One Dangerous Lady (9 page)

We shared a knowing little laugh, which eased the tension somewhat. Our lunch arrived. As we ate the Forum's famous white truffle risotto, Carla said, “On to another subject. Jo, I need your help.”

Okay, now we're getting down to it, I thought: the reason for the lunch and the real reason for the present.

She drew a long breath. “As I mentioned to you, I—that is
we
, Russell and I—” she corrected herself, “have bid on an apartment.”

“The Wilman apartment,” I said.

“So you know about that, too?”

“You'll learn quickly there are no secrets in New York,” I said, laughing.

“There are no secrets anywhere, Jo,” she shot back like a threat.

“So you've bid on Clara's apartment,” I said, ignoring the undertone in her words.

“Your great friend, Clara Wilman,” Carla nodded. “It is in the same building as your other great friend, June Kahn.”

“June's mentioned it,” I said with an uneasy smile.

“I am sure she has. And I am sure you know that she is making my life extremely difficult.”

“June's been known to do that on occasion.”

“When Russell comes back, he will be furious, of course. But Jo, she is being simply awful about me. I understand she is Lulu's best friend. But she is the head of the board and she is going around telling all these terrible lies about me. Fortunately, I have another friend on the board—Hadley Grimes. But my real estate broker called me and said she doubts very seriously that I can get into the building if June continues her campaign against me. June has enormous power in that building.”

“I know. And she's being very unreasonable. Betty and I told her that.”

“Even if I were not trying to get into the building, I cannot have her spreading all these ghastly rumors about me, Jo. It's bad enough with Lulu. But at least Lulu has a reason to dislike me. June Kahn is a woman I barely know.”

“Look, Carla, June is an extremely loyal person and she's very loyal to Lulu. She loves taking up other people's causes. She's a true foul weather friend.”

Carla scoffed at this. “That is not the reason she has a vendetta against me.”

“No?”

“No . . . it really comes from the time when I married Russell.”

“What do you mean?”

“June Kahn was
desperate
to be invited to the wedding and Russell didn't want to have her.”

Now
this
was news.

“Wait—let me get this straight. June wanted to be invited to
your
wedding to Russell?” I asked in disbelief.

Carla told the story in a light, offhand way: “Yes. Russ and I were very surprised, to say the least. Particularly because she was supposed to be such a great friend of Lulu's and she had taken Lulu's side during the divorce. Russ could not believe it when June called him and asked if she could come.”

“Wait a minute. June called Russell and asked if she could come to your wedding? I don't believe it!”

“Jo, I swear to you,” Carla said, putting her hand on her heart. “She rang him up and said that since they had once been such great friends and that he was so happy now, she and her husband wanted to come and help him celebrate his marriage to me.”

It was hard for me to believe that June, who had been so outspoken against Carla and the wedding, had actually tried to wangle herself an invitation. The only thing more humiliating than not being invited to a party you want to go to is trying to
get
yourself invited to a party you want to go to—without succeeding.

“Are you absolutely sure about this?” I asked her.

“Absolutely! You ask Russell. He was
furrrrious
,” Carla went on, her accent sounding like a growl. “Do you know what he said to me? He said, ‘June Kahn would rather die than miss a party'—particularly one that all her friends are going to.”

I knew that was true. June was a famous and shameless party hound. She had been known to call up people she hardly knew and ask to be invited to things. As far as her friends were concerned, she had no problem calling them to insist she be included in on everything. Betty once told her, “Listen, Junie, everyone can't be invited to everything,” to which June responded in a huff, “Well, I'm not
everyone
!”

“In any case,” Carla continued, “Russell refused to invite her. Not just because she was so close to Lulu, but because of all the terrible things she had said about me. Russell was always so protective of me.
Is
so protective of me,” she corrected herself.

“I'm speechless, Carla, because I remember June telling me at the time she wouldn't go to your wedding even if Russell begged her to. She didn't want to upset Lulu.”

Carla sighed. “Well, I really do not know what to say, Jo. I know she is your dear friend, but that is a complete lie. And what is more, I told Russell to go right ahead and invite her if she wanted to come so badly.”

“That was big of you, I must say.”

Carla leaned back on the banquette. A dreamy expression softened her face. “You know, at that time, Jo, I was so happy that I would even have asked Lulu, or the devil himself to my wedding if they had wanted to come.”

I smiled to myself, thinking that in Carla's view Lulu and the devil must be pretty much the same person.

“I promise you, it was
Russell
who did not want June,” she went on. “But June blamed me. Why is it that women always get the blame for everything? And now, when Russell is not here to defend me, June is trying to get her revenge by blocking me—
us
—from buying that beautiful apartment. I've done nothing to this woman, Jo.
Niente
!”

If the story Carla had told me about the wedding were true, June's behavior was not merely a simple case of overzealous loyalty to Lulu. It was more like, “hell hath no fury like an uninvited guest.” I was starting to feel vaguely sympathetic to Carla.

“I agree with you. June's being very unreasonable. But there's nothing I can do to help you, I'm afraid. She's adamant.”

Carla shifted in her seat. “Do you know Hadley Grimes?”

“Yes. I've known Hadley and Ellen for years.” The Grimes were fringe people I knew but didn't see much of.

“Hadley was Russell's stockbroker at Ranley Gorman. He is on the board and he is on my side. He will support me.”

“Well, that's good, then.”

“Hadley told me that if I could find someone very prestigious to write me a letter of recommendation, it would count for a lot with the board.”

“Yes, I'm sure that's true.”

“Would you write a letter for me, Jo?” She gave me a soulful look.

Bingo. The real reason for the lunch and the present.

I lowered my eyes and moved some risotto around my plate, avoiding Carla's insistent gaze.

“You know I can't do that, Carla.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, when you write a letter of recommendation for someone to get into a building—and I've written several in my time—you really have to know the person quite well. And I don't know you very well. But even aside from that, June is one of my oldest and dearest friends. And you know how she feels about this—irrational as it may be. I just couldn't do that to her.”

“I see,” Carla said softly.

“You'll find someone else. You have so many friends.”

“There is no one else like you, Jo.”

“That's not true.” I was embarrassed by the flattery.

“But it
is.
You are one of the great grande dames of New York. Everyone knows it. And the very fact that you are so close to June would make your recommendation that much more powerful.”

There she had a point.

I shook my head with a sad smile and said, “Carla, dear, I'd like to help you out, but I can't. You understand.”

There was an awkward silence as the waiter cleared our places. When he brought us our coffees, Carla said, “You stupid little man, I ordered a cappuccino, not an espresso. Take it back immediately.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, which made her words oddly more chilling.

“I'm very sorry,” the waiter muttered as he swooped up the offending little cup.

It didn't take Freud to understand that her outburst at the waiter was obliquely directed at me. Still, I was quite appalled, particularly as she seemed to have no idea what she had done. I loathe bad manners and there is nothing more ill-mannered than being rude to people who are not in a position to be rude back. For the first time, I actively disliked Carla.

Aimlessly tapping her well-manicured nails on the tablecloth, she suddenly changed gears.

“Tell me, Jo, have you ever been to Las Vegas?” she said in a perky voice.

A startling question.

“No. Why?”

“But you have friends there, no?”

“No,” I said, warily.

“No?” She cocked her head to one side. “Somehow I thought you did.”

“Not that I recall.”

I wondered, was it
possible
that Carla knew about Oliva, the woman who was blackmailing me? Sending unmarked envelopes with diamonds in them to a post office box number in Las Vegas was as close as I'd ever gotten to that city. It was an odd question for her ask.

“I've never been to Las Vegas and I don't have any friends there,” I said firmly.

“No matter,” she said.

She quickly let the subject drop, but I felt a frisson of foreboding. The implication was that she knew something about me—something I didn't want known. Still, I couldn't quite be sure. It was so hard to tell.

Carla put her hand on my sleeve and said earnestly, “Jo, please reconsider. It would be such a great favor to me if you would write that letter to the board. Do this for me, Jo. You won't regret it.”

“I'll have to think about it, Carla. June's a very close friend.”

“I know, but you are a very fair person, and she is being so unreasonable. I think Betty will write a letter for me.”

“Really?”

“Well, Russell is Missy's godfather, after all. And I gave her daughter quite a nice party.”

Even though what she said was all true, I thought it a bit tacky of her to bring it up herself, particularly since Betty was well aware of the debt she owed her.

Carla suddenly preened. Gil and Max, finished with their lunch, were heading over to our table to say hello. But by the time I saw them coming, it was too late to freshen up.

“Ah, Gil! And Lord Vermilion,” she said, extending her hand. “How lovely to see you both. Of course, you know Jo Slater.”

Max and Gil both wore somber expressions. “Carla, dear, any word about Russell?” Gil said.

Carla switched gears again, growing very serious, as if she suddenly remembered her husband was missing. She shook her head and said sadly, “No. No word yet.” Then she looked up with a sort of beatific expression on her face, and said, “But I am still very, very optimistic.”

“You must continue to be, dear lady,” Max said with the utmost earnestness.

“That's right. Never give up hope,” Gil echoed.

“I never will,” Carla said piously.

I couldn't help noticing how dashing and rather old-fashioned Max looked dressed in one of his old-style Savile Row suits. He looked at me with one of his you're-the-only-woman-in-the-room gazes and said, “Jo, I just got to town. May I call you this evening?”

“Of course.”

“Jo and I have been through the war together,” he announced with a little chuckle.

“What do you mean?” I asked him.

“The wedding, dear girl . . . a night to remember . . . or forget. No offense, Gil, old boy.”

“Please . . .” Gil rolled his eyes. “Don't remind me.”

Gil and Max moved on. Carla gazed after them wistfully. “Lord Vermilion is a very attractive man,” she said.

“Yes.”

“He likes you.”

“Really? You could've fooled me.”

“I can always tell when a man likes a woman,” she said with an assured edge. “You should really make a try for him.” She got a sort of faraway look on her face and added, “Being Lady Vermilion is a great thing.”

“God knows there have been quite a few of them,” I said.

“Have you ever been to Taunton Hall?”

“No, never. I hear it's quite something.”

“It is the most beautiful property I have ever seen. There is nothing to compare with it.”

It struck me at that moment that Carla herself might be a little interested in Lord Vermilion.

“Carla, remember you told me in Barbados that Russell had disappeared before? What exactly did you mean?”

Carla glanced at her watch. “Oh, I would love to explain it to you, Jo, but unfortunately, I have an appointment and I must go now.”

“Fine. Then let's get the check,” I said, understanding that this line of inquiry was pointless.

“No, no. It is all taken care of.”

Before we both stood up to leave, she took my hand. “
Cara
Jo, you
will
think about writing me that letter, won't you? It would make things so much simpler, and I would so appreciate it. Russell will be so grateful when he comes back.”

This sounded to me more like a command than a request. On the other hand, it just could have been my guilty conscience talking. I couldn't be sure.

 

Chapter 10

C
arla's Las Vegas comment gnawed at me all afternoon. When I got home that evening, I went straight to the library and poured myself a stiff drink. I sank into the burgundy velvet couch flanking the fireplace, thinking what a nuisance this was. Did she or did she not know I was being blackmailed? Just when I had rather cheerfully resigned myself to that unpleasant situation, it was irritating to think I had another threat to contend with.

I stared up at the Vigée-Lebrun portrait above the carved wooden mantelpiece. This sunny depiction of a smiling, dewy-eyed young noblewoman, who looked as though she didn't have a care in the world, wearing a large straw hat with streaming blue taffeta ribbons and with an open book in her lap, was painted in 1788, a year before the French Revolution. Two years later, this same young woman was guillotined. I empathized with her, knowing how quickly things in life can change.

Just then, the phone rang, piercing the gloom and startling me out of my ruminations. I hesitated before picking it up, hoping it might be Max. I wanted to sound calm and upbeat. Finally, I lifted the receiver and said an overly chirpy, “Hello!”

“Mrs. Slater—
Slaytah
—please,” said a patrician male voice at the other end of the line.

“Speaking.”

“Jooooo!” the voice broke free. “Hadley Grimes here—
heah.
”

Hadley Grimes, a charter member of that severely dwindled tribe of patrician WASPs who once ruled New York, spoke with a pronounced mid-Atlantic accent, reflective of his prep school and Ivy League background.

“Oh, Hadley,” I said, deflated. “Hello.”

“Fine, dear—
deah
—fine,” he said, without my having asked how he was. “Listen, I understand you've heard—
heurhed
—about our little situation here with the Coles and the Wilman apartment.”

“Yes, Hadley, I certainly have.”

“Now, the reason I'm calling,” he said, pausing to clear his throat, “is because I just got a call from Carla Cole, who informs me that you've agreed to write a letter to the board on their behalf. Is that correct?”

Not one to waste any time, that Carla.

“No, it's not.”

“What do you mean, dear?”
Deah.

“Uh, well, I was just sitting here thinking about it, as a matter of fact. June is one of my closest and dearest friends, as you know. And I'm sure you can appreciate the fact that if I write a letter for Carla, it will put a great strain on our friendship. On the other hand, I do happen to think June's being very unreasonable about the whole thing.”

“She certainly—
seuhtainly
—is! June practically beaned me with her umbrella in the lobby the other day over this thing.”

Despite that hilarious image, there was an air of immense seriousness about the conversation. I could just picture Hadley—dessicated, old bird that he was—pursing his lips and shaking his balding head in disapproval.

“Carla is the problem—not Russell, of course. Several people on the board are quite skeptical about her, on account of the scandal and all. That's why your letter would carry so much weight, Jo. Marcy's threatening to sue if we turn down the Coles. We've already turned down two of her other candidates. Marcy's a great friend of my wife's,” Hadley went on, boasting of the acquaintance, “and between you and me, she needs the cash. This last divorce from Baron Ludinghausen has cost her quite a bundle. In any case, the Coles are about the only ones who can afford her price. You know, they bid the asking price. Twenty-eight million dollars. Staggering, no? The last thing we need is a lawsuit over this. Very unseemly, lawsuits.”

Hadley Grimes was one of the “Tut-tut people,” as Betty Waterman nicknamed them. The Tut-tuts were third- or fourth-generation members of the former ruling class of New York whose forebears had treated the city as their own personal fiefdom, and who, as late as the 1980s, took pains to exclude certain “elements” (as anyone who wasn't a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant was called) from their social surroundings, like clubs and apartment buildings. When a new crop of plutocrats upset the old order and stormed the bastions of privilege, the Tut-tuts took refuge in the condemnation of “new money.” They also took great offense at any suggestion that their own conduct was less than impeccable.

Hadley was, admittedly, one of the nicer Tut-tuts, free of racial and religious prejudice at least, although Betty swore he was an awful sexist, having heard him refer to his wife as “the little woman” on more than one occasion—and not as a joke. I suspected he recognized that his days as a power broker in any sphere but his coveted apartment building were over, and that's why he was making the most of his position as a member of the board.

“Let me ask you something, Hadley. Can the Coles get into this building without my letter?”

He thought for a moment. “Well, I want them in. And at least two other people on the board want them in. But several are undecided. It's going to be a very close vote. June's the head of the board so she does carry a lot of weight. But she still only has one vote. The honest answer is, I don't know. . . . Look, Jo, if you think June is being unreasonable, you ought to support the Coles. It simply isn't fair—either to them or to Marcy, who's been very patient with us so far. As I said, we've turned down two of her candidates already because June didn't like them. June has blown this whole thing way out of proportion. We're a co-op, not a battleground, after all.”

“Strikes me as pretty much the same thing,” I said.

He didn't laugh. Not that I expected him to. Hadley who had precious little humor, was known for having once seriously proposed a WASP Day Parade in honor of New York's newest minority.

“All the other groups have parades,” he sniffed. “At least we'd keep the lines down Fifth Avenue white.”

When Betty heard about this, she shrieked with laughter, saying that they ought to hold it on April fifteenth—income tax day—“the day that really lives in infamy for the WASPs,” she said. “And let Hadley be king of the Trust Fund Float, which starts out big and shrinks to nothing as the day goes on!” Betty added with glee.

I hung up the phone with Hadley, feeling some trepidation. If Carla
did
know about my blackmailer, it was just conceivable that she also knew what I was being blackmailed
for.
That would be an inconvenience, to say the least. However, I didn't want her to think I was writing that letter to the board because I was frightened of her. I'm not one to let myself be pushed around by anyone. That went for Carla, as well as my friend June. I decided to call Betty to ask for her advice, leaving out, of course, the salient detail that Carla Cole might have something unpleasant on me. Betty picked up the phone, sounding agitated. When I told her Hadley Grimes had just called me, she started a tirade.

“Well, I just got off the phone with Marcy Ludinghausen, who's having a conniption fit!” Betty said. “She asked me if I would write a letter on behalf of the Coles and by God, I'm going to do it! I love our friend June, but talk about a brat! Marcy said June threatened her! If you ask me, June is making a big stink over nothing. I know the reason why—and so does Marcy.”

“Because she's great friends with Lulu,” I said.

“That, too. But if you ask me, that's not it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Listen, if I know June, the
real
reason she's doing this is because she's worried about not being invited to Carla's parties—of which there will be
many
, I assure you.”

It was true that if June Kahn had ever formed a concrete conception of hell in her mind, it would have been to live in a building where, night after night, all her friends and other glamorous people were going to a lavish party from which she was permanently excluded. I thought back to what Carla had said at lunch about June wanting to come to her wedding and I knew that Betty was right.

“I hate to say it, but you have a point,” I said.

“Oh, I
know
that's it! June's loyalty to Lulu is less important than her desire to get to every party there is. She goes to the opening of an envelope, as we all know. Plus, we've got to think of poor old Russell. What if he turns up? He has no boat, no apartment . . . fuck it! I'm writing a letter for them. I don't care. You can do what you want. June is so damn imperious. I just think it's time she was taught a lesson, that's all. She can't have absolutely everything her way
all
the time!”

There was something more in Betty's voice, however, some deeper hurt that seemed to be gnawing at her. She paused for a moment. Then she said, “And I really think that as one of my oldest friends, June could have made the effort to come to Missy's wedding, even if she wasn't invited to the bridal dinner. Instead she fakes that ridiculous injury! She goes to every party in the world except my daughter's wedding? That's nice. And I hear from everyone she's been going all around town saying what a nightmare it was when she wasn't even there! Frankly, Jo, I'm really pissed at her.”

We both loved June, despite the fact that she had grown more obsessive about social life over the years. June was one of those friends I cherished primarily on account of a shared history and long acquaintance. Her foolishness was always tempered by my abiding fondness for her, even when she was being her most unreasonable. But I sensed that Betty's irritation with our old pal was about something more profound than simply teaching her a lesson. It always amazes me how both consequential and inconsequential social life is. You never know what will make people take offense. I never imagined that Betty was so hurt that June hadn't come to Missy's wedding. She'd never said a word. But she clearly was. And even if she didn't fully realize it herself, helping Carla was her revenge.

“Be careful, Betts. June'll have a fit if she finds out you're on Carla's side.”

“I'm on Russell's side, not Carla's.”

“Somehow I doubt June will see it that way.”

“I don't care,” Betty said. “I'm writing them a letter.”

Oddly enough, I hung up the phone feeling more uneasy than ever. If I did write a letter, it might send a signal to Carla that I could be coerced into doing anything she wanted. On the other hand, if I didn't write the letter, June would think
she
could boss me around. I decided to sit down and write the damn thing, stick it in an envelope, and think about it overnight.

It was dark when I finally hauled myself up and walked over to the desk that faced one of the large picture windows overlooking Fifth Avenue and Central Park. I sat down and took out a sheet of stationery and a fountain pen from the top drawer. I gazed down at the darkening cloak of trees aglitter with pinpricks of lamplight stretching to the horizon. I thought I would take a stab at composing the damn letter to Hadley Grimes on Carla's behalf just to see what it felt like. On the thin, pale blue paper embossed with my name in white, I began my letter to the board.

Dear Ladies and Gentlemen,

I understand that Carla and Russell Cole wish to purchase an apartment in your building . . .

Just as I was finishing up the damn thing, the phone rang again. I picked it up without thinking and said a curt, “Hello.”

“May I speak with Mrs. Slater, please?”

It was Max.

“Max?”

“Jo . . . am I interrupting you?”

“No, no. I was just, uh, sorting out the mail, that's all.”

“Lovely seeing you at lunch today.”

“Yes, lovely seeing you, too. Where are you staying?” I asked him.

“The Carlyle.”

“And how long are you here for?”

“Just a few days . . . I wonder, what's your view of the opera?”

Opera was not exactly my thing, although I occasionally went with Ethan Monk because he was so knowledgeable.

I decided to hedge my bet: “Well, I'm not the greatest opera fan. But I like it sometimes.”

Max laughed. “I applaud your honesty. You wouldn't put aside your prejudice and come with me to the opening of
Tosca
tomorrow night, would you? If we hate it, we'll leave. I promise.”

I accepted Max's invitation not because I wanted to see the opera, but because I wanted to see Max and find out once and for all if there was some spark between us. He said he would pick me up at seven and take me to supper afterward. I hung up the phone feeling cautiously elated.