Blue Rose In Chelsea Page 17

  We locate Sinclair in a window seat of a coffee shop, his head buried in Page Six of The New York Post, the shopping bag of stew filling in for my absence in the facing chair. I tap on the glass, and he shuffles out to join us.

  “I’ve got to go. I’ve got a late flight tonight,” Evan informs us. “I’m going home for Christmas, and then back to Vancouver for looping on the series.”

  Sinclair inquires about the series, and it’s exact date of airing, and assures Evan that we will watch every episode, and even tape it on our VCRs. He shakes Sinclair’s hand, and I expect Evan to kiss me goodbye, but he rummages about in his shopping bag distractedly, and pulls out a small box wrapped in silver cellophane paper and tied with a pink velvet bow.

  “Merry Christmas, Sylvia. That’s what took so long. I had them wrap it. Look, sparkly particles.” He points to the paper. It’s embossed with silver dots. He slips a kiss on my cheek as I take the package, stunned. So that’s what he went back to the cashier for.

  Then he’s gone, swallowed up in the crowds gushing down Fifth Avenue. Time slams to a halt, like a car that has jammed its brakes and skidded into a snow bank with a dull thud. The herd of shoppers looks so cold and anonymous. Yet somewhere in its midst burns a little ball of light, the heat of fire that is Evan.

  Sinclair impatiently paws the package, as I’m too dumbfounded to open it. I carefully unwrap it, and part the white tissue paper, to find a pair of earmuffs covered in a brown fur that is exactly a match for my hijacked coat. The fur is so otherworldly soft that I can’t resist rubbing it against my cheek.

  “I hope a real animal wasn’t killed for these. These better be fake!”

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, would you prefer he had bought you the cheap acrylic ones? The man is a Texan! Put them on before the wind wreaks havoc with your chi!” Sinclair plants them over my ears. Immediately the cold is cut off, the noise of crowds and traffic muffled. I feel delivered into some warmer, gentler world where my balance is restored. Sinclair, ever the stylist, fluffs out my dark curls, and pivots me so that I may have a look at myself in my reflection in the window of the coffee shop.

  “The prince has fled the ball, but he has left behind a tiara for the princess,” Sinclair says, with an expressive sigh.

  I tell Sinclair how I began to cry at the thought that Evan had ditched me at the cosmetic counter, and how I covered it up.

  “You told him you were weeping for starving Africans?” He looks at me as if I’ve kicked a kitten.

  “So much for being without guile.” It dawns on me that since the day I laid eyes on Evan my life has dissolved into one diabolical plot to be in his presence.

  “Let’s pray you’re not assaulted by animal activists.” Sinclair welcomes the falling snow that is swiftly camouflaging my furry figure. When I look frightened, he assures, “Never fear, my dear. If the PETA people try to hurt my Viv, I’ll sprint to the nearest phone and alert the authorities.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I say. The snow, as if in cahoots with us, crumbles from the clouds with ferocity, costuming us in its thick, wet flakes.

  ~ 15 ~

  She Is Not Thinking Of Me

  I’ve not seen Evan since the kiss at Bergdorfs, nearly two months ago. We have all been invited to a charity event on Valentine’s Day, where The Joseph will be crooning songs from the movie, Gigi, to the accompaniment of an orchestra. The Joseph has snagged us all free tickets. It’s a black tie event, and Sinclair—through his growing sphere of influential connections in the design world—has arranged for free borrowed tuxedos for Dylan, Brandon, and Evan.

  Sinclair and The Joseph resume their relationship as if the fourteen- year separation was no more than a dream remembered. It was no accident that The Joseph ran into Sinclair at the skating rink. He’d been trying to muster the nerve to contact Sinclair for nearly a year, and having heard (through their mutual friend and frequenter of Balduccis) that Sinclair would be skating that day, The Joseph shored up his courage with some cognac, scheduled a manicure and a mustache-trim, donned his best Ralph Lauren casual wear, and seized the day. The Joseph and his wife had divorced six months earlier. When his wife admitted to an affair with her interior decorator, The Joseph saw his opportunity to not only set himself free, but to twist the situation to his advantage in order to maintain his considerable financial empire by placing the blame squarely on the shoulders of his wife, and playing, to the hilt, the part of the injured cuckold. He nearly pulled it off, but for one minor glitch: he knew that he could never again face the honorable Sinclair, knowing he’d done something so dishonorable. And so, in the end, he confessed the truth to his wife, absolving her of all blame, and settled upon her both the Hamptons house and the penthouse on Central Park West, and happily ensconced himself in modest digs in Murray Hill, where he began to hatch out his plan on how best to approach Sinclair. The good-hearted and forgiving Sinclair faced one of two choices: to refuse The Joseph and forever feel vindicated and superior, or to accept him and be, simply, happy.

  The night before the black tie gala, Sinclair taps on my apartment door to break the news to me that he believes that Evan is sleeping with his agent—the quintessential New York cougar, thrice-married, most feared and formidable agent in the city: Wanda Everhart Teely-Turpin.

  “That’s a mouthful of a moniker to shout out during a fit of passion,” Sinclair jokes in poor taste. Sinclair and The Joseph met Wanda when they dropped off the tuxedos at Evan’s Chelsea apartment. It was The Joseph who picked up on some subtle body language between them.

  “You went to Evan’s apartment? You’re crossing the line! I don’t like that you know more about him than me!”

  Yet it seems, at times, that everyone knows more about Evan than me.

  Sinclair informs me that Evan and Wanda were on their way uptown to Wanda’s place, and she asked him if he had packed his toothbrush.

  “A toothbrush? That is the most damnable evidence you’ve got against him? That she asked him if he packed his toothbrush?”

  “Clearly, bringing one’s toothbrush along signifies spending the night,” Sinclair informs me sadly.

  “Maybe his plumbing is broken, and he had to shower or brush his teeth there,” I flounder.

  “She was eyeing him like a cat on a sparrow, a clear indication that nothing is wrong with his plumbing.” Sinclair sighs, woefully.

  Sinclair wages a campaign to convince me to bring David to the charity event as a backup. He makes such a brilliant case, that he wears me down.

  It’s easy enough to secure David’s promise to accompany me. He seems lately almost humble, and certainly repentant for his past sins. He doesn’t even balk at having to rent a tuxedo, but seems eager for any crumbs I’m willing to sprinkle along his path.

  Sinclair’s eyes are full of approval when he sees me glide into the restaurant wearing the white silk gown he has sewn for me, a near replica of the gown Gigi wore for her first night on the town as Gaston’s courtesan. My hair is upswept, with curls cascading down my neck. I wear white satin heels with ankle straps. I carry a big black velvet drawstring bag, which Sinclair later scolds me is not dainty enough and ruins the symmetry of the ensemble. I only realized, at the eleventh hour, that I didn’t have a handbag, and so I dug the velvet bag from my closet where it had been serving its purpose as a portfolio of sorts for my short stories.

  Evan is sitting beside Wanda, his arm looped around the back of her chair. At the sight of me, he extends both arms above his head as if stretching, and brings them to rest on the table in front of him, pulling himself up taller. His eyes drink me in, and then shift quickly to David and remain there, sizing up his rival.

  Wanda Everhart Teely-Turpin is not beautiful, but, like Dylan, she exudes the aura of being a personage of importance. She fits the main requirement for Evan’s lovers: she is at least a decade or more older than Evan. She is short, with large exaggerated features that match her larger-than-life reputation—a prominent nose and full lips and blue eyes rimmed
in coats of expertly applied mascara, and hair that may or may not be authentically blonde. Ample cleavage blooms above her aqua taffeta gown, although she does not move about freely in the gown, as if she is not accustomed to ornamentation. She’s not prettier than me, which is a relief so enormous that it elevates my mood like a drug. Her eyes rake over me with an expression that I can’t read: either she’s impressed by my style, or she thinks I am absurdly overdressed for the occasion.

  After introductions, and giving respectful attention to The Joseph’s rendition of I Remember It Well, Sinclair and I trot to the bar for a pow-wow. We stand shoulder-to-shoulder, speaking out of the corners of our mouths, like gumshoe detectives exchanging game plans under some pink neon checkpoint.

  “A juicy tidbit. Today’s is Evan’s birthday,” Sinclair informs me, as I marvel at this news. “Could the signs be any clearer that he’s destined for you?”

  “He could just as easily be destined for Wanda. He had his arm around her when I came in, or at least around the back of her chair,” I report surreptitiously.

  “When they ordered drinks, she said to him, ‘You know what I like,’ sort of perturbed, the way a woman clearly would if her lover forgot her highball of choice,” Sinclair whispers emphatically.

  “Okay, so what have we got against him, so far?” I review. “The toothbrush, the arm around the chair, the haughty highball comment. One more sliver of evidence, and he’s obviously guilty!” I gulp my margarita in one swig, like one of the great dames of Golden Era Hollywood.

  “Lay off the sauce, Gigi, or you’re likely to say something you’ll regret!” The Scottish Count yanks the drink from my mouth as I dribble the last of it onto my tongue.

  “Oh, you’re one to talk!” I yell-whisper back at him. “When your blood alcohol hits point five you spill all my secrets.”

  “Joseph has a plan. We’ve got everything under control!” Sinclair slicks his hair with his pinkies, as if my outburst has somehow upset his coiffure. He pivots me about by the shoulders, taking care not to crush the feisty feathers on the gown. Six strikingly handsome men have lined up along the dance floor, dressed in impeccable morning coats, and what appear to be white satin brocade waistcoats and white gloves. The shine of their shoes is rivaled only by the shine of their teeth.

  “Are those waiters?”

  “They are Admirers for Hire. We recruited them from Joseph’s ballroom dance class. Two of them were in Madonna’s Material Girl video.”

  It takes me a moment to register this news.

  “Oh, yes, I recognize that guy,” I point tactlessly, as Sinclair slaps down my hand. “They look as if they’ve stepped straight out of a Jane Austen novel.”

  “There’s nothing straight about them. I wish there were! I’m not thrilled at the thought of TJ cha-cha-ing with those stallions every Saturday night.” Sinclair has taken to calling The Joseph TJ for short.

  “What is this about?” I demand of Sinclair, as the first Admirer approaches me, gallantly offering his hand with a genteel bow.

  “We’ve arranged for you to display your talents. Wanda Steely Heart Topsy-Turban is stiff as a stuffed turkey in her tacky taffeta,” he spits out, and I raise my eyebrows, impressed at his finesse of this tongue twister. “Whereas you, my dear, will float like the graceful swan you are over the dance floor in this glorious creation.” He smoothes the creases of my silk gown, fawning over the feathers.

  “But I don’t ballroom dance,” I snarl, like a swan in a snit, through gritted teeth.

  “A basic waltz step and some chaine’ turns, and they’ll do the rest. You must look as if the very last thing on your mind is Evan. Curtsey while you’re thinking of what to say. It saves time,” the Red Queen orders, giving me a once over and flicking the feathers to stand at attention at my shoulders, before urging me forward with a shove, as the orchestra segues into but another song from the Gigi score.

  Joseph sings, “She’s so gay tonight. She’s like spring tonight; a rollicking, frolicking thing tonight. So disarming, soft and charming—She is not thinking of me!”

  Joseph punctuates these words with a look sharp as a porcupine quill, as if sending me some message, which is perhaps that I am not to be thinking of Evan.

  “In her eyes tonight, there’s a glow tonight; they’re so bright, they could light Fountainbleu tonight. She’s so gracious, so vivacious; She’s not thinking of me!”

  I try to appear gracious and vivacious as the swarthy dancer indeed does all the work. He waltzes me in sweeping concentric circles about the floor, before delivering me into the arms of the next swarthy suitor without missing a beat. Each handsome hoofer passes me reluctantly from one to the other, with a series of stylish turns. I’m thankful for the soft golden lighting and buzz from my margarita. It seems as if every patron has surrendered his drink and suspended conversation to observe the Mr. Darcy Debacle. I pull myself up taller, and make a concerted effort to execute a clean technique: toes pointed, carriage lifted out of my hips, arms gracefully held so that if water streamed from my shoulders it would follow the curve of my arms to flow from my fingertips.

  I spy Sinclair, who remains by the bar, signaling to the Admirers like an impresario, cueing each one for his entrance.

  “Bless her little heart/Crooked to the core/Acting out a part/What a rollicking, folicking bore!/She’s so fun tonight/she’s a treat tonight/You could spread her on bread, she’s so sweet tonight/So devoted, sugar coated.”

  Joseph does Louis Jordan proud. We’ve got the entire place in the palms of our hands, and I find myself camping it up just a bit. The dancers “vie” for my attention as they “steal” me from one another. The skirt of my gown fans out beautifully with each turn, revealing a black tulle lining. I don’t dare look at my table. All I can make out are their blurry figures as I swirl about like some anthropomorphic yard of silk. I can tell by the expression of wicked delight on Dylan’s face that this spectacular display may very well replace the Goya Bean story as the piece de resistance in his repertoire of embarrassing Haley incidents.

  “But it’s heartwarming to see/Oh she’s simmering with love/Oh she’s shimmering with love/Oh she’s not thinking of me/She’s not thinking of me! Someone has set her on fire—Is it Jacques, is it Paul or Leon? Who’s turning her furnace up higher? Oh, she’s hot, but it’s not for Gaston!”

  Joseph repeats this particular verse and substitutes Evan for Gaston, but I’m praying that his faux French Louis Jordan accent has rendered it unintelligible.

  “She’s so gay tonight/a gigantic, romantic cliché tonight/How she blushes, how she gushes, how she fills me with ennui/She’s so oola-la-la, so untrue la-la-la, oh she’s not thinking of me!”

  My partner leads me in a finale of surplus turns and then dips me with great aplomb, ending exactly as the last note of the orchestra sounds. There is a roar of applause. I’m not sure if I want to take a bow or bolt for the door. I offer a curtsey, a demure smile, and flash a “you are so dead” look at Sinclair, before turning to thank my Admirers for Hire, who perhaps were paid extra to hover afterward and appear unable to part with me.

  “What the hell was that?” Dylan can’t resist when I return to the table.

  I shrug innocently, dab my forehead and decollete with a white linen napkin and stall by sipping my ice water.

  “This happens everywhere we go,” the Red Queen gushes. “Men appear out of the woodwork, wanting to dance with our dear Gigi. It’ really becoming quite a nuisance.”

  “Really? This happens everywhere you go? It must be some new phenomenon, because this is the first I’ve seen of it.” Dylan chews on a toothpick pilfered from the olive in his date’s martini. His face is like a struck match, lit perhaps, with the possibility of future shtick.

  “You were like Ginger Rogers, except with six Fred Astaires instead of one!” Dylan’s date effuses, bless her heart. I decide right there to take her side in any of her future disputes with Dylan. At Christmas she will receive a lavish gift from me,
and when Dylan gives her the eventual slip, I will go to great lengths to tip her off to his whereabouts, perhaps even recruiting Mom for inside espionage.

  David has missed the entire spectacle, as I later discover that Sinclair—as part of his elaborately choreographed scheme—sent David on a wild goose chase to the reception area, on the pretense that there was a phone call for David.

  I don’t dare look at Evan, but when I finally do he is watching me as if he is struggling to suppress an implosion of emotion. Is it possible that Sinclair and TJ’s preposterous plan has actually made him jealous? There is no disputing that The Admirers for Hire are devastatingly handsome. Wanda Everhart Teely-Turpin studies me as if I were some assemblage of dinosaur bones at the Museum of Natural History that don’t quite fit together in her expert estimation. She casts glances at Evan as if piecing together some puzzle.

  I’m rescued from further scrutiny when a psychic makes her way to our table. She wears a scarlet chiffon caftan, her eyes rimmed in smoky kohl; the palms of her delicate hands bear intricate henna etchings. For ten dollars she will predict one’s future, but she can only see the upcoming year, not beyond that, because she reads the pathways of one’s current intention, and a change of personal will could alter one’s destiny radically, she explains to the inquisitive Wanda. Dylan’s date pays for a reading for Dylan, eager, I’m sure, to see if she’s in Dylan’s future, and is informed that before the year’s end Dylan will find himself in the midst of a revolution.

  “A musical revolution?” Dylan begins to hum the Beatles song, Revolution.

  “Are you a solider?” the psychic asks in what seems to be an Eastern European accent.

  “Accountant,” Brandon answers for him. “You’re always saying it’s time to reform the tax code. Perhaps you’ll lead a revolution against the IRS.”

  But the psychic insists it’s a political revolution, and Dylan clearly thinks his money’s been wasted.

  The Joseph is next. “I see you surrounded by sheep, droves of sheep,” the incredulous and blushing Joseph is told, and everyone giggles at this, except Sinclair who shifts nervously in his chair. Can it be that Sinclair has never told Joseph about his being a Count, with an accompanying castle, moat and sheep station?