“It was nice of you to ask me tonight, Mrs. Mendelson,” Philip said.
“You’re quite an addition, having been threatened by Reza Bulbenkian; and it’s Pauline, not Mrs. Mendelson, and, of course, I’m going to call you Philip. You seem so young to have caused so much trouble. How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-nine until midnight, and then I’m thirty.”
“Heavens, we must do something to celebrate.”
“Oh, no, please,” he said, meaning it. “I would hate that. I’m sure you don’t remember, but we met once before.”
“Indeed, I do. At the theater, at that silly play. You were
with Mary Finch. Her stepmother was one of my bridesmaids, in my first wedding.”
“How’s Rocky, whose plane crashed and whose two pilots were killed?”
“What a memory you have! Rocky’s completely recovered. Getting married again. Even bought a new plane.”
“Atta boy, Rocky,” said Philip.
“How are you getting on with Camilla?”
“She’s very nice.”
“Recent widow.”
“She told me her husband dropped dead in Barcelona.”
“He did. You know who she is, don’t you?”
“No.”
“Sam Worthington’s daughter.”
The name meant nothing to Philip. “Is that good?” he asked.
“Natural gas.”
“I guess that’s good,” said Philip, and they both laughed.
Then Jules Mendelson came into the room. His massiveness filled the doorway. “Pauline, people are looking for you,” he said.
“Yes, I’m coming, Jules,” said Pauline, turning to him.
“I feel lost at these parties unless you’re there,” he said to her, as if Philip were not there.
“Oh, Jules, don’t be silly.”
“It’s you they come to see, you know. Things slow down when you’re not there.”
“Isn’t he sweet, this husband of mine?” asked Pauline, looking at Philip and indicating Jules with a wave of her hand.
“What are you doing in here?” asked Jules.
There was a pause, and she said, “Kippie called.”
Jules looked at his wife. “Kippie? Called from France?”
“No, here. He’s back.”
“Here? In Los Angeles?”
“Yes.”
“Is he coming over?”
“No.”
“Where was he calling from?”
“I don’t know, Jules. He wouldn’t say.”
“Everything all right?”
“No,” she replied. For an instant they looked at each other.
Aware of Philip’s presence, Jules persisted in the conversation, but in a lower voice, as if Philip could not hear.
“What did he want?”
“Money, what else?” answered Pauline, matching his lowered tone.
“I won’t.”
“I know, Jules. I told him that.”
“We’ll talk about it later, after the party. I’ll wait up,” he said, looking over at Philip.
“Yes,” said Pauline. Philip was struck by the sadness in her voice.
“Your friend Hector changed the place cards,” said Jules, in a chiding voice meant to distract his wife from her problem.
“I know he did. It’s a long story. I didn’t realize Hector and Rose aren’t speaking at the moment,” said Pauline. Philip noticed that Pauline was making an effort to shake off her sadness over whatever was troubling her and return to her hostess role. “But you know Hector, Jules. By tomorrow everything will have been straightened out between him and Rose, and he’ll make a hilarious story out of it.”
“My enthusiasm for Hector is more restrained than yours, I’m afraid,” replied Jules.
“Not now, Jules. Have you met Philip Quennell?”
“How do you do, Mr. Quennell,” he said, offering Philip a hand to shake. He seemed not to remember having met him an hour and a half earlier in his own hallway.
“Did you like the red wine?” Jules asked Pauline.
“Marvelous, Jules.”
“From the Bresciani auction. Château Margaux.”
“Oh, I know, darling. Everyone commented at my table.”
“Did you notice the color? And the body? Jean-Pierre said it has all the characteristics of
une grande année
.”
“Superb. Everyone thought so,” said Pauline.
“What did you think of the red wine?” Jules asked Philip.
“I’m afraid I’m one of those people who put their fingers over the rim of the glass when the waiter pours,” answered Philip.
“Don’t drink?”
“No.”
“You must try this. It’s exceptional. The quintessential ’eighty-five Bordeaux.”
“No, thank you. I won’t,” said Philip.
There was an unmistakable look of disdain on Jules’s face, as if to say his young guest was a fool to pass up such an opportunity to sip, for free, one of the great wines of France. “A problem?” asked Jules, in the direct manner he had of asking blunt questions.
“Far less dramatic,” answered Philip. “Simply no taste for it.”
Pauline, observing, quickly came to Philip’s rescue. “As you can see, my husband is a wine enthusiast. Philip has come out to write a film for Casper Stieglitz,” she explained.
Jules, disinterested, nodded.
Pauline was not deterred. “It was Philip Quennell’s legs that Reza Bulbenkian threatened to break,” she said.
Jules turned to him now, his interest captured. Suddenly his stern face broke into a wide grin, and the sternness evaporated. “So you wrote
Takeover
. I thought your name was familiar,” he said. “Whoever told you all those things?”
Philip smiled but didn’t reply.
“You were pretty damned accurate, I’ll say that for you. You must know you’re high on Reza’s shit list,” Jules continued.
“Oh, yes, I know.”
“It’s all talk, though. Reza Bulbenkian wouldn’t hurt a fly. Or, have a fly hurt.”
Philip wasn’t so sure of that, but he replied, “I’m sure.”
“It’s inexpensive to have someone killed, but it’s very expensive to have someone’s arms or legs broken, because they can identify you,” said Jules.
“What curious information to have at your fingertips, Jules,” said Pauline.
“Reza, you know,” continued Jules to Philip, “was the only one who didn’t go to jail.”
“Yes, I know,” replied Philip. “He didn’t go to jail because he testified against his former partners.”
Jules looked at Philip. “Can’t wait to tell Reza that you’ve been here to dinner,” he said, chuckling at the thought.
“Will he be annoyed?”
“If he is, he won’t say anything.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Pauline said, “If you should move hotels, or take an apartment, Philip, make sure you let Miss Maple know.”
“Miss Maple?”
“You met her when you came in, at the guest book. She’s Jules’s secretary. I’ll want her to know where to reach you.” Philip understood that he had passed inspection. He was going to be invited back.
“Pauline,” said Jules again, giving a toss of his head toward the music to prompt her to return to her party. She put her hand beneath his arm.
“Tell the orchestra not to play too loud, Jules. It kills the conversation. Remember what happened at Rose’s party? The music was so loud everyone went home by eleven, and they hadn’t even wheeled out the birthday cake yet.”
“That was because Rose was loaded and forgot to tell them to wheel it out,” said Jules.
“Oh, darling, you shouldn’t say that,” said Pauline, giggling. “Poor Rose. She’d die if she heard you say that.”
“You mustn’t let her drive home tonight,” said Jules. “She’s in no condition to drive anywhere.”
“I’ve already told Blondell to turn down the bed in the guest room,” said Pauline.
Jules patted her hand in approval.
“Somebody’s kissed you,” said Pauline. She took his handkerchief from his breast pocket, touched her tongue to it, and wiped the lipstick off his cheek.
“Rose,” he said, grimacing.
Pauline laughed and put the handkerchief back in his pocket. Jules smiled at her, and they returned to their party. Philip watched them. However rarefied their existence, he thought, they were married, a couple, committed, bonded in long wedlock. It was what he wanted for himself.
When Philip got back to his table, Camilla Ebury was not there. He looked out at the dance floor and saw her being whirled around by a tall, dark man, too tanned, who was almost too good a dancer, Philip thought, like an instructor in a tango palace. He moved too elegantly, too sleekly, his left shoulder assuming a slightly delicate twist as he steered Camilla through the dancers. Camilla was laughing in a carefree manner, and Philip, to his astonishment, felt a twinge of jealousy, although he scarcely knew Camilla Ebury.
On the other side of him, Rose Cliveden, drunk, was waving her arms as if she were leading the orchestra, and the red wine in her wineglass spilled onto her blue satin dress. Rose, Philip decided, was in her fifties, looked older, because
of drink, and must have been very pretty at twenty, thirty, and forty.
As if understanding what he was thinking about her, Rose said, “A dim railway light is still becoming to me.”
Philip, embarrassed, laughed.
“Out, out, goddamn spot,” said Rose, dipping her napkin into her water glass and then vigorously rubbing her discolored blue satin dress with it.
“What did you spill?” asked Philip.
“Red wine,” answered Rose.
“Awfully good red wine to spill,” said Philip. “From the Bresciani auction. Château Margaux. The quintessential ’eighty-five Bordeaux.
Une grande année
.”
“A pain in the ass is what it is,” said Rose. She had a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth. She removed it and stubbed it out in the brown sugar crystals, mistaking the silver bowl for an ashtray.
“Rose, look what you’ve done!” cried a lady from the other side of the table, but they were all used to Rose in their group and thought the things she did when she had too much to drink exceedingly funny.
Rose, oblivious, went on talking. “This dress cost me an arm and a leg, first time I ever wore it, bought it new for Pauline’s party,” she said. She unpinned and then repinned at an awkward angle a diamond brooch on her left bosom. She wore big-stoned old-fashioned jewelry, with settings never updated to the current fashion. “Heavens, why would I do that?” she would often say in a voice expressing astonishment at such a suggestion, and then relate that the piece being admired had been Granny’s, or Mummy’s, or left to her by Aunt Minnie MacComber, or Aunt Mildred Waymouth, and that took care of that.
“Who’s Kippie?” asked Philip, suddenly.
“The difficult son. Used to have a kleptomania problem. All the shops in Westwood and Beverly Hills were alerted.”
“I didn’t know they had a son.”
“They don’t. Pauline does. Terribly good-looking. By her first marriage, to that fool Johnny Petworth.”
“Never heard of John Petworth.”
“Johnny, they call him. They keep Kippie stashed away in France somewhere, kicking drugs, I think. He got Madge White’s daughter pregnant when they were both only fourteen. Oh, what a to-do there was about that!”
“He’s here,” said Philip.
“At this party?”
“No. In L.A.”
“Kippie’s here?” She seemed astonished.
At that moment Pauline walked past Rose and Philip, in the company of Faye Converse and the former First Lady.
“Pauline!” called out Rose.
“Oh, please,” said Philip, quickly, not wanting Pauline to think he had been discussing her.
“I want to ask Pauline about Kippie,” said Rose. She started to get up to follow Pauline.
“Would you care to dance, Mrs. Cliveden?” he asked, rising also, as if to take her to the dance floor.
“Can’t dance, and I’m the best dancer you would have ever danced with,” replied Rose.
“Then why can’t you?”
“I have a broken toe. So why don’t you stay right here and talk to me. Camilla has been monopolizing you for the whole night. That son of a bitch Hector ditched me, did you know that? Changed the place cards.”
“Yes, yes, you told me,” said Philip, who had heard the account several times and did not want to hear it again.
“He’s mad because the orchestra played so loud at the birthday party I gave for him last week, everybody went home before his birthday cake got wheeled out, and no one sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to him. He loves being the center of attention. That’s why he’s not speaking,” said Rose.
“These are not what I think of as major life problems,” said Philip.
Rose, surprised, looked at Philip for a bit. “Hand me that bottle of red wine, will you? If you wait for these waiters to pour it, you could be waiting for an hour. Now, as my problems are unimportant, you tell me, what kind of conversation do you want to have?” Looking about, she saw that Pauline was returning. “Oh, Pauline,” she called out.
“Tell me, Mrs. Cliveden, what kind of a fuck was Jack Kennedy?” asked Philip, forestalling her from speaking to Pauline about Kippie.
“Oh, marvelous, simply marvelous,” said Rose. She turned to him, giving him her full attention. “He was so good-looking. And so attentive. And
so
passionate. Until he came, and then he simply couldn’t stand to be touched anymore, no affection whatsoever, just when a girl needs it most, when it’s
all over, the lust, I mean. I put my hand on his back when he was putting on his shoes, and he simply shrank from me. It’s that Irish Catholic guilt. They all have it, those Irish people.”
Suddenly, she looked at Philip and picked up his place card. “Who are you? Why are you asking me all these questions?”
“Here you are, delivered back to your table,” said the dark man, pulling back Camilla Ebury’s chair. “I’ve never cared much for purple flowers, but look how marvelously Pauline has arranged these, mixing them with the pink. It’s perfect.”
“You’re a shit, Hector Paradiso,” said Rose haughtily.
Hector elaborately ignored Rose.
“Hector, this is Philip Quennell, whom I’ve been telling you about. Hector Paradiso.”
“Delighted,” said Hector. “Oh, look, there’s Pauline. I promised her this dance.” He was off.
“I thought you were going to dance with me,” said Camilla, taking hold of Philip’s arm. “You don’t mind if I borrow Mr. Quennell, do you, Rose? Come on, let’s go.” She almost pulled him from his seat and led him onto the dance floor. “I think Rose is going to be sick soon, so let’s get out of the way so we don’t have to help.”