Searching for Grace Kelly (19 page)

Did Vivian's?

A sense of foreboding filled her body. It was all well and good to be the independent sort, to live life by your own set of rules. Until you needed help and discovered the price you'd paid by telling everyone else to bugger off.
I'm truly alone
, Vivian thought.
I suppose in my own way I've always been alone, even when I was living with Mum and Dad and Mary and Emma. But now I am really alone. I've never really thought about it that way before
.

“That feels nice,” Edith was saying, swaying in the tub as Vivian continued massaging her back.

Vivian dipped the sponge back into the water and put it against Edith's skin again, sending sudsy trickles down her back. “I'm glad,” she said.

September 1955

 

From the journal of Laura Dixon, Monday, September 5:

 

Labor Day. Has it really been weeks since I wrote in this thing? I started out strong, journaling almost daily. After that episode in Mrs. Blackwell's office, I went right to the stationer and bought a journal and started writing. But then every day became every other, and then twice a week. Some journalist
.

Just back from Greenwich. The trains run on a limited schedule due to the holiday, which gave me an excuse to leave the barbecue early. Though it was nice to be there, especially less than a month after the hurricane, which caused so much misery and damage everywhere. The town held up pretty well, thank God. And it was nice to spend so much time with David. Poor David, I worry about him, eleven and alone in that big house and Daddy working all the time and no buffer between him and Marmy. But he seems happy. He wanted to confirm our plans for the three of them to come for a weekend this term at Smith
.

I can't believe I didn't tell them
.

I am a coward. There's no other word for it, so I'll just use it. I am a
coward
. I would say I tried to tell them, but that would be a lie, because I didn't. I'll have to settle for “I had every intention of telling them.” But there was never the right moment. I knew if I did at the beginning of the weekend, it would ruin the whole thing, and then there was the barbecue, and at one point I thought that was actually perfect—I mean, there was no way Marmy would have exploded in front of the Chadwicks and the Thornes or the rest of them. But somehow, the moment never presented itself. And now I don't know what to do, because as of tomorrow, I am living a lie
.

Because I'm not going to go back to Smith. I'm staying here, in New York
.

I think back on the summer and I can't believe how much has happened. Moving into the Barbizon, meeting Box and Pete, working at
Mademoiselle,
and that funny run-in with Mrs. Blackwell in her office, and . 
.
 . Well, everything happens for a reason, right? Or perhaps that's just what people say when they can't explain everything that's happened. You need to take it on faith that it will all work out
.

I have officially deferred my senior year at Smith until January. Something that is going to become very evident very soon when the bursar's office returns Daddy's tuition check. It isn't like I'm never going back. I'm just not going back
yet
.

Marmy is going to kill me
.

But what's that saying (why am I quoting all of these old sayings?): “When opportunity knocks.” How was I supposed to know that Cat Eyes would come up to my desk one day and, with clear bewilderment, pass on a message that Mrs. Blackwell wanted to extend my apprenticeship a month, after the closing of the college issue? I think she was secretly wondering if I was somehow blackmailing the boss. What other explanation could there be? And so there you have it—I was worried I'd be fired for getting caught in the editor's office, and instead I was given an extension. Life is nuts
.

And then I saw the job posting on the bulletin board for the editorial assistant position. I would have never applied for it, but Pete insisted
.

Oh, yes, Pete. We're still seeing one another, and I am still seeing Box. So despite my efforts, I am seeing two guys, something I am not good at (though given it's now been almost three months, evidently I am) and which I swore I would not do. I was in the coffee shop with Vivian last week complaining that I had told a very funny story about a missing hatbox to one of them, and for the life of me I couldn't remember which one. She laughed at that. Which was nice to see. I'm worried about Vivian, actually. She doesn't seem herself so much these days. She's not as quick with a quip. But every time I ask her if anything's wrong, she swears everything's “ducky.” She says the mysterious Italian is finally introducing her to some fancy theatrical agent this week. But I still can't shake the feeling something's a bit off
.

Dolly, on the other hand, is blossoming. I've never seen her so happy. She's still temping at the publishing house, and she starts her new term at Katie Gibbs this week. Last week she finally formally introduced us to Jack, her big guy from breakfast. I would describe him as the strong silent type. He couldn't be more unlike Dolly, who has gotten even
more
chatty. But that's what they say, right? Opposites attract. (More old sayings!)

So I start my new job tomorrow, back at Mademoiselle. I'll be making enough to pay my share of the room here, which is good, because I think there is little doubt Marmy will seek to punish me in any way she can once she finds out what I am doing, and that includes pulling the purse strings
shut. But that's okay. Maybe it's time I figured out what I'm really capable of on my own
.

 

Letter from Dolly Hickey to Mary Louise Koznarski, September 6:

 

Dearest Lulu Belle—

Sorry I haven't been able to call. I know your dad won't allow you to accept the charges, and I never have enough change for even a three-minute call. Forget looking for a husband in law firms or doctors' offices—we should be looking for a guy who works for Bell Tel! Anyway, it gives me an excuse to practice my typing, which is hard to do in the room, since it drives Laura mad. Though she's always out with one of her fellas, so it's really not much of a bother.

Speaking of which, I have news: I met someone. (I know, I know! I can hear you shrieking from here.) His name is Jack and he's just the most. He's kind and funny and just the biggest teddy bear you ever saw. (I'm not even kidding . . . he makes me feel DAINTY!!) I was out for breakfast with the girls and he was staring at me, and so I just “happened” to stay behind to pay the check, and the next thing I knew, we were at a table together, talking for hours! (Okay, it was really just under an hour, but it FELT like hours.) I talked way too much, of course, because you know me and that's what I do, blabber and blabber, but getting information out of him was like pulling teeth! Oh, but he has such NICE teeth! Big and straight and white, not like those old yellow party mints of Charlie Hackel's. What did I ever see in HIM? Is he still dating that girl from Minoa?

Anyway, it's been almost three months now, and I am so happy. I know you are yelling at this page right now, saying, “Three months?! How can you not have told me for three whole months?!!” because everyone knows I can't keep a secret for five seconds. But I didn't want to jinx it. So I said to myself, “Dolores, we are going to keep our mouth shut until we are SURE this one is going to stick around.” (You know it's serious when I call myself Dolores.) And here we are!

Oh, you must, must, MUST come down to the city, Lulu! Maybe Jack has a friend and we can double. Oh, wait, I need to tell you more about him. In addition to being very tall and wide (but not fat), he's a graduate student, though now for the life of me I can't remember where. But in addition to his gorgeous teeth, he tells the corniest jokes, and speaking of which, we both love corn muffins! I finally got up the nerve to introduce him to the girls last week. Even Vivian (I told you about her in my last letter. She's the British girl who barged into our room and we covered for her and then she invited us to the Stork Club, only we weren't really invited) was impressed, and she's never impressed about
anything
.

Anyway, that's my big news. Things at Katie Gibbs are good (I can't believe I'll be finished in five months!), and I am still temping at the publishing house, although I have carefully avoided You-Know-Who and his gardenias. I want Jack to come take me to lunch one day just so I can walk with him right past his desk, happy as a clam!

Well, got to run, Lulu, I have ten pages of shorthand to transcribe before tomorrow. I miss you ALL . . . THE . . . TIME and want you to get your rear end on a bus and come visit!!! Say hi to Rose and the rest of the gang for me.

Love,

Dolly

 

Telegram from Vivian Dwerryhouse to Mrs. Beatrice Dwerryhouse, 2 High Street, Leeds,
LS
1 4
DY
, United Kingdom, September 8:

 

DEAREST MUM

GREETINGS AND LOVE FROM NEW YORK STOP MISSING YOU ALL AND WOULD MUCH LOVE TO VISIT HOME STOP PLEASE ADVISE SOONEST IF YOU CAN WIRE PASSAGE STOP ANXIOUSLY AWAIT YOUR REPLY WITH GREATEST AFFECTION

VIVIAN.

Laura was just beginning to doze off for a delicious dinnertime catnap when Dolly burst through the door, cheeks flushed and ready for a gab. “Hi, hi, hi!” she exclaimed, arms full of papers and bags, handbag swinging from her elbow like a trapeze. Dolly was one of those girls who always seemed to arrive and leave laden with an assortment of packages and bags.

She dumped her things all over the small side table. “I love fall!” she said, slipping off her jacket. “Don't you? What am I saying, of course you do—you're from New England. Is it really as pretty there when the leaves turn as they say? I imagine it must be just breathtaking. Maybe I can get Jack to take me sometime. That would be just dreamy. We could pack a picnic—”

Laura tuned out somewhere around the apple picking. Sometimes she just didn't know where Dolly got the energy. She adored her roommate, but sometimes she just wished she would take that energy someplace—anyplace—else.

Laura had been out late. Again.
How did Agnes Ford and the other models do it?
Laura wondered. Out with one guy this night, another the next, constantly primping—the hours they must spend on their hair alone!—never mind all of the eating and drinking. She'd gained a good five pounds over the summer and had now sentenced herself to pre-work swims in the Barbizon pool three mornings a week. Which had only served to leave her artificially invigorated every morning, buzzing around the office like a bumblebee as she threw herself into her new position at
Mademoiselle
, only to crash by four in the afternoon, trudging around like she was walking through a field of molasses and craving red licorice.

But last night had been truly wonderful. Wasn't every night with Box wonderful? But then, her nights with Pete were turning out to be just as splendid, in a completely different way. God, she was beginning to sound like Dolly, all over the place. With Box it was theater and carriage rides and candlelit dinners at the St. Regis; with Pete it was hot dogs (to his boyish delight, she'd learned to love sauerkraut) and long walks through the Village and lively arguments about whether
Absalom, Absalom!
could legitimately contend as Faulkner's most underrated work, though Laura insisted that Pete was only arguing that so he could be contrarian because everyone else always picked
As I Lay Dying
. They enjoyed a breezy camaraderie, and it was during this type of jocular interplay that they had their best moments, when she felt the admiration pooling in those big eyes of his.

Last night Box had taken her to ‘21,' where they'd run into various people of the variety Dolly always called “the Swells,” as in, “So, who among the Swells did you see out this time?” That was the thing about Dolly: Laura knew part of her resented that she got to go to these places and Dolly did not, while at the same time wanting every detail of what it was like to
be
in these places, down to the folding of the napkins. Not that Laura could recount the napkins at ‘21' with any alacrity. She'd drunk far too much champagne for far too long and stayed out far too late. It had been another long road through
Mademoiselle
today—she'd spent the entire day at the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue, pulling research on marriage rituals around the world—and had been just drifting off when Hurricane Dolly had touched down, whirling at full force.

“Here,” Dolly said, tossing her a thick sheaf of bound mimeographed sheets. “I brought you a present.”

“What's this?” Laura yawned, thumbing through them. It appeared to be a book manuscript. The front page was stamped:
PROPERTY OF JULIAN MESSNER, INC. PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL
.

“The most amazing novel,” Dolly squealed in delight, plopping onto the edge of the bed. “They just bought it, and everyone says it's going to be a blockbuster. It's called
The Tree and the Blossom
. It's the most scandalous thing you've ever read in your life. I was blushing as I typed in the revision notes! It's all about this small town in New England called Peyton Place. You have to tell me if New England is really like this. Because if it is, I'm moving.”