Blue Heaven (3 page)

"And I'm not even counting the money. Tony the Tightwad forked out five hundred bucks. Freddy Bombelli gave them five grand. The total cash, Philip, came to thirty thousand dollars! I had no idea how much money Tony's family had! But next March I'm going to waltz down the aisle and grab my share!"

He took a big gulp of my margarita and smacked his lips in loud satisfaction.

"And that, honey, is only the half of it!"

"I don't want to hear the rest!"

"There's also," he continued obliviously, "the money from
Moira's
side. God, you've heard about her mother, haven't you?"

Indeed I had. Moira's mother, the former Mrs. Finch, left the States some years ago. She now resides in the quaint English village of Little Chipperton where she reigns socially supreme as the Duchess of Dorsetshire. If you've met Moira you are doubtlessly aware of this fact as it is one she has managed to work into the first five minutes of every conversation she's ever had. If you haven't met Moira I'll warn you that should this fate befall you you must not express any curiosity whatsoever. For even the most routinely polite inquiry- like, "No kidding? A duchess?"-will elicit an avalanche of self-aggrandizing details from Moira, including all the amusing things Prince Charles said to her when, as Mummy's guest, she attended the royal wedding. (One wonders how Princess Di liked the pasta.)

"Yes, I've heard about her mother. But I thought dukes are always poor these days."

"Not this one. They've got baskets of it. Now maybe they won't give any to Moira when she wants to invest in cosmetic pet surgery, but if she's actually getting married-well, c'mon! They
have
to fork over big! So with me bringing in the Cellinis and her roping in the duke and duchess and all their rich chums we have it figured at fifty thousand at the absolute least! Not bad for a day's work, huh?
Huh?"

And with that, he laughed so hard he passed tequila through his nose.

I sat smoking pensively as our second round arrived. Ethical considerations aside-and aside is always just where they are when Gilbert makes plans-the whole thing did look pretty lucrative. Two stunningly unscrupulous people with rich but closefisted families could hardly devise a more surefire means of inducing them to hand over a sackful or two. There remained, however, a pterodactyl in the ointment.

"But
Moira,
Gilbert? Get married? To her?"

"We'll just be sharing an apartment for a year or two. God, Philly! For that kind of money I can deal with having Moira as a roommate for a while."

"But it's a legal bond."

"Just a temporary one," he said lightly. "We've already signed a prenuptial contract and when we break up we split it all down the middle. If we can't agree who gets something we'll sell it and divide the money. See? We've mapped this whole thing out, engagement to divorce, and it is perfect! 'It's tops,' " he sang, " 'It's first! It's DuPont! It's Hearst!' " He began clapping his hands and stomping his feet on the floor with glee.

"Will you stop acting like a queer leprechaun. People are staring."

He regained a measure of composure and raised his glass in a toast.

"Here's to you, Philip-my best friend, and now my best man!"

"No!"

"Philip!"

"I said no!"

"Why not?"

"Because it's dishonest and I want no part of it!"

This was not my real reason. I was convinced the whole thing would end in some unanticipated but hugely embarrassing way and, were I to take part, a good portion of the ultimate egg would be on my face. But if both the high and low roads go to the same place, one naturally takes the high one.

"Dishonest!" he said in a puzzled, hurt tone. "I fail to see how. Not," he hastened to add, "that I'd call it especially honest either. But, really! Where's the harm?"

"You're lying to everyone you know and cheating your family! Think of your poor mother!"

"She'll be thrilled to see me get married."

"And when she gets to know Moira?"

"She'll be thrilled to see me divorced."

"What about Tony?"

"Him!" snorted Gilbert. "I'm only following his advice. 'Be resourceful!' he said. As for the rest of them, they're
rich.
What's a couple of hundred to them for a really good time and a chance to see all their cousins?"

"You're swindling a duchess," I said, thinking as I did that it was not an accusation I often got a chance to make.

"Oh, honey!" he replied, rolling his eyes ceilingward. "You expect me to feel sorry for some woman whose biggest problem in life is fox hunts getting rained out? Don't be such a Pollyanna! You
have
to be my best man!"

He stared pleadingly at me. I knew from long years of experience what was coming next.

"After all, Philip-"'

"Don't say it!"

"-you were the
first.
The first ever!"

And so, to my lasting regret, I had been. Mind you, this was ten years ago when we were both sixteen and treading the boards together at Our Lady of Perpetual Prayer High School. The romance began in the spring of our junior year and ended that July when Gilbert's penchant for tricking with wealthy older gentlemen ceased to be a mere suspicion on my part and became instead a medically incontestable fact.

I suppose ours was a fairly typical adolescent fling, complete with troublesome logistics, jealous fights and moist reconciliations. Nothing at all unique. But Gilbert has, in the intervening years, smothered it all in great winsome gobs of nostalgia. Which doesn't bother me. What bothers me is his habit of bludgeoning me over the head with it whenever he's trying to talk me into doing something I don't want to do.

He ogled me affectionately.

"Remember those days, Philly?"

"Better than you do."

"I didn't know what love was till that spring."

"I didn't know what crabs were."

"The things we did! The crazy promises we-"

"Oh, stuff it, Gilbert! It's not going to work."

"Okay, how much money do I owe you?" he asked, effecting the switch from paramour to pragmatist with the speed of a man born to finagle.

"Including the most recent damages?"

"If you insist."

"I do. About five hundred dollars."

"That much!"

"At least!"

"Well then, I'd think if anyone would have a reason to want this thing to come off it'd be you! C'mon! If you're not best man I'll have to pick someone else, probably some Cellini who'll be totally underfoot and I'll have to be acting the excited straight boy all the time. I'll go nuts! Besides, if you're in on all the planning and spending a lot of time with me and Moira, then people will be much more likely to believe you when you lie for me."

"But I don't want to lie for you."

"Philly," he said sadly, "I don't see that you have much choice. Think of the people who'll be calling you with questions-'Has he really gone straight?' 'Why
her?'
What are you going to say to them?"

"This is beginning to sound like a lot of work just to get back the money you owe me anyway."

"All right," he said, taking a nonchalant sip of his margarita. "Double it."

He smiled serenely.

"Are you serious?"

"Of course. You don't think I'd let you help me without offering you a share of the loot? Just be my best man, tell a few innocent lies to everyone you know, and the money is yours."

"A thousand dollars?"

"Oh, hell, let's make it fifteen hundred. I believe that would give you enough to buy that computer you've been salivating over for the last year and a half."

As he said this, he smiled broadly, for he could see my defenses crumbling before his eyes.

This was, you'll recall, the middle of October. Since the demise the previous December of my trusty Olivetti, I had been forced to make do with a manual typewriter left to me by Uncle Walter who had, I suspect, purloined it from the Smithsonian.

"Fabulous machines, aren't they, computers?" asked Gilbert. "Is it true that when you want to revise something all you have to do is change the parts you want on a screen? Then you push a button and it spits out a beautiful new copy of the whole thing while you have a sandwich?"

"Something like that."

"You don't have to stay up all night retyping?"

"No."

"And you don't have to keep glopping on that correction fluid that makes it look like you're typing on oatmeal?"

"All right! You win! I'll be your best man!"

"Oh, thank you, Philly!" he cried. "I knew you'd never let me down!" he added and, leaning over the table, seized my head in both hands and kissed me on the lips.

"If you're trying to convince people you've gone straight, you're off to a great start."

"Oh, c'mon! Who's going to see us at this time of-oh, shit!"

Gazing over my shoulder, he smiled half-heartedly and waved. I turned and saw Moira Finch standing out on the sidewalk, pantomiming surprised delight. When she noticed it was me in the other chair her pantomime doubled in intensity, suggesting almost unendurable elation. Moira, as you'll see, is not a girl to feign things halfway. Pausing only to fend off a passerby who was attempting to perform the Heimlich maneuver on her, she raced into the cafe and was upon us.

"Oh, stuff it, Gilbert! It's not going to work.

"Okay, how much money do I owe you?" he asked, effecting the switch from paramour to pragmatist with the speed of a man born to finagle.

"Including the most recent damages?"

"If you insist."

"I do. About five hundred dollars."

"That much!"

"At least!"

"Well then, I'd think if anyone would have a reason to want this thing to come off it'd be you! C'mon! If you're not best man I'll have to pick someone else, probably some Cellini who'll be totally underfoot and I'll have to be acting the excited straight boy all the time. I'll go nuts! Besides, if you're in on all the planning and spending a lot of time with me and Moira, then people will be much more likely to believe you when you lie for me."

"But I don't want to lie for you."

"Philly," he said sadly, "I don't see that you have much choice. Think of the people who'll be calling you with questions-'Has he really gone straight?' 'Why
her?'
What are you going to say to them?"

"This is beginning to sound like a lot of work just to get back the money you owe me anyway."

"All right," he said, taking a nonchalant sip of his margarita. "Double it."

He smiled serenely.

"Are you serious?"

"Of course. You don't think I'd let you help me without offering you a share of the loot? Just be my best man, tell a few innocent lies to everyone you know, and the money is yours."

"A thousand dollars?"

"Oh, hell, let's make it fifteen hundred. I believe that would give you enough to buy that computer you've been salivating over for the last year and a half."

As he said this, he smiled broadly, for he could see my defenses crumbling before his eyes.

This was, you'll recall, the middle of October. Since the demise the previous December of my trusty Olivetti, I had been forced to make do with a manual typewriter left to me by Uncle Walter who had, I suspect, purloined it from the Smithsonian.

"Fabulous machines, aren't they, computers?" asked Gilbert. "Is it true that when you want to revise something all you have to do is change the parts you want on a screen? Then you push a button and it spits out a beautiful new copy of the whole thing while you have a sandwich?"

"Something like that."

"You don't have to stay up all night retyping?"

"No."

"And you don't have to keep glopping on that correction fluid that makes it look like you're typing on oatmeal?"

"All right! You win! I'll be your best man!"

"Oh, thank you, Philly!" he cried. "I knew you'd never let me down!" he added and, leaning over the table, seized my head in both hands and kissed me on the lips.

"If you're trying to convince people you've gone straight, you're off to a great start."

"Oh, c'mon! Who's going to see us at this time of-oh, shit!"

Gazing over my shoulder, he smiled half-heartedly and waved. I turned and saw Moira Finch standing out on the sidewalk, pantomiming surprised delight. When she noticed it was me in the other chair her pantomime doubled in intensity, suggesting almost unendurable elation. Moira, as you'll see, is not a girl to feign things halfway. Pausing only to fend off a passerby who was attempting to perform the Heimlich maneuver on her, she raced into the cafe and was upon us.

Three

"G
ilbert, honey! And Philip! Oh, isn't this just too wonderful?"

She grabbed a chair from a neighboring table and shoved it under ours, banging our shins. "Imagine running into the two of you just out of the blue! And you're both looking so nice! I could faint with pleasure!"

"Congratulations, Moira!"

"Oh, he's told you?"

"Yes."

"Isn't it fabulous?"

"Literally."

"The two of us are so happy we can't stand it! We can't wait to tell everyone."

" 'Scuse me," said our waitress who'd been hovering since Moira had seated herself.

"We don't know whether we should just spread the word informally or wait a bit and have a huge bash and tell everyone at the same time. Maybe we should-"

"Canlgetyousomething?"

"Oh! Gee," said Moira, eyeing our margaritas and staring poignantly down at her purse. "No . . . nothing for me. I'm fine."

"I have plastic," said Gilbert, whose finances were improving with every drink.

"Oh? They didn't take it away then?"

"No, I sold some things and paid it off."

"Well," said Moira, suddenly parched. "Maybe a little wine. Or
champagnel
Oh what a good idea! Let's all have champagne and celebrate! Do you have Veuve Clicquot?"

"Yes."

"Fabulous! A bottle of that."

The waitress withdrew and Moira sat back in her chair, sighing contentedly. Immediately she sat bolt upright again.

"Oh, darling, I have the most amazing news!"

"What is it?"

"Not yet, love. Let's wait till Vulpina gets here."

Gilbert and I blanched as one.

"Vulpina?"

"Yes. I was supposed to meet her across the street. Don't worry though, I'll be able to see her from here and I'll run and get her."

Gilbert and I exchanged discreet glances of dismay. Vulpina (no last name, which, I suppose, says it all) owns and operates the SoHo boutique of the same name. She is among Moira's dearest friends, presumably because Moira finds it to her advantage to be seen regularly in the company of someone alongside whom she might be considered unaffected. Vulpina is six foot one, weighs maybe twenty-six pounds, speaks in a Hollywood Slavic accent, and dresses exclusively in her own designs. These designs, which have been spotted as far north as Houston Street, vary widely in cut, fabric and intended function, but they are all heavily imbued with Vulpina's unmistakable hallmark, overpriced hideousness.

"Oh, what fun!" chirped Moira. "We can all party together!"

"On my card?"

"Oh, you!" She laughed gaily. "My stingy baby! So," she said, turning to me, "were you surprised when he told you?"

"Not a bit. I'd had a feeling he was chasing you for years."

"Well, he finally caught me!" she said, laughing and pinching his cheek. "He finally caught me!" she repeated and it occurred to me that if a venereal disease could gloat, this was just what it would sound like.

"Of course, people are bound to call it a whirlwind courtship but I've always said when you find the right person you just know it. I mean, you really just
know.
Maybe not right away. Take Gilbert and me-we knew each other for years before it finally clicked, but when it did, well we just
knew.
It's like reading 'The Wasteland.' "

"Oh?"

"You know, the first one or two times you read it you're just bored and you don't get it at all. Then you read it again and
bang,
you're just sitting there thinking 'Yes,
yes,
oh my God, how true!' That's just how it was with Gilbert and me. We were lying there in this meadow, gazing up at the stars when out of nowhere we both started weeping with happiness! At the
exact
same moment! Now, I ask you, have you ever heard of two-?"

"Moira, I told Philip we're getting married for the gifts."

"Oh. Well, don't I feel silly!"

"I thought we needed someone else on the team. And if there's anyone on earth we can trust, Philly's the one!"

"I hope you don't object."

"Not at all!" she said, smiling toxically. "I just hope Gilbert means it when he says you're the only one. I mean, you know how things get around."

"Well, you can trust Philly. He's in for a cut."

"Really?"
she asked and the people at the next table had to button their sweaters.

"Taken from my share, of course."

"Well, isn't that nice of you! He is
such
a sweetheart. He really is. I would never consider doing this with anyone else." She patted his hand affectionately. "Did he tell you he's moving in with me?"

"No kidding? When?"

"First thing tomorrow!" said Gilbert.

"We talked it over and decided the parents really expect it these days. We wouldn't want them to think we were tentative or anything. And there's plenty of space. Even a nice little room where Gilbert can work on his book."

"How's the book going?" I asked.

"Coming along," he said in bored, subject-closing sort tone.

"Is
it?" I asked.

"Yes, it's about doubled in length since the last time I saw you."

"Added a dedication, did you?"

Gilbert, I should explain, fancies himself a writer. He wants desperately to be a world-famous, flamboyant, provocative novelist and will do anything to achieve this goal short of putting words on paper. Some authors procrastinate, others suffer from dry spells, but Gilbert, so far as I can surmise, is actually putting off writer's block.

He often claims that his furiously hedonistic lifestyle is merely research for the dazzling and profound page turner he'll someday complete, but I think the truth is somewhat simpler. We travel in circles where it's extremely difficult
not
to be an artist working on a project. Tell people you're a weekend terrorist with a sideline in necrophilia and you hardly risk disapproval. But say you have no, ambition to create Art, not even prose poems, not even
collages,
and you're treated like some bizarre unsentient life form, a thing to be pitied but shunned. So Gilbert sat down a few years back and began a novel. Now, this odious task out of the way, he can go to parties every night of the week and complain bitterly about how his social obligations keep him from his work. I tease him every chance I get in the hopes that he may yet surprise me with a few pages.

"Don't start again, Philip. Just because I don't rush to show you every page doesn't mean I'm not doing it."

"Okay. Moira, you'll be living with him. If you hear typing, call me."

"I write in longhand."

"Oh, champers!" cried Moira, for the waitress was approaching bearing an ice bucket and a stand to put it on.

All hopes for a three-way split were dashed by the sudden appearance of Vulpina. Her outfit this evening was among the more outre she'd ever devised. It consisted of immense brown jodhpurs, a sort of black lace mantilla and a skin-tight white silk tube top. The total effect suggested a teabag in mourning.

"Pina! You found us. We were so worried."

"I'm sorry, I was delayed. It could not be avoided," she said darkly. Then, managing the merest wisp of a smile, she murmured, "Hello, Gilbert. Philip."

"We just love what you're wearing! Is it new?"

Vulpina thought for a moment as if wondering whether to trust us with sensitive information, then broke down and confessed, "No it's old. I did not wear it for three years. Too many memories."

"Of what?"

"A Tuesday. Long ago."

"You're so svelte these days," commented Gilbert.

"But I'm not. Only today I ate pizza. And last night ..." Again she paused, then whispered cryptically, ". . . other things. Many other things."

As you've probably surmised, Vulpina's main stock in pretense is this habit of always speaking as if it were midnight and she was standing on a railway platform in Zurich, fingering the blueprints under her trenchcoat while waiting for the Belgian with the carnation. She can imbue the most commonplace utterances with the sort of throbbing intensity one should only be allowed to employ when saying, "The tip is poisoned, use it if you must," or, "Silence, you fool- his men are everywhere." I realize this habit may sound quirky and amusing, but after a while you just want to hit her.

Gilbert glumly requested another glass for Vulpina. It arrived in short order and we toasted the happy couple.

"So, Pina's here now," said Gilbert to Moira. "What's this big news?"

"I have it right here, lambkins," said Moira and, reaching down under the table, produced her famous purse and opened it. She'd clearly been to a party earlier that evening because the smell of ripe brie amidst the combs and cosmetics was hard to miss. She wasted little time in finding the item and closing the clasp. It was a letter.

"It's from Mummy," she said. "You know, the Duchess of Dors-"

"Yes, I know."

"You have to hear this!" she said and, affecting a slight British accent, read us the letter.

" 'Darling Moira, I know we spoke only hours ago but I just had to write and let you know again how thrilled the duke and I are over your delightful news. Of course, it is a big step and we'd have liked a chance to meet the young man first'-she is
so
overprotective- 'but Gilbert sounds like a wonderful and industrious boy and we have every confidence that in choosing him you've exercised your usual superb judgment.' " This struck
me
as an odd thing to say to a girl who once dropped three grand on theme funerals but this was not, I felt, the moment to say so.

" 'As for the wedding I'm simply bursting with plans and can't wait to get stateside and discuss them with you and Gilbert.
Malheureuse-ment,
I shall be quite stranded here at Trebleclef-that's the ancestral home . . .
gorgeous
-'till November when the Little Chipperton Medieval Festival is finally over.' That is such a bore," sighed Moira. "Every year the poor darling has to run the whole thing. Give speeches, award all the prizes, and pick the Damsel of the Day. You wouldn't believe the politicking that goes on! She'd love to just tell the whole
lot of them to fuck off but what can she do? She's the only duchess for miles and miles so she gets stuck with everything!"

"Heavy lies the head, huh?"

"You have no idea. But listen to this!" she said and resumed reading-" 'I've booked rooms at the Pierre for eight weeks starting Friday, November 21. I'd love to see you married there but I suspect,
hélas,
that the ballroom there will be too small for our purposes. What do you think of the Plaza?'

"I think it's wunnerful, Momma!" cried Gilbert, who can drink anything but champagne.

" 'Please jot down any ideas you may have for the ceremony and reception and send them to me posthaste. And remember, dear, you're my only daughter so please don't allow thrift to inhibit your natural good taste.' "

She smiled a small tasteful smile and, refolding the letter, opened her bag to place it inside. And as she did, her mother's words hung over the table like a perfume so sweet not even the smell of rotting brie (commingled, one now discerned, with spinach puff pastries) could foul its bouquet.

"What a lovely woman," said Gilbert softly.

"She's always been so good to me," said Moira, sniffing. She dabbed her eye with a hanky and some salmon fell out of it. "Quite a mother-in-law you're getting there, Gilbert!"

"Congratulations," said Vulpina, rising. "I vill design the gown." Before anyone could thank her, she announced that she had to leave to see a client. And you just knew from the way she said it she'd be met at the corner by a black stretch limo containing the vice president, a sultry female demolitions expert and Mikhail Gorbachev's long-lost identical twin.

Left now to its own our little syndicate fell into a rapture of conspiratorial glee. Moira and Gilbert ordered another bottle and proposed toast after toast, each profuse in its praise of the other's beauty, wit and ingenuity. Eventually their giddy attentions turned to me and I found myself happily buried beneath a mudslide of unction. Clever Philip! Handsome Philip! Helpful Philip! The effect of all this on what remained of my mind is not hard to imagine. My attitude toward the plan underwent a change.

"An' I dunno what these peeploo say you look awfuler talk about. You look wunnful. Dozeny look wunnful?"

"Yes! He's getting so hunky! You've been working out, haven't you? I can tell."

"He looks-wuzza were?"

"Boyish."

"Rye! You look boish."

"And to look so hot and write the way he does! That's just unfair! You're unfair, Philip, that's what
you
are!"

I smiled in tacit agreement and wondered if anyone had ever been blessed with two friends even half so charming or perceptive as the pair who sat before me now. The mere sight of them, hunched now over the pocket calculator Moira never travels without, filled me with the warmest of sentiments. How radiant they looked! Gilbert with his great blond forelock and impish choirboy grin. And Moira---poor maligned Moira!-how she glowed with madonnalike warmth as her fingers danced over the keys. Had ever a couple looked so made for each other, so totally and unassailably plausible? Had ever a scheme been so clearly destined to be crowned with success?