaunty smile. He hoped she’d report both to the boys at Crawford-Thompson.
Chapter V
Dressing for the dinner party at the Cromwells’ gave Gertrude Weinberg a small problem. But it was the kind she was learning to like. In these past few weeks of her “new life,” as she thought of it, she had spent many hours wondering what to wear to the teas and luncheons and fashion shows to which she suddenly was being invited. Gertrude had no education, no background, no frame of genteel reference. But she was not a stupid woman. She’d been smart enough to land Lester and clever enough to keep him fascinated. By the same token, she was bright enough to know that she was being used by these snooty advertising people who were all over her with their invitations and their phony professions of friendship.
Gertrude got a kick out of letting them believe she was buying their snow jobs. It amused her to know privately that it really was she who was using them. It was her own little secret. Even Lester, poor fatuous boob, thought she was taking it seriously. Gertrude was, in fact, enjoying the attention. But more importantly she was learning how to act in “better circles.” Women like Gwen Crawford and Casey Cromwell were serving as teachers, paying for her to learn how to be at ease in new social situations, what to order in restaurants and how to dress appropriately and smartly for any occasion.
In the beginning, she’d been scared to death and had made a million mistakes. But she was a quick study. She’d already grasped the fundamentals of acceptance in this group. Her hair style had gone from bleached bouffant to frosted chignon. The ornate, overtrimmed dresses had been replaced by simple, elegant clothes for day and evening, all of them bearing labels that said “Norell” or “Trigère” or “Galanos.” She had even traded in the jewelry she’d selected immediately after her marriage to Lester. The jazzy aquamarine and emerald “matched sets” of earrings, pin and ring had given way to discreet gold and diamond pieces, all related but none exactly the same in design. She’d learned that a sable-lined poplin raincoat was more elegant than a blond mink. And she’d given her mink stole to her sister who didn’t know enough not to wear it.
Proper dressing had been relatively easy to learn. Even though, as tonight, she had to think carefully about the suitability of what she put on. It would not do to be overdone for a small dinner party at home. On the other hand, it was important to look chic and rich. She settled for a black Trigère dress with long sleeves and a high neckline. Her only jewelry would be a heavy gold Cartier chain with a diamond-and-ruby-encrusted gold cross. No earrings. And only her diamond wedding band. Gertrude smiled as she fastened on the necklace. What would Mama say if she saw her nice little Jewish girl with a cross around her neck? Not that it had religious significance. It just happened to be the status ornament of the season.
No, it hadn’t been difficult for Mrs. Weinberg to affect the outer trappings of simplicity. All you had to do was watch and study the other women and have enough money to go to the right hairdressers and buy the right fashion labels that meant automatic social security. What was more difficult were the intangibles — some of which Gertrude recognized and some of which, regrettably, she did not.
She did not realize, for example, that her voice was Bronx-nasal and grating, and that she made constant grammatical errors. She was unaware that her eating habits were close to repulsive, though she knew that she was still sometimes uncertain about which fork to use and invariably got confused about placing a fingerbowl on its doily to the upper left of her dessert plate. She sensed that she had to watch her unconscious use of obscenities, though she comforted herself by remembering she’d once heard that “only a lady can say ‘shit’ and get away with it.”
All in all, Gertrude was pretty well satisfied with the progress she’d made in the past few months. She’d come a long way from the sexy, obvious manicurist who’d gone to bed with Lester and then said “no” until he divorced his third wife. She was good in bed and Lester was lousy. But no matter. Her secret was that she made him feel that he was the greatest thing since Casanova. Gertrude smiled at the new Mrs. Weinberg in the full-length mirror of her bedroom in the big apartment on Central Park West. You’ve come a long way, baby, she hummed, and you’ve still got a long way to go.
She went into Lester’s room to see how nearly ready he was. Lester refused to sleep in his own room but at least he consented to dress in there which was a blessing. She could no longer bear the sight of his sloppiness, the discarded underwear dropped in the middle of the floor, the wrinkled business suit thrown across the unused bed, the jumbled mess of money and keys and credit cards tossed on the dresser. Thank God there was a maid to pick up after him. At least she could retreat to her own frilly bedroom with its gold-satin chaise and Carlin Shop accessories. Gertrude had not yet learned about the delicate, understated chic of Porthault sheets and pillow cases at two hundred and fifty dollars a pair. The day she did, Lester would spend even less time in her bed.
Lester was struggling with his black tie. He preferred the ready-tied ones, but Gertrude would no longer allow him to wear them.
“How ya doin’?” she asked.
Lester gave an angry tug at the offending accessory. “Fuckin’ tie,” he growled. “Never will learn how to do the Godamn thing.”
Gertrude sighed. The Transformation of Lester was not an easy thing. “Here,” she said. “Let me do it. We’re already late. Not that I’d dream of arriving on time, but there is a limit, Lester. We have to go all the way across town.” She made a quick, deft bow. She was used to dressing — and undressing — men.
Lester patted her bottom. “Thanks, honey. We won’t be all that late.” He looked at her questioningly. “You don’t look very dressed up for such a big night.”
Gertrude regarded him with pity. “Poor Lester,” she said, “you’re so smart about some things and so dumb about others. This ain’t — I mean isn’t — a charity ball we’re going to. It’s a little dinner at home. And I’ll tell you something else, buster. Every dame in that room will know that this dress cost eight hundred bucks.”
His glance traveled downward. “For Christsake, Gert, you’re not even wearing Weinberg shoes!”
“You bet I’m not. I wouldn’t own a pair of those crappy twenty-dollar numbers! Boy, that’s just like you! Expect me to put on a Trigère dress and a Cartier necklace and wear cheap junk on my feet!”
“They may be cheap junk to you,” he mumbled, “but don’t forget one thing, baby. If we didn’t sell millions of ’em you wouldn’t be wearing thousand-dollar goy crosses around your beautiful little neck!”
She punished him by refusing to speak to him all the way to Park Avenue. She sat very straight beside him in the back of the Cadillac, her face a mask of silent, haughty disdain. Gertrude’s anger always made Lester miserable. As they pulled up to the door, he took her hand.
“Forgive me, sweetie,” he said. “I’m just a big old fool. You look beautiful.”
She condescended to return the squeeze of his big hand. “Forget it,” she said. “You look pretty swell yourself.”
Lester’s relief was visible. As the doorman approached, he gave the building a quick glance. “This don’t look like much,” Lester said. “Hell, it’s a crummy-looking lobby. Makes ours look like Buckingham Palace.”
The newly informed Mrs. Weinberg disagreed. “The trouble with you is you don’t know class when you see it. It’s like the Crawfords’ building. Kind of shabby-rich. Not all crystalled up with a bunch of chandeliers.”
Lester shrugged. All this was over his head. As they waited for the elevator, he pointed to the simple Adams chairs which flanked the small fireplace. “Get those chairs,” he whispered. “Jesus, wouldn’t you think in a place like this they’d be able to afford upholstery?”
A butler, hired for the evening, admitted them and relieved Gertrude of her new, floor-length sable coat. Casey, in a pink crepe hostess gown, came out of the living room to greet them, Jim close behind her. They ushered the Weinbergs in to meet the other dinner guests who already had arrived.
“You know Mary and Paul Gordon and Tony Stewart, of course,” Casey said. “Mrs. Simpson, may I present Mr. and Mrs. Weinberg? And Dr. and Mrs. Basil, Mr. and Mrs. Weinberg.” Introductions were acknowledged all around, drinks served to the new arrivals and Euralia passed a tray of canapés. Gertrude looked around with what she hoped was cool interest.
“What a charming apartment,” she said to Casey. “So, uh, old-world.”
Casey smiled. “We love it. In fact, it’s changed our whole lives. You know, when Jim and I moved in I had every intention of replacing his grandmother’s things with our own furniture. The kind we had in our old apartment. But as it began to shape up, I felt more and more that these rooms called for softer shapes and more mellow woods. So the furniture is pretty much the way it was. With a few of our own things added, of course. But somehow, the building has a dignity of its own. I almost felt that it rejected the intrusion of our contemporary stuff.”
“You mean you didn’t have a decorator?” Gertrude asked.
This time Jim answered. “No, ma’am,” he said emphatically. “I can’t stand the idea. Fortunately Casey agrees. I don’t want to live with somebody else’s taste. Rather take a chance on our own.”
“And quite right you are,” Elinor Simpson chimed in. “What Mrs. Cromwell says is most interesting. It’s strange how a building like this almost dictates the decor of its individual dwellings. You see, Mrs. Weinberg, I’ve lived here most of my life and I know nearly all of the apartments quite well. It’s fascinating how so many of them have this same kind of restful and very personal charm.”
In spite of herself, Gertrude looked impressed. She turned to Richard Basil and gave him one of her subtly seductive smiles. “What about you, Doctor? Do you and Mrs. Basil go along with that?”
“Indeed we do,” he said. “I’m afraid that many people find all of us here rather stuffy types, Mrs. Weinberg. We seem to tend to a tribal sameness.”
Lester gave a hearty laugh. “Well, now, Doc,” he said, “as a big-time shrink, doesn’t that strike you as a little sick?”
There was an embarrassed silence which Richard quickly covered. “No,” he said seriously, “not at all. This is more likely to indicate a healthy awareness of one’s true self and a security that comes from knowing the convolutions of one’s own personality.”
Jim Cromwell was amused. He was sure that Basil was making up a lot of nonsensical double-talk, having fun at the expense of Weinberg, perhaps getting even for that unfortunate reference to a “shrink.” In any case, the Weinbergs were eating it up. They probably thought they were having an “intellectual conversation.”
Gertrude perked up. “Oh, you’re a psychiatrist, Dr. Basil? How fascinating!” She turned to Louise. “It must be terrific to have him come home and tell you all the crazy things people say to him all day, Mrs. Basil. Boy, the secrets you must know!”
As Jim had predicted, Louise was on her good behavior. She had accepted only one glass of sherry and was nursing it through the cocktail hour. This was a far different lady than the drunken, maudlin creature who’d blundered into their Christmas party. Louise smiled kindly at Gertrude’s gauche question.
“Unfortunately for me,” she said, “Richard never discusses his patients. Doctors’ ethics, you know. Not that I don’t sometimes wish they weren’t quite so ethical. It would be fascinating to hear some of the secrets, but wild horses couldn’t drag them from Richard.”
“Well, that’s comforting,” Gertrude said archly, “in case I ever need that kind of help.”
“I’m sure you never will, Mrs. Weinberg,” Richard said.
“Brother, that’s the best news I’ve had all day!” Lester boomed. “Prices you fellas get, no wonder you can afford big apartments on Park Avenue!”
“Darling,” Gertrude said, “let’s not discuss money, shall we?”
Casey and Mary Gordon exchanged glances. The Weinbergs were utterly impossible. I think I’m going to commit suicide, Casey’s look said to Mary. I wouldn’t blame you, Mary telegraphed back silently.
At dinner, Gertrude, seated on Jim’s right with Dr. Basil beside her, was obviously enjoying herself. She flirted blatantly with Richard, a ploy that unnerved Casey but seemed to have no effect upon either Louise Basil or Lester Weinberg. Probably the former no longer cared, Casey thought. And the latter was either too insensitive to notice or too sure of Gertrude to be concerned. Seemingly, none of the others at table seemed perturbed by Mrs. Weinberg’s outrageous behavior. Tony remained his suave, self-assured self. The Gordons made light, polite talk. And Mrs. Simpson proved to be as delightfully frothy as Jim had painted her. Considering the incredible ingredients, Casey decided, it was not as big a mess as she’d feared. The dinner was perfection and the service flawless. Still, she was relieved when the meal ended and she rose to lead the oddly assorted troup back into the living room for coffee. At least there could be only an hour or so more of the Weinbergs. And after that, Casey swore to herself, it would be many a day before she’d let them set foot in 617 Park again.
Gertrude, a little drunk from cocktails and the wine at dinner, stopped Casey at the doorway of the living room.
“Listen, Casey. You don’t mind if I call you Casey, do you?”
“Of course not. I thought we were on a first-name basis long ago, Gertrude.”
“Right. Well, listen, Casey, I gotta go to the john, and I thought maybe you’d show me around the apartment a little at the same time. We’re gonna redecorate our place, and I think your taste is swell.”
Casey could not help feeling pleased. “Of course,” she said. “Let me just settle the others in and I’ll be glad to give you the tour.” She asked Mary to pour the coffee which Euralia had brought in on the big silver tray, then excused herself and joined Gertrude. She took her first into the master bedroom and waited outside the bathroom door while Gertrude went in.
“You can come in with me,” Gertrude called. “Plenty room. Biggest damn can I ever saw! Makes ours look like an outhouse.”
Standing outside the door, feeling ridiculous, Casey declined the invitation. “I’ll just wait here for you,” she said. Then, feeling that something more was called for, she added, “That’s one of the nice things about these old buildings. The bathrooms are really spacious. Of course, Jim and I did quite a bit of remodeling. The fixtures were the original ones.”
After an inordinately long period of time, Gertrude reappeared. She had refreshed her make-up and, all too obviously, put on more of her expensive, hideously heavy perfume. It was the newest scent, the hundred-dollar-an-ounce choice of women who not only wanted to look like money but smell like it as well. The perfume was overwhelming. The ultimate vulgarity. And typical.
“Okay,” Gertrude said cheerfully. “Let’s have the twenty-dollar tour.”
As quickly as she could, Casey led her through the two guest rooms and baths. Gertrude admired the delicate antiques and the carefully chosen new wallpapers and fabrics. Despite her own modest background, Casey had inherent good taste. She had done it beautifully, following her instincts for warm, inviting colors and comfortable, well-planned arrangements. Gertrude was visibly awed by the fact that it had been done without professional help.
“Gee, kid, you oughta open up your own business,” she said. “It’s a helluva lot better than some places I’ve seen done by fag decorators.”
“Well, thank you,” Casey said. “I don’t know whether it’s as chic as it might be, but it suits us pretty well. Sorry I can’t show you the rest of the house, the kitchen and butler’s pantry and Euralia’s room and bath, but I’m sure they’re cleaning up in there. We’d probably be trampled to death. Maybe some other time,” she lied. “I really love the kitchen. We had everything built in. It’s a real luxury after trying to cope with a kitchenette for five years.”
