Authors: Tessa Saks
They passed their
neighbors’ equally expansive mansions, each one an elegant and enduring example
of early twentieth century architecture. Most of the houses dated back to the
twenties, when Sands Point and neighboring Manhasset had first become
fashionable. Some of the homes lined the shore and hid reclusively behind tall,
dense foliage and privacy gates while others sat exposed, high on wide-open
hills, arrogantly shouting for all to take notice.
As they made the
turn, Ellen noted their neighbor, Isadora, still hadn’t fixed the broken lights
at her entrance or repainted the rusted gates. Poor Isadora. After her husband
passed away, she fell apart. Complete madness—even rumors of her cats taking
over the house. But Ellen detested rumors. Besides, Isadora had all his money
to help her feel better. And close to a billion dollars would go a long way to
make any woman feel better fast.
“Perhaps this summer
Isadora will finally do something about that unsightly entrance.”
Jonathan mumbled a
faint “Mmm-hmm” and continued his reading.
Too bad Isadora
wouldn’t fix the gates before Ellen’s Sunday luncheon. The Nassau County Museum
of Art fundraising committee was made up of the top tier of society, including
her newest high-powered friends—Greta Rosenthal and Lady Sutherland. It also
included Mrs. Laurence Ziegler, known affectionately to all as Mrs. Z, but
Ellen had yet to prove worthy of Mrs. Z’s attention. Ellen craved inclusion
into Mrs. Z’s tight inner circle.
All in good time,
she reminded
herself.
As Ellen’s mother
used to say, “Money doesn’t buy you class; that’s something you have to earn.”
And she was right. It takes long periods of commitment before proving yourself
worthy: years volunteering for the right committees, years donating vast sums
to respectable causes and foundations, years forming bonds with important
members of society. No. Class can never be bought, at least not overnight.
As they neared the
Long Island Expressway, the lower-income housing district appeared and a steady
stream of suburban vignettes passed before her. Ellen thought about the sharp
contrast between their lives and hers. Were they happy? She couldn’t imagine
it. Her stomach tightened as her thoughts returned to the night ahead.
***
Sam caught her
reflection in the mirror as she spun round and faced the bar. She tilted her
head and leaned forward, allowing the bartender ample opportunity to take in
her beauty. He dropped his rag and stole a cheating glance before turning away.
“Hey!” A clammy hand
tapped her arm. “I know you.”
Sam leaned away from
the direction of the slurry voice.
“You’re that
model … the angel with the wings above Time Square.”
Sam smiled. She
couldn’t help herself. After all, Rebecca and Sienna were running late. And
besides, men were so stupidly easy. At least Jonathan was a
challenge—especially trying to get him to leave his status-hungry wife. But,
Sam always got what she wanted—and a filthy rich man married forty years would
be no exception.
She turned to assess
the attentive stranger hovering over her. Tall. Decent face. Good suit. Cuff
links. Banker or stockbroker. He’ll be good for some drinks while she waited
for her friends. She caught his Harvard ring and amped up her smile. “Sorry to disappoint.
I have done some modeling … just not the sexy lacy stuff—”
“You sure could,
you’re …” He drank her in. “You’re perfection.”
This was too damn
easy. But it wasn’t her fault God blessed her with such talent. “I mostly do
hand modeling. See?” Sam posed her hand dramatically against her chest.
His eyes locked onto
her breasts before breaking away to her hand. “You do have such pretty …
hands.”
Fool. A bottle or
two of Dom for sure.
***
Twenty minutes had
passed in silence, with Ellen preoccupied in her lists and Jonathan staring out
the dark window. As they pulled up to the Met, long lines of glossy black
limousines converged in multiple rows, swarming toward the entrance. Ellen
pressed the intercom and gave their driver instructions on where to park.
Pulling into the VIP lane, their car advanced and passed the other cars,
stopping at the red carpet littered with Women’s Wear Daily and Vogue
paparazzi.
The animated noise
of the crowd and cameras flooded into the quiet limousine as the door opened.
This
is it. My shining moment. The glamour. The compliments. All the attention.
Finally.
She reached for Jonathan’s hand before stepping out of the
limousine. Ellen stood, waiting for Jonathan to link arms with her. She
smoothed his windswept hair. “Now darling, remember, there will be cameras on
us,” she whispered as she straightened his bow tie.
Music cascaded down
from the radiant building above as they slowly walked the red carpet toward the
stairs, arm in arm, amid all the lights. Ellen smiled at Jonathan and gave his
arm a gentle squeeze, wanting to kiss him, the way they did on their honeymoon.
Those deep, passionate kisses that now happen only in her memory. At least
tonight, he will take her in his arms and hold her close when they dance the
first dance. And everyone will see their love. “Did you ever imagine it could
feel like this after forty years?” He gave her hand a comforting pat as they
continued up the stairs among their esteemed contemporaries. Leaning into him,
she relished his sudden closeness.
As they ascended the
grand staircase to the museum entrance, she gazed up toward the Corinthian
columns and the glowing red satin banners draped across the formal line of the
Beaux Arts building. The historic museum structure, spread across nearly five blocks
of Central Park, was magnificent, and to see it lit with red crystal lights, as
Ellen had suggested, was breathtaking. Thousands of strands of lights, dripping
from the roofline and archways, shimmered beneath the cold night sky. The
building radiated a brilliant red as if it had been on fire and was now the
remaining site of glowing embers. Had she really done this? It was stunning,
beyond anything she had imagined. To think a young girl from nowhere and with
no money was now, forty years later, able to pull this off and be the center of
attention amongst all these influential people.
At the top of the
stairs, they stopped for Jonathan to catch his breath. “Ellen, you have outdone
everyone this year, it’s very grand.”
They stood in the
Great Hall entranceway surrounded by several reporters and a camera. One asked
Ellen about the event and the significance of the gold gown. She leaned closer
to Jonathan and smiled toward the camera. “Tonight, I think my husband and I
have proven how important marriage is. You can’t last this long, not forty
years, unless you forgive and you stand together, united.” She faced Jonathan
and gushed, “Forever.” Jonathan stared ahead. “Smile, darling,” Ellen
whispered, “the world is watching.” She gave his arm a tug of encouragement.
“I need a drink,” he
said and abruptly turned his back to her, then walked away.
Ellen stood for a
moment under the awkward stare of the camera.
Damn him
, she wanted to
say, but instead forced a graceful smile and excused herself to follow Jonathan,
calling out to him, “Darling
…
my
cape.”
He stopped and
turned back toward her. He pulled the cape off her and slung it over his
shoulder like a roll of carpet. Unsure of how to respond, Ellen remained
motionless, watching him disappear into the crowd. The chill of night air
wafted in from the open entranceway as the press crew retreated.
“Hey, Mrs. Executive
Chairwoman,” a familiar voice called out.
Ellen’s best friend,
Patty, stood beside her, smiling and holding a flute of champagne, looking
elegant in a deep-red bias-cut satin sheath.
“I love the gold,”
Patty said, stepping closer. “You look gorgeous.” Patty touched the beaded
silk, nodding in approval. “How does it feel to be one of the VIP couples
tonight?”
“Oh, Patty, it’s
wonderful,” Ellen said as they linked arms.
“Well, that explains
your glow.” Patty took a sip of her champagne. “So twelve more years before I
get to wear my envy-inducing gold dress?”
“Sorry darling,”
Ellen said with a smile. “That’s what happens when you marry late.”
“Twenty-eight is
hardly late, not today anyway.” Patty grinned and pulled Ellen closer. “We
can’t all find love at eighteen, you know.”
“I was lucky, wasn’t
I?”
“No, my dear.” Patty
raised her glass in salutation. “He was the lucky one.”
Too bad he
doesn’t always act it,
she wanted to say, but smiled instead.
As they moved
through the hall, Ellen couldn’t walk ten feet without someone lavishing her
with compliments. Such attention!
The endless hours of planning and hard
work were well worth the effort,
she thought, as she looked around the
room.
A great success.
“Uh-oh, here comes
your favorite social princess. I can’t take her.” Patty gave Ellen a gentle
squeeze, then escaped to another group of women nearby.
Ellen couldn’t blame
Patty. Truth be told, she was afraid of Greta Rosenthal and the damage her acid
tongue could inflict. But it was much easier to pretend to like her than be on
the receiving end of her scorn. And much safer.
Greta approached and
air-kissed Ellen’s cheeks. “Say, have you seen Betty Caulfield? She must have
lost a hundred pounds. My God, she looks like a cancer survivor!”
“Well,” Ellen said,
choosing her words carefully, “she did work hard—”
Greta let out a
cackle. “But darling, what’s the point? He’s already gone.”
“Perhaps she
couldn’t help it,” another voice piped in. “I heard she was so depressed after
her husband dumped her, she went to a fat farm.”
“I heard stomach
stapling,” said another.
Other women suddenly
joined their circle as the attack on Betty intensified.
“It doesn’t matter,”
Greta said with a groan, “she’ll never get anyone
now
.”
Ellen knew Greta was
right; it was over for her. It wasn’t a surprise to anyone when Betty’s life
fell apart. Some women have no control of anything and slip from one drama to
another, never knowing why. But even poor Betty didn’t deserve this. No woman
does. “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Ellen said, hoping to change topics. “She’s a
tough one.”
“No one is tough
when they’ve lost everything.”
Ellen stared at the
heartless smiles of the women surrounding her, each content knowing her own
marriage was secure. Was there any point trying to defend Betty against these
shrewd judges? Ellen wished she could smack these ladies, or at least tell them
off. There seemed no limit to their cruelty. But they were also her friends.
She hated to admit, hypocrites or not, it was great to have such influential
friends. “She doesn’t deserve—”
“Well, I thought she
deserved every bit of it, poor goat,” Greta said. The circle laughed in a
cloned response, then stopped. Ellen turned in the direction of their shocked
faces. Betty Caulfield stood before them.
“Betty—” Ellen said,
interrupting the awkward silence. “You look …
lovely
. We were all wondering, who made your dress?”
“Oh yes,” cooed
Greta.
The other women
joined in a flourish of compliments. Ellen smiled, watching this animated
display of synthetic camaraderie. She wanted to laugh aloud. Liars. Hypocrites.
But then, that was well known and accepted. It was all part of the game. The
big lie. She was as much a part of it as anyone. Like the popular crowd at
school, you’re either in or you’re out. And no one wanted to be out. The
slightest social gaffe could cast you out, never to return.
Was everyone
else also haunted by the constant fear gnawing at you? The fear of a dreaded “incident”?
As she surveyed the
scene, she spotted Jonathan at the bar across the room and caught his eye. He
glanced away.
Is he drinking?
Oh, don’t let him drink too much, not tonight.
She excused herself. A chill
flashed through her as she wove her way through the crowd. Jonathan was no
longer at the bar or anywhere in sight. She scanned the hall, hoping to find
him. The huge bouquets of scarlet roses, set on fourteen-foot tall wrought iron
stands and shaped into massive spheres with ivy and rosebuds trailing down,
blocked most sightlines. As she passed the staircase, lit a dramatic crimson
from the thousand red votive candles lining twenty limestone treads, Ellen
noticed several candles near the top were out. She moved through the crowd in
search of both her husband and someone to relight the candles, but as she
continued to circulate, her concerns dissolved with every flattering encounter.
She was a star tonight, and she stood surrounded by women in red, all admiring
her good fortune.
“You are such an
inspiration,” one of them said, gushing with enthusiasm. They nodded in
approval.
Ellen smiled. “The
secret is forgiveness and commitment. No one is committed anymore.”
Patty asked, “Did
you hear about Mrs. Z’s friend?”
“What will she do?”
Ellen tried to convey deep concern.
“After he remarries,
guess who will get all the invitations?”
“It’s a crime,”
Greta said. “One minute you’re on everyone’s list, and the next you don’t
exist.” She took a generous sip of wine, no doubt her second or third glass.
Ellen shook her head
solemnly. “It’s not right.”
“Right or not, it is
awkward,” Patty added. “I mean, you can’t have them both at your party,
especially if he brings the baby wife.”
“Well, of course
he’ll bring her,” Greta snapped. “That is the whole point, isn’t it?
Look at
me and my young bride
.” The women sipped their drinks in unified solidarity
against the unspoken enemy they all feared. “We are becoming extinct. One by
one. Ellen,” Greta said, raising her glass, “here’s to hanging on to your man.”