“Yes, it is, isn’t it?”
“It kind of shows what God could do if he had the money.”
“Larry! You didn’t say that. Alexander Woollcott did!”
“Elise,” Larry said in an exaggeratedly patient voice. “Alexander Woollcott has been dead for years. I did say it, just now.”
Elise made a face, but before she could say anything more pungent, Bette entered. She was breathtakingly lovely, dressed in a magnificent white chiffon gown, her shining auburn hair falling down her back, braided with white flowers. Bob Bloogee, dressed as a jester, followed in her wake. He was beaming.
“Ya ready ta go?” Bette asked them brightly. “Gee, Elise, ya look beautiful.” She pronounced it “beeue-tee-ful.”
”Doesn’tshe?” Larry asked.
“Indeed,” Bob Bloogee agreed, smiling paternally.
But Elise, for all her good looks and good manners, stood transfixed, staring at Bette. “Bette, you are quite the loveliest girl I’ve ever seen!” Elise declared. In all her time in Hollywood, her work in European films, she had never seen anyone as perfect, as luminous as this. She paused. “But what are you costumed as?”
“A virgin,” Bette said, and laughed.
.
It was another New York society all, complete with beards. Brenda arrived with Duarto. They would meet their lovers here, in the museum rotunda. Asa was escorting Diana. Brenda was dressed in a quasi-baseball uniform, with a cap initialed FWC and her name embroidered on the jacket pocket.
“But what ees theese costume, Slugger?” Duarto asked. He was one of the minority of men in costume, dressed as a nun.
Brenda turned and proudly displayed the back of her jacket. The First wives Club it said in Yankee-like red satin script. Below it, the international symbol for No, a red circle with a bar across it, blocked off a trophy. Below that was emblazoned the motto Hell hath nofury.
“Most unusual,” Duarto commented.
“Look who’s talking. A nun with a mustache!”
“All the nuns I knew had them,” Duarto declared, and Brenda laughed.
“I theenk you lose more weight, Slugger?” he asked, looking her up and down.
“Four more pounds. Don’t I look divine?” Brenda did a little twirl.
Her uniform pants fit snugly across her behind.
“Chou do!”
“Wait till my teammates get here.” Brenda smiled. “We’re all going public.”
“I don’t doubt eet. But really, I think chou are not so angry as chou used to be. Fat women wear ugly clothes because they are angry. This looks cute.”
“Thank you, Dr. Freud. I have news for you. Fat women do everything they do because they are angry. But they don’t usually get to act angry. It makes all the difference. Hey, here comes Diana. Now she looks good in black.”
Diana, also dressed in rustling serge as a nun, walked briskly up to Brenda and Duarto. At her side, a full seven inches shorter than Diana, was Asa, dressed as a monk. Despite their shared clerical theme, they made an odd couple. Duarto smiled at Asa, seeing him truly at ease for the first time since they had met. Asa had learned today that he would not be prosecuted for his part in the Morty stock deal with Gil Griffin. Through Miguel De Los Santos’s efforts, the DA had accepted Asa’s plea bargain in return for his agreement to stand as a witness against Gil. Of course, Asa would never work on Wall Street again, but with Brenda leaving his business, Duarto had plenty of room for Asa to join him.
The foursome paired off comfortably into boy-boy, girl-girl couples, and harmony descended upon them, until an attractive waiter waltzed by.
Duarto eyed him, then caught Asa eyeing him back.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he confessed, and knelt for Asa’s blessing.
It was another New York society ball. The blackjacketed waiters continued to circulate with trays of beautiful and tasty hors d’oeuvres, and the wine continued to be poured into stemmed crystal and sipped by elegant people who continued to murmur devilish little secrets and slanderous gossip and occasionally, to throw their heads back and laugh elegant laughs showing their well-cared-for teeth.
Annie and Miguel arrived, she costumed in the First wives’ team uniform. He was in chain mail, a white plume hanging from his helmet, a small dragon curled around his lance. They joined Brenda, Duarto, and the others in the foyer.
“It’s all so beautifully done,” Miguel De Los Santos said to Annie, looking up to the balcony above the rotunda, where a quartet was at that moment playing Mozart. “I’m impressed.”
“It’s just another New York society ball. What did you expect?” Annie teased.
“Nudes on platters?”
Miguel laughed. ‘No, I mean that it’s not at all overdone. It’s very tasteful. Opulent, but tasteful.”
“We usually manage to be wretched without excess,” Annie agreed.
“Though I think you’ll find dinner will probably err on that side.
Lally can’t control her urge to feed.”
“Tell me about this crowd, Annie,” he said affectionately, taking her arm. “I’m ready to hear more about them than how they made their money.”
“Okay, but I can’t promise to leave out how they spend it.”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, that man with the thick, white hair over there—first American to climb all the major peaks of the Alps. Still climbs. He’s seventyseven. His wife’s standing next to him, the one with the bun on her head. She spends six months of every year working with orangutans in Borneo.” Annie smiled at Miguel. “They’re nice people, and her work with the animals has produced some important scientific data.
“Now the short man talking to the tall one, the one dressed as a matador, he and two partners have opened the four hottest bars and restaurants in the city. They were the ones to introduce high-style TerMer to the city.”
“Almost as important a development as the Salk vaccine.”’ Miguel smiled.
“They live together, work together, and maybe sleep together. Everyone calls them the Three Mesquiteers.”
Miguel laughed, sipped his wine, and continued to look around. “I wonder how much Lila Acheson Wallace left for these flowers,” he mused, eyeing the six-foot-tall arrangements of rubrum lilies, white roses, and allium, always kept fresh through her endowment. Then Annie noticed a tanned, blond woman in the crowd. “Look, do you see Shelby, Brenda?”’ Annie asked.
Shelby Cushman was wearing a green velvet hoop skirt complete with upholstery tassels. Her long blond hair was netted in a thick brown snood.
“Holy shit, it’s the Tara portieres! The bitch thinks she’s Scarlett O’Hara!” sniped Asa.
“She does look awfully good for a woman whose husband’s been in the slammer for weeks,” Brenda admitted. “Of course, I always looked better when Morty was away.”
Kevin Lear, the movie star, drifted by, accompanied by his new fiancee, the star of his latest film. Annie wondered, for a brief moment, what had happened to the last fiancee. wives were no longer the latest in disposable, she guessed. So were fiancees. Lear, as always, looked handsome, his skin glowing With health. “Well, I know who he is at least,” Miguel said, then looked past him and added, “Ah … the lineup is complete at last,” as Elise, also wearing a First wives Club jacket and uniform, appeared with Larry at her side. Larry was dressed as an umpire.
“Hello.” She smiled at them, clutching Larry’s arm. Behind them, Bob and Bette Bloogee waltzed up to join the group. Introductions and greetings rang out.
“So,” said Bob, looking at the three teammates, “you’re out of the closet.”
“God, is it that obvious?” asked Brenda, eyeing Diana.
Everyone laughed.
“Who’s the tall, skinny one in the bizarre outfit?” Diana asked Brenda. She discreetly indicated a young woman, pale as death, dressed in a truly strange costume of chains and pieces of stuffed toy animals.
“That’s Phoebe Van Gelder—Elise’s ex-husband’s current, if you can follow that,” Brenda answered. “Boy, the Cromwell Reed partners are really going to love that getup.”
“You mean that old guy with her is her husband? God, what a weird couple !”
“Look who’s talking!” Brenda laughed and took Diana’s hand to lead her in to dinner.
The Hall of the Temple of Dendur was stunning. The Egyptian temple itself stood on an enormous flat marble island and was lit dramatically, here and there, with spotlights, giving it an unreal, mysterious look. This left the rest of the vast room in comparative darkness, but for the hundreds of tiny candles flickering on the eighty or so tables. The candles illuminated the simple white orchids that seemed to float above them.
Because it was another New York society ball, there had been fierce competition for the desirable tables.
Women, and more than one man, had besieged Elise and Bette about the seating. The dozen or so key spots, the prime real estate, were on the island beside the Temple. The wiveS had one of these. Behind them there was an area left open for dancing, and behind it was Peter Duchin and his orchestra.
“They have been around forever,” Duarto quipped. “They played at my bar mitzvah,” he added as the ClUb and their guests took their seats at their table.
“They played at my coming-out party,” Elise rejoined, laughing. “Or was that Eddie Duchin?”
“Don’t believe a word of it,” Brenda said to Larry as they took their seats. “I can see you’re gullible.”
“No, I’m just open to experience. And I’m enjoying this one. But I must say I’m always a little disappointed at these affairs. Not that I attend them frequently—ahem—but seriously, the beautiful people’?
This is an outright lie. Most of the women look so drawn.”
He sucked in his cheeks and pulled his jaw way down. “So severe,” he mugged in a throaty Park Avenue drawl, just as Lally Snow waltzed by.
Elise looked around at the crowd and laughed. He was right, of course.
It was a look that so many of these women cultivated. Proud, superior, disdainful. And painfully thin. “Tom Wolfe called them social X rays,” she said.
“Now, you look nothing like that,” Larry told her. “You look like a real woman.”
“I think that means I should lose some weight.” Elise laughed. She nudged Larry. “There’s Annie’s ex, and his new wife,” she whispered.
Both Aaron and Leslie were wearing dinner jackets, black ties, and sashes. “She looks like Patton,” Larry observed.
Elise giggled. ‘What about Mary Griffin?” she asked, looking past him.
”What about her?”
“How does she look?”
Larry turned to look at the blond young woman beside the hawklike Gil.
They were standing with the Bloogees, Sherman McCoy, and Sol and Gunilla Goldberg, a coven of the rich and powerful. Elise had already told Larry that Sol was cheating on Gunilla, and also that Gil had smacked Mary around. Now Larry shook his head in disbelief. The external image and the internal truth were hard to integrate. Mary, costumed as a milkmaid, wore a gingham dress, with a low neckline and winglike puffs of white organza at the shoulders. Her hair was glossy blond.
”She’s very attractive,” Larry appraised. “But my dear,” he said, looking back at Elise, “she ain’t got your bones. Like I said”—his voice dropped diplomatically as he leaned close to hen-“you’re the only really beautiful woman here.”
It was another New York society ball. After a little more buzz and chatter, the twelve hundred guests were finally in their seats and ready for the first course, soup. The guests began to eat….
” I hate consomme madrilene !” Phoebe Van Gelder protested, much too loudly, two tables away. Uncle Wade and Julia, her mother, exchanged worried glances.
The guests danced …
“You do want to dance, don’t you, Annie?”
“Of course, Miguel! Right now!” She had loved to dance with Aaron.
“But what will you do with your lance?”
Miguel looked at her, laughed, and leaned it against his chair. Then he took Annie’s hand and led her to the dance floor. She felt his arm encircle her waist and she leaned her body toward him, settling in comfortably.
“Why, you dance superbly,” she praised him. “Where did you learn?”
“Not at Mrs. Stafford’s,” Miguel laughed.
Together they moved as one across the floor. When they returned to the table, Duarto was standing at their chair, listening to Gil Griffin’s complaints about the apartment. Gil, his eyes intense, his face beaklike, turned for a moment, registered Annie with a cold grimace of dislike, and then Miguel, who was moving his dragon-entwined lance away from his seat. Gil’s tight jaw tightened further in recognition and, perhaps, fear?
“Pretty small dragon,” Gil sneered. “Is that the best you can do, Saint Michael?”
“All dragons are small once they have the fire knocked out of them,” Miguel told him.
“Yes. And he has such a beeg lance,” Duarto lisped.
Then came the second course …
“Shrimp!” Brenda exclaimed. “The most beautiful shrimp I’ve ever seen!” Then she shrugged. “Just bring me a half of cantaloupe,” she told the waiter. “And make sure it isn’t an orange potato. I want a ripe one.”’ She looked up to see Shelby floating across the floor.
“The nerve of that bitch, coming as Scarlett,” she muttered.
Diana smiled. “It does take a certain arrogance, coupled with a lack of imagination.” She thought for a moment, reached into the hidden pocket of her habit, and drew out a pencil and notepad. Dear Scarlett, she wrote. I know your Rhett is in jail, and that your business is jeopardized. But don’t worry, you can always go professional in your true calling. If you do, you are welcome to work for me. Then she signed it, Belle Wattling.
”Oh, my God!” Brenda laughed. “Diana, you’re even meaner than me!”
“Mean enough to send it,” said Diana, and flagging a waiter, sent the note on its way. My only concern is that she wont get the allusion.”
The guests indulged in toasts and observations …
“So, now that you’re assembled, may I lift my glass to the First wives club,” Bob Bloogee proposed.
”Hear, hear.”
Annie turned to her program and smiled. A whole page of it had First wives Club written on the top and the No Trophy emblem emblazoned across it, compliments of Bloogee Industries.
“An expensive tribute.” Annie laughed as she passed it around the table.