Surface (21 page)

“But dear, it might appear a bit unseemly for you to be out on the town, as it were, with your husband contemplating a divorce that others may see as . . . well, as something you may have caused, I’m sorry to say.”

Claire held the receiver away from her face and stared at it like Dorothy seeing the little man behind the wizard’s curtain for the first time. She gripped it tighter as she brought it back to her face. “Let me get this straight. It’s acceptable for me to go to the party as
Separated, but working on the marriage
Claire, but not as
Looks like my husband wants to divorce me
Claire? Because being Mrs. Michael Montgomery somehow makes me okay, and the opposite makes me an outcast?” She uncorked the cabernet bottle with her free hand, poured herself a glass. “Well, I’m not about to let you, or Michael for that matter, make me feel like every step I take now is a step off the bridge to some kind of social suicide. This isn’t Truman Capote or Dominick Dunne, despite what you’d like to believe, Mother. I’ve got a son to take care of and a life to live—husband or no husband—and I need to stay distracted until they get here. I need to get out of this damn apartment. I’ll talk to you later.” She hung up and drank the glass of wine in one mouthful.

It had seemed so empowering, her brief act of defiance. But as the high faded Claire found herself even more unsettled at the prospect of Carolyn’s party than she’d been before Cora had called. What had she cornered herself into, and who was really right? The fact that Cora had her questioning herself all over again was the most infuriating part. Right or wrong, Claire knew she couldn’t go on hiding under her rock. How to get out from under that rock without losing too much blood, though,
that
would be the real challenge.

 

“Why are the wealthy so fascinating, Mom?” Claire pressed her feet against the wall of the bathtub and remembered asking Cora that question eons ago. She had been twelve then, a precocious, long-limbed, waifish girl with a hunger for answers. She’d swung her ribboned pigtails from side to side as she waited for her mother to respond. But there had been no reply, nothing except the sound of the old Zenith echoing through the warm living room. Still waiting for her explanation, Claire stared at Cora and hummed “Bohemian Rhapsody,” her fingers conducting an imaginary opera. Cora’s eyes remained focused on the television set all the while.

Moments before, they had been laughing and eating deviled-egg sandwiches from TV trays in their Burlingame, California, pine-paneled A-frame. It had been a run-of-the-mill summer afternoon until a news report about a New York socialite and the recent scandal that had befallen her sparked serious, almost sisterly concern for the rich stranger on the part of Claire’s mother. The beautiful woman on the screen squared her shoulders and smiled confidently, defiantly, it seemed, beneath her dark Jackie O. glasses in the direction of the cameras, and Claire again asked, “Why, Mom?” Her voice was louder this time, yearning to be acknowledged, but still tempered with the cultivated tolerance of a docile second child.

Cora adjusted a hairpin under her peach floral scarf and stubbed out her cigarette. Smoke sidled up into Claire’s face from the chipped Fairmont Hotel ashtray. Cora turned to her and looked squarely into her eyes without blinking.

“Call me Mother, please, dear, it’s much more dignified. And I’ll tell you why they’re so fascinating. The well-bred know just what to say and how to appear competent and elegant in any situation. They are always impeccably made up, no matter what the circumstances.” She stood Claire up and twirled her around in her new school dress they had spent hours, it seemed, picking out at Bullock’s. “They attend the right parties and know the right people. You believe they wake up looking perfect and prepared for what the day has in store for them. Appearances are crucial, Claire. Physical and otherwise. They can make or break your chances at so many things in life, influence so many outcomes.” Cora glanced back at the woman on the screen. “You mark my words.”

 

Claire sloughed her shoulders with a loofah and turned on the hot water to reheat the bath. Memories, it seemed, weren’t always the cozy, protective coat of childhood. She tried to laugh at Cora but couldn’t find the mirth. Maybe it would be easier just to ignore her. What she did know for sure, though, was that she couldn’t swallow anymore of her Kool-Aid.

She added some lavender oil to the tub and switched her focus to the more pressing issue of getting through the night ahead. As she leaned back and the calming scent rose to her nose, she was struck with another piece of maternal advice. This gem, however—one of Cora’s most oft repeated—was actually helpful: Act like you’ve been there before.

The good news was that she
had
been there before, hundreds of times, to parties like Carolyn’s. And having been raised to be prepared and to project the cool grace and sophistication of the swans of Cora’s books and TV shows, Claire made a mental list of who she thought would be there, who might still be in her corner (if people actually were paying attention to such geometry), and who was already in Michael’s. It was difficult to say, having been out of the loop for so long, but from a vague estimate, the balance seemed not unreasonable. If she managed to hold it all together, it might just be all right. These would be people sipping fabulous champagne at the home of a respected hostess, not jurors in a courtroom. And Carolyn had invited her back in.

After applying her makeup to appear more natural than dramatic, and spraying her hair back off of her face, she began to dress. Claire paid a silent debt of thanks to Lillian and took the suit from the closet, laughing at the irony of it all. She had nothing else appropriate to wear with her at the apartment, so it had all worked out delightfully. She stepped into some well-worn but well-preserved Ferragamos that had lingered at the bottom of her suitcase in LA. There was no substitute for a good pair of expensive shoes. More sage advice from Mother. She put on what jewelry she had with her and studied her appearance in the bathroom mirror. The pearl earrings were enough, and she abandoned the necklace next to the sink, less always being more. Spritzing a small amount of Coco into the air, she stepped through the mist, braced herself, and looked into the mirror again.

C
HAPTER
27

C
laire stood outside the enormous lacquered doors of the Spencer home. She switched her envelope purse from under her right arm to her left, and back again, and looked over her shoulder at the coterie of familiar Range Rovers, Mercedes, and Suburbans valet-parked along the street. Some were meticulous and glossy in the moonlight, others duller and unabashedly winter-worn. Denying the urge to cut and run back to the safety of the tub, she forced a broad smile and said a quick prayer to the gods of understanding and acceptance. She pushed the bell. Curtain time.

The butler opened the door with dramatic pomp and Claire was swallowed into the play. Inside the perfectly pink-lit foyer, she was met with strains of Gershwin on the piano and the aroma of rosemary and lamb. The lamb would be French-trimmed with an herb pesto, and passed on silver trays—that much she could expect. Her stomach rumbled as she walked down the long art-filled corridor in search of her hostess.

The Spencers had one of the finest abstract expressionist collections in the country, and Claire looked to see if any new pieces had been added. There was a small Motherwell she didn’t recognize, a very nice acquisition, she noted, and next to it was her favorite Jackson Pollock. She paused in front of the canvas, an early drip painting, and drank it in to steel herself. Just ahead she could see that the drawing room was already crowded. Like most things in Carolyn’s world, it was a showpiece of a space with crème velvet drapery and warm plum and brown accents against her Mies Van der Rohe and Lalique pieces. Claire had always appreciated the clean and sophisticated deference to the artwork on the walls. What she would appreciate now, though, had very little to do with Carolyn’s décor. Slowly she approached the entry, hoping to give off the appearance of poise and calm. But inwardly she began to lose faith.

It reminded her of her terrifying debut so many years before. The unsteady walk to the center of the ballroom, the high heels and crinolines beneath her borrowed gown intensifying her awkwardness. Then the curtsy as she held on to her father’s arm for dear life. She was certain the audience would laugh as Miss Claire Elizabeth Dunn, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Gerry Dunn of San Francisco, California, was formally presented to society. Claire was also certain they were scoffing at her mother’s herculean efforts with the Women’s Board to get her daughter invited to be a deb. But the years of cotillion and etiquette classes had achieved Cora’s desired effect, and the audience applauded resoundingly for Claire that night, as they did for all the debutantes.

Claire eyed Carolyn walking toward her from the drawing room, and she speculated how she would appear to her old friend. Would her eyes give away the cool façade she’d cobbled together? It was the first time she was self-conscious of what her private heartache and the passage of time may have done to her appearance. Carolyn glided over in an opalescent Valentino cocktail suit and her trademark emerald and diamond choker, her blond hair pulled perfectly into a cheekbone-highlighting chignon.

“Claire, sweetie, I’m
so
happy to see you. Welcome home.” Carolyn embraced Claire and air-kissed her cheek. The familiar scent of Shalimar wafted up into the space between them. “I’m so sorry for all you’ve had to . . . deal with. But things are looking up now, aren’t they?”

Claire forced a smile. “Thank you for having me. You look gorgeous as always.”

“I have a new plastic surgeon,” Carolyn said with a wink. “I’ll get you in if you’d like, although you most definitely don’t need her yet.” She held Claire’s shoulders and stepped back to look her over. “Your suit is just perfect on you, Claire. Perfection.” She hugged her again, tightly, before continuing. “You know, I took a nice little collection over to Lillian’s last month with an identical Chanel. I had a bit of an accident with some Port on my sleeve, so I only got to wear the damn thing once. But Lillian’s assistant said no one would notice.” She touched the camellia brooch on Claire’s pocket.

Claire glanced nervously at the inside of her left sleeve and noticed the hint of a kidney-shaped stain.
Unfuckingbelievable.
Carolyn’s eye traveled to the sleeve. They both gaped at it. Claire had two choices. She could either lie or laugh it off. The women looked into each other’s eyes.

“I’m secondhand Claire now,” Claire said when nothing else came to her. “Look what it’s come to. I’m wearing your castoff. Can you believe it?”

There was an awkward pause, as Carolyn appeared to search for a response. Then she took Claire’s hand in hers. “Well, it just shows what lovely taste we both have,” she finally said. “I won’t tell a soul. I promise. Let’s just get you inside, hmm?”

“Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea, Carolyn. Maybe I should just go,” Claire said, wishing she had stayed in the bath with some cabernet.

Carolyn turned to her. “You look divine, and you can’t stay in hiding now that you’re back, Claire. Let’s get you a drink and go.”

The butler offered Claire a glass of champagne, and Carolyn led her into the party.

Claire recognized most of the faces in the room, and she could hear the buzz grow louder as she began circulating with her hostess. The laughter she’d heard from the foyer was now peppered with audible snippets of her name, and Michael’s. And Nicholas’s. She saw the president of the country club and his wife look up at her in mid-conversation with the Bal de Ballet chair emeritus, then turn and drift toward the terrace. There were a few nods of acknowledgement from afar and several smiles, but no one made any move to approach Claire. The look of distress on Robert Spencer’s face when he noticed her made it clear that Carolyn had not prepped him for her appearance. Claire watched him shoot daggers at his wife across the room. She looked over her shoulder toward the door, but Carolyn urged her forward into the center of the room. “Ignore him, he’s being an ass,” she whispered through a ventriloquist’s smile.

“Elaine and Bill, you remember Claire. She’s just back in town this week. And of course you know Pamela and Diane, Claire. I’ll be back to chat in a bit, sweetie, I promise,” Carolyn said, depositing her with the small group standing by the fireplace, and reluctantly excusing herself to greet another arrival.

“Yes of course, Claire, how’ve you been?” Elaine asked tentatively. Bill and Elaine had been acquaintances of Claire and Michael’s. Mixed doubles in a charity tennis tournament. Claire recalled his meager serve along with his weak handshake.

“I’m . . . well. Thanks. And you two? Playing much tennis?” She smiled as charmingly as she could manage.

“Of course we are. When we’re down in West Palm or in Palm Springs. Or on Little Palm,” Elaine added, erupting into laughter. “Palms and tennis just seem to go hand in hand, don’t they, honey?” she said with a nudge to Bill’s shoulder.

“I bumped into Michael last week at the Four Seasons,” Bill announced, in an apparent attempt to quell his wife’s enthusiasm for racquet resorts. But his lips tightened into a cringe. “I’m sorry about your . . . situation.” He grasped Elaine’s solidly jeweled hand. “We were just on our way to freshen our drinks. Do you need one?” He didn’t even bother to look at her glass as he led Elaine away. “It was so great to catch up, Claire.” As they were making their hasty evacuation to the bar, Houston Holland—serial dater of widows and divorcées, and a man who, with his highlighted hair, was not going gentle into that good night of middle age—was making a rapid approach. Claire turned her back too late.

“Claire Montgomery, how wonderful to see you, doll.” Houston wore his customary striped monogrammed shirt and ascot, and half-mast vodka eyes. “I heard you’re back in town, and you look gorgeous. Doesn’t she, Diane?” he said, placing his hand on Claire’s arm.

Diane gave a noncommittal nod as Claire turned her head to substitute cheek for mouth in light of Houston’s approaching lips. “It’s nice to see you, Houston,” she said. Claire felt the moist imprint of his urgency land on her face. “Still doing your coffee table books?” She rubbed her cheek and casually stepped back, trying to put a few feet between them. Diane and Pamela had already given them some distance, and were now confiding in low tones.

“I’m working on a gorgeous book about water right now. Leo thinks the idea is fabulous.” Houston refilled the space with his sturdy frame.

“Leo Metzger? The doctor?”

“No, doll. DiCaprio. I was just out in LA pitching a documentary on it. The Zeta-Jones-Douglases loved it too, even if they might or might not be splitting. Who knows with those two.”

“That’s very . . . exciting. So, it’s about oceans and lakes?”

“No, bottled water.” He pulled out a small notepad and pen. “I’d love to show it to you. Maybe over drinks? Why don’t you give me your number?”

“Well, I’m a little busy at the moment, and I just don’t think it’s a—”

A waiter appeared and offered them baby lamb chops, with herb pesto. Claire gratefully accepted one from the tray and took a bite.

“Divorce can be a lonely planet, doll.” Houston wrote his number down and ripped it from the pad. “You call me when you’re ready,” he said, handing her a striped, monogrammed piece of paper.

“Wait, who said anything to you about divorce?” she asked, trying to swallow at the same time.

“It, uh, just stands to reason. You know, under the circumstances.” He backed away slightly. “But I love a juicy story, and yours doesn’t turn me off in the slightest.” Houston made a swiping motion at his lip. “You’ve got a piece of rosemary there.” He picked up a martini glass from the passing butler’s tray and raised it to Claire before making his way to the piano, where Bill and Elaine now stood.

Claire wiped away the offending herb as she watched him shuffle off. Elaine, it seemed, was chuckling now with Robert Spencer, who was alternately giving Carolyn irritated looks again from the doorway. All around her, Claire saw the flicker of diamonds against crystal and waxy smiles, while the pianist launched into a snappy rendition of “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.”
Good lord,
she thought, setting her plate of bones down on a tortoise-shell inlaid console.
This is the trifecta I’ve been missing? Palms, pompous cowards, and playboys?
She wondered if the entire room really had heard all the gory details about Andrew along with the apparently impending demise of her marriage. She searched the faces of her two remaining companions, quite certain at least that she was one of the few people in the room who could express emotion with her forehead muscles, Houston included. She spotted a friendlier figure near the sunroom and excused herself.

“Gail, how
are
you?” Claire said, placing her hand on her old friend’s shoulder.

Gail spun around, startled. “Jeez, is that really you, hon?” She enveloped Claire in a tight embrace. “I’m so glad you’re back. I only just got home myself a couple days ago, and Carolyn filled me in on all that’s happened since I left. I can hardly believe it,” she said, waving her hands, her multitude of bangles clanging like tubular bells. “And I hope you can forgive me for not being there for you.”

Claire managed a small laugh. “It’s all right, I know you’ve been out of the country with Ashton, and I don’t blame—”

“It’s Austin, actually. But Ashton seems much more apropos, given our demographics. It’s a good thing he didn’t call me Demi, though,” she said, winking her lavish lash extensions. “We hit four continents before I sent him home to Miami.” She paused to catch her breath and take a sip of champagne. “But I should have called you this week, and I’m a shit.”

“No, you’re not. I’m just grateful to find someone whose company is actually pleasant.” She took an inventory of the room, finding most of the eyes on her, and just as quickly, off. “So,” Claire asked, only half-kidding, “do you think my presence is causing another scandal?”

“In this group? Please. These people don’t have enough closet space for all their skeletons.” She downed the rest of her champagne. “Myself included.” Gail motioned her chin over Claire’s shoulder. “But you’d better brace yourself, hon. Here comes trouble.”

An overly made-up woman with a tight face and cashmere sweater to match approached them. Lynn Wexler sat on nearly every major foundation board in the city and was known to adore her cocktails far more than her husband. She slid between Claire and Gail, fixing her nose about four inches from Claire’s. “I’m surprised to see you here after all that . . . sordidness,” she slurred, her breath bitter with scotch. “I’ve merely come over to inquire about your son.” Before Claire could respond, Lynn proceeded to spill her entire drink on Claire’s shoes.

“Oh, wait, let me check my watch,” Gail said, raising her Harry Winston chrono under Lynn’s chin, and passing Claire a napkin with her other hand. “Nope. Didn’t think so. It’s definitely not 1952, Lynn, so maybe tone down the Bette Davis a bit.”

Carolyn swooped over and escorted the redoubtable Mrs. Wexler to the bar, mouthing a mortified
sorry
over her shoulder. Claire glanced around the room again. Amid the buzz of a dozen different conversations she was positive she heard mentions of cocaine and affairs—as if her ears had suddenly sprouted high-powered hearing aids. Several people turned away, and she wasn’t sure if their collective head-shaking was aimed at her or at drunk Lynn. She prayed that the flames in her stomach hadn’t risen to her cheeks. “That went well, don’t you think?” she said, dabbing her shoes dry with the cocktail napkin.
Cora was proving to be prophetic after all, damn her.

Gail rolled her eyes at the rigid backside of Lynn’s departing figure. “Ugh, that horrible woman. But she has even more money than I do, so people tolerate her.” She handed Claire another glass of champagne from a passing tray.

Another waiter appeared with hors d’oeuvres. “Canapés? Or lamb chops with—”

“No,” Claire said a bit louder than she meant to. “Thank you.”