The Rich Are Different (75 page)

‘Thank you, Mrs Coleman.’

‘Do call me Vivienne …’

I tried to guess how old she was but she could have been any age between twenty-five and forty. Even with high-heeled shoes she was still shorter than I was, and as we went upstairs I noticed that her legs were as riveting as her bosom. I had to repress the urge to lift her skirt to check if her thighs were as perfect as her ankles.

‘Was that your husband I saw downstairs, Mrs Coleman?’ I inquired carefully.

‘I’d be very surprised if it was. He’s been dead for four years,’ she said, leading the way into an opulent bathroom decorated in pale mauve, and started to sponge my suit. As she stooped to tackle the bottom of my jacket I knew I had to stop her before she reached my pants. The improved view of her bosom was already making the shirt stick to my back.

‘Thanks a
lot,’ I said, removing the wash-cloth from her as she paused to survey her handiwork. ‘I’ll do the rest.’

She smiled at me. She had perfect teeth and sparkling blue eyes. ‘Am I reminding you of your mother?’ she said amused.

‘Not exactly,’ I said, praying I wouldn’t have an erection. I tried to camouflage myself by dabbing at the stain on my thigh.

‘Thank God for that! All right, if there’s nothing more I can do I’ll go but give me a wave when you come down again and I’ll find some nice people for you to talk to.’

I was so grateful to her for leaving me alone before my excitement could become embarrassingly obvious that I felt obliged to linger at the party when I returned downstairs. However, when I rejoined Vivienne she abandoned me after a couple of introductions. I felt quite irrationally disappointed.

When the guests were drifting away and I knew I could leave without appearing rude I thanked her for the party and after repeating how glad I was that I had been invited I gave her my most innocent smile, the one women usually chose to interpret in the raciest way possible.

‘I’m delighted you were able to come, Cornelius!’ she responded, warm and friendly, but not, so far as I could judge, hot and hopeful. ‘You’ve been the despair of every hostess in New York – I’m delighted that I’ve at last lured you into society!’

I never did manage to speak to Greg Da Costa.

‘This is all going to work out nicely,’ I said glibly to Sam. ‘I’m going to date Vivienne Coleman and soon I’ll have won Greg’s confidence. Within a month I bet we’ll know just where we stand with the Sullivan twins.’

‘Neil,’ said Sam apologetically, ‘this is so obvious that I hardly like to mention it, but you’re sure, aren’t you, that Greg isn’t sleeping with her?’

‘Oh, but he couldn’t be!’ I was aghast. A second later I realized I was behaving just like the twenty-one-year-old kid that I was and I made my habitual conscientious effort to be thirty years old. ‘I don’t think that’s very likely,’ I said carefully. ‘You haven’t seen either of these people, Sam, but this Vivienne Coleman’s got great class. I mean, she’s really exceptional. I’m not suggesting she’s a nun, but I’m sure if she wanted a lover she wouldn’t choose a guy like Da Costa who looks like the back end of a stove-in streetcar.’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Sam. ‘Judging from his photographs Jay Da Costa too looked like the shadiest thing this side of twilight, but anyone’ll tell you how he strung women along like pearls.’

‘Jay wasn’t a gangster!’

‘He didn’t have to be. He was rich and privileged and a great career fell into his lap. But who’s to say how he might have turned out if he’d had to fight for survival on the Lower East Side? I know the traditional view is that the Da Costa brothers were genetic freaks, but isn’t that pushing the odds a bit far? One genetic freak is possible, I guess, but two? If you want my opinion I think Greg and Stewart were more their father’s sons than anyone likes to admit.’

‘But why
don’t people like to admit it?’ I said, so fascinated by this analysis that I even forgot the revolting image of Da Costa crawling into bed with Vivienne.

‘Because people here on the Street don’t like to be reminded of how close they often come to Al Capone. Wall Street’s stuffed with gangsters, Neil, and you know that as well as I do. They don’t call them gangsters here, though. They call them pool operators or bank affiliate presidents. Sometimes they even call them investment bankers.’

I threw a paper-clip at him, declared that everyone knew pool operators were respectable nowadays – as respectable as those decent, moral, honest gentlemen who were investment bankers – and then I drew the conversation back to our plans to cultivate Da Costa, expose the Sullivan twins and stab Steve in the back. The upshot was that within the hour three dozen red and white carnations arrived on Vivienne’s doorstep and by early evening we were speaking on the phone.

‘Cornelius, thank you for the flowers – that was sweet of you. By the way, are you interested in musical comedy? I have tickets for the opening night of
The Street Singer
next Tuesday, and they say it’s going to be the biggest musical event of the season – Greg was going to come with me, but now he says he can’t make it so I’m in dire need of an escort. Of course if you loathe Broadway musicals—’

‘That sounds just wonderful!’ I said. ‘May I take you out to a late supper afterwards?’

She said I could, and scampering upstairs I took a cold shower while singing the famous tenor aria from Bizet’s
Fair Maid of Perth
. My sister Emily used to say that my musical taste was bizarre – ‘Either mathematical chamber music or hopelessly florid vocals!’ – but my mother always defended me by saying it was better to have some musical taste than none at all.

Sam might have broadened my outlook to the extent that I could now enjoy listening to ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’, but at heart I remained a musical snob and I thought the Broadway show was about as entertaining as toothache. However I paid little attention to it. My glance was constantly wandering sideways to Vivienne’s magnificent decolletage which began six inches from my right elbow.

After an intimate supper at Beaux Arts during which she confided in me that she had a passion for French Impressionist paintings I asked her if she would like to come home and see my Renoirs. I was really very angry when she declined but I kept my face impassive as I escorted her home.

‘I’m so glad your money hasn’t ruined you,’ she said smiling when the time came for us to part. ‘Some rich men become so accustomed to getting what they want the instant they want it that they become just like spoilt children.’

‘Why hang around for a delayed delivery,’ I said coolly, ‘when you can get what you want from a door-to-door salesman?’

She laughed. ‘Why indeed? Goodnight, Cornelius.’

I was
livid. I hated women who teased and I resented my serious proposition being treated as no more important than the yowl of a pet poodle. Almost in tears at the thought of all that unexplored decolletage I retired home to pour out my grievances to Sam, but when there was no sign of him I realized he was spending the night with his new girl. Moodily I flailed away six lengths of the pool to ease my restlessness. Later, sitting in my pyjamas on the edge of the bed, I felt lonely. A memory of my warm understanding affectionate sister floated across my mind.

I picked up the phone.

‘Hullo,’ I said, as my stepfather answered on the first ring. ‘Is Emily there, please?’

‘We’re all in bed, Cornelius. Do you know what time it is?’

‘Gee, I’m sorry,’ I said surprised. ‘I’ll call again tomorrow.’

‘Just a minute. Your mother wants to talk to you.’

I sighed. Telephone conversations with my mother were always peculiarly unrewarding.

‘Cornelius? Darling, why are you calling so late? Is anything wrong?’

‘No, Mama. I just wanted to talk to Emily but it’s not important.’

‘Heavens, this must be telepathy! Emily was going to call you tomorrow morning.’

This sounded more promising than my mother’s usual injunctions to eat well, get enough sleep and avail myself of New York’s cultural opportunities. ‘She was?’ I said with reluctant interest.

‘Yes – listen, darling, since we’re talking I may as well tell you the
whole
story. Emily’s been … well, there’s only one word for it, I’m afraid. Emily’s been’ – her voice sank to a whisper – ‘
jilted
.’

‘Jilted!’

‘You remember that very nice West Point graduate she met last Christmas?’

‘Oh, him. Yes, I didn’t like him at all.’

‘That’s quite irrelevant, Cornelius,’ said my mother crossly. ‘The point is that Emily did like him –
very much
– and we heard yesterday that he’s just got engaged to that dreadfully common girl Crystal Smith—’

I yawned while my mother droned on about the local gossip. Finally I said: ‘About Emily, Mama.’

‘Yes, the poor girl – of course I suggested it would be better if she got
right away
for a while to recover, and I thought it would be so
nice
for you both if she stayed with you in New York until Thanksgiving—’

‘What!’

‘Yes, wasn’t that a bright idea!’ said my mother pleased. ‘You can introduce Emily to all sorts of nice young men, no doubt, and she can avail herself of all the numerous cultural opportunities …’

I thought of my beautiful, chaste, intellectual sister and tried to imagine her with Sam and his new girl or with me and Vivienne Coleman. Sam and I had certainly reformed but we were still far from being monks.

‘I’d love to have Emily to stay, of course,’ I said carefully, ‘but don’t you
think it would be more suitable if she went to Sylvia? I hardly think it would be right if she stayed with two bachelors.’

‘My goodness, Cornelius!’ said my mother in horror. ‘Are you trying to tell me your household is unfit for a young girl?’

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and said in my sweetest mildest voice: ‘Of course not, Mama, I simply thought that Sylvia, as an older woman, would be a more suitable chaperon.’

‘Sylvia,’ said my mother coldly, ‘is visiting her cousins in San Francisco. Perhaps
I
should accompany Emily to New York.’

The sweat broke out on my forehead. ‘That won’t be necessary, Mama. And I resent your implication that I can’t take care of my own sister.’

‘But Cornelius, it was you who said—’

‘I feel pretty insulted,’ I said. ‘Please tell Emily to come as soon as she can. Goodnight, Mama,’ and hanging up the phone I collapsed in a heap on the pillows.

It took me at least ten minutes to recover sufficiently to wonder how I was going to arrange my personal life while I was acting as a chaperon. I sighed, then told myself not to be so selfish. A few weeks of exercising fanatical discretion would be good for me and besides, I was really very fond indeed of my sister Emily.

[3]

When she arrived at the end of the week I went to the station to meet her. She wore a dark blue coat and a little cream-coloured hat with matching gloves, shoes and purse. I thought she looked lovelier than ever and not in the least like a jilted heroine.

‘It’s so good of you to have me, Cornelius,’ she exclaimed after we had hugged each other and I was escorting her outside to the Cadillac. ‘I simply felt I had to get away from home for a while – Mama was trying so hard to marry me off that it was becoming embarrassing. Just because I’m nearly twenty-four she thinks I’m on the shelf! Now Cornelius dear, I want you to promise that you won’t alter your way of life in order to accommodate me, because believe me, what I need most at present is a little independence! You lead your life and I’ll lead mine. I’ll try not to get in your way and be a nuisance.’

‘Emily!’ My admiration for her understanding knew no bounds. I could only ask: ‘Why on earth are you still single? Any man who married you would be the luckiest man in the world!’

She laughed. ‘How nice of you to be so prejudiced! Actually there
was
someone once a long time ago whom I would have married, but … oh, it was hopeless! He hardly noticed me and anyway he’s married to someone else. Don’t let’s talk about that any more, Cornelius – it’s too depressing! How’s Sam?’

‘Fine.’ I was amazed to think of Emily yearning for a married man and wondered who he could possibly have been.

Emily was
saying she was looking forward to seeing Sam again. They had met only once, at Paul’s funeral, for although I had annually invited him to travel home with me at Thanksgiving and Christmas he had felt obliged to go to his parents in Maine, and we had never yet had the time to snatch any other vacation from work.

‘Maybe you’ll marry Sam!’ I said hopefully to Emily. ‘I’d like that.’

Unfortunately it was soon obvious that I had no talent for matchmaking. Sam, awestruck by Emily’s beauty and brains, was so shy in her presence that I was reminded of our early days at Bar Harbor when Jake had intimidated him, and although Emily, like Jake, put him at his ease I could see he was never going to fall in love with her. He liked bubbly, featherheaded girls who chattered incessantly about trivialities, not serious-minded young women whose favourite corner of New York was the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Emily was delighted to be in New York but was appalled by my house. None of my family had visited my Fifth Avenue home since Paul had died; that was my mother’s way of registering her disapproval of my decision to follow in Paul’s footsteps, and although I was welcomed and cosseted whenever I returned to Velletria I was left in no doubt that my mother would never condone my life in New York by crossing my threshold.

‘I’d forgotten what an awful place this is!’ exclaimed Emily as we sat up exchanging news on the night of her arrival. ‘How Uncle Paul, who loved Europe, could have not only built this house but lived in it I just can’t imagine but maybe he was so desperate for a European atmosphere that he was prepared to accept this horrid imitation. And I do think it’s a pity when American houses are crammed with nothing but European art treasures – they always end up looking like museums, and anyway I think most European art treasures should be in Europe where they belong. It’s such bad manners to denude a continent of its culture, don’t you think?’

I sighed. ‘You’re missing the whole point, Emily. This house was part of the façade which Paul presented to the public. People expected him to live in a place like this so he did. If he had lived in a lesser house people might have thought he was less important.’