Blue Heaven (5 page)

Not long after that Gilbert was seen in the kitchen making drunken passes at the two actresses who'd played the roles of "Marie's Courage" and "Marie's Doubt" (for it was that kind of a musical).

The exact sequence of events following this has been lost in a morass of conflicting reports but there is one thing on which all who were present later agreed.

At two a.m. or so people noticed that neither Moira nor Gilbert was anywhere to be seen. It was assumed that they'd left quietly and separately. But this assumption was proved incorrect when Jimmy Loftus, entering Marlowe's bedroom to retrieve his coat, found the two of them lying on top of it, half-naked and necking passionately. Jimmy bolted from the room and with the fervor of a latter-day Paul Revere began telling everyone what he'd seen. About a dozen revelers, possessed of both swift feet and a devastating lack of tact, stampeded to see for themselves. They were greeted by the sight of the happily reconciled pair struggling into their clothes and blushing up a storm. They emerged grinning sheepishly, apologized to Marlowe and disappeared, arm in arm, into the night.

I didn't witness this as I was in the kitchen learning all about Velcro, but those who saw it assured me that the devotion that shone in their eyes was indisputably authentic. These were the same people who had until then been unwavering in their skepticism. But now they busily informed friends who'd not been on hand that everything was true. They'd seen it with their own eyes. And those who continued to doubt Gilbert's sincerity did so merely because they Hadn't Been There.

Gilbert phoned me the next morning to crow long and loudly about the ingenuity he and Moira had displayed in bringing people around in so devious a fashion.

"Wasn't it just perfect!"

"Sorry, I missed it."

"Oh, that's right. You were busy with Betsy Ross. You didn't waste much time on him I hope?"

"Three hours. It turns out all the time he was stringing me along he was just waiting for this hunky old friend of his named-"

"Barclay, yes, I know. I kept meaning to clue you in but I never got around to it. Oh, I wish you'd seen our exit. We were just brilliant!

People were smiling at us and going 'Awwwwwww!' They bought it they really did!"

"I'm so glad for you."

"Well me, too! We're in the clear now! I just know it's all smooth sailing from here on in."

"I hope so."

"I know so! Trust me, sweetie, our problems are over!"

Five

O
ur problems had not, of course, even started. But start they did on November 19, a rainy Wednesday just two days before the scheduled arrival of Her Grace, the Duchess of Dorsetshire.

Gilbert, Moira and I were sitting around the dining table at God's Country trying to be diplomatic with Vulpina who was showing us her sketches for Moira's wedding gown. Even Moira, usually Vulpina's most outspoken apologist, had been leery of accepting her generous offer to create gowns for the bridal party. Gilbert and I had urged her to decline politely, pointing out that there are only a few acceptable approaches to bridal design and that Pina's specialty, the attention-starved psychotic look, is not among them. Moira conceded this but felt that, given the wide consensus on the good taste of respecting tradition in these matters, surely even Vulpina would restrain any tendency toward iconoclasm.

Vulpina, however, had done no such thing, choosing instead to pull out all the stops and show the SoHo design gang just what she could accomplish when she really spit on her hands and got down to it. I lack the sartorial vocabulary to describe the result but perhaps you'll get the idea if I say that had it been Moira's intention to marry not Gilbert but instead, say, Destructo the Visigoth, this little dress would have been just the ticket.

"Oh, Pina!" said Moira at length. "It's so ...
activel
I mean, wedding gowns are usually, you know, very passive. But this is so . . .so energized! I don't know if I can live up to it! What do you think, Gilleycakes?"

"I love it. But if
you
think it's maybe a little-"

"No! I love it, really I do! It's so primal!"

A long minute ticked by.

"Then I may begin constructing it immediately?" asked Vulpina. "Of course," said Moira, ". . .. the minute Mum gives the okay." Vulpina arched her back in displeased surprise like a cobra that sees it's been trying to hypnotize a rubber mongoose. "It is for
her
to decide?"

"I know it sounds incredibly old-fashioned but I did promise Mummy approval of
all
the details. Don't worry though, I'm sure she'll love this."

"I trust there will not be much delay," sniffed Pina. "I'll barely have time as it is. Locating the materials could take weeks."

"I can imagine!" said Moira, eyeing the sketch. "All those wolverines! Well, don't you worry, love, 1 won't waste a minute getting the verdict!"

Vulpina regarded her with narrowed eyes, then, turning away, picked up her portfolio.

"Now the bridesmaids-"

The phone rang. Gilbert and Moira nearly knocked each other over traversing the room to reach it. Gilbert got there first and, after listening a moment, turned to us and excitedly announced it was a transatlantic call.

"I'm not here," said Pina in the annoyed tone of a girl who wishes she'd never agreed to safeguard the darn microfilm in the first place.

"Oh, Pina," giggled Moira, "it's not for you. It must be Mummy!"

She reached for the phone but Gilbert hung on to it, covering the mouthpiece with one hand.

"Moy, put the phone on the speaker system! Philip
has
to hear her!" He turned to me and said, "She's a hoot!"

Moira hissed "No" and grabbed for the phone but Gilbert held fast till she groaned and, crossing to the sideboard, flicked a switch on the answering machine. Immediately the nasal voice of a transatlantic operator filled the room.

"Is innyone on the lion, please?"

Moira grabbed the phone from Gilbert.

"Yes, I'm here! Who is it?"

"I have a person-to-person call for Miss Moira Finch."

"This is she."

"Thenk you. You may proceed with your call."

"Moira?"

"Mummee!"

"I'm so glad I got you and not your dreadfully adolescent message."

The voice had an odd buttery rasp to it that no fan of
Gigi
or
A Little Night Music
could fail to recognize.

"My God!" I whispered to Gilbert. "She sounds exactly like Her-mione Gingold!"

"I know!"

"But I thought she was born in America."

"She was-in
Pittsburgh!
That's what's so funny about it!"

"Listen, dear," wheezed the duchess. "I have the most dreadful news."

"Oh no!" said Moira, sitting. "It's not the duke, is it?"

"Would that it were! It's me, darling. I had a terrible accident and I'm lying flat on my back."

"What happened!"

"Queen Mab threw me into a ditch."

"She did! But she's always been such a sweet horse!"

"I know, dear. But some horrible little boy at the Medieval Festival threw a jousting lance at her and she went absolutely wild. It was horrid! She trampled a nine-year-old boy to death!"

"Serves the little hoodlum right!"

"Don't say that, dear. It wasn't the same one."

"Sorry, Mum. Are you all right?"

"Of course I'm not all right! I was hurled into a ditch! They tell me for the next three months I'm not allowed to do anything but lie here and eat all the fattening sweets my friends have been spiteful enough to send me."

"Mummy! I could cry!"

"And I so wanted to be thin for your wedding! I wanted people to look at me and say, 'Is that the mother or her sister?' Now they'll just say, 'My God-who's the dirigible in peach silk?' I wish I were dead!"

"Well, when can you get here?"

"I told you. Between my shoulder and my hip I'm not permitted to move for three months."

"Three months! Can't you recuperate over here?"

"No. I told Nigel I wanted to sail over in a week or so and then have the Pierre install a hospital bed. But he just wouldn't have it."

"He's so pigheaded! Are you in agony?"

"I was, but they've given me some lovely drugs and I'm much
better. I'm just upset I won't be there to get my nose into things. Then there's Gilbert, of course. I was so looking forward to meeting him! Couldn't you two fly over here for the holidays?"

Moira looked to Gilbert who shook his head madly then added some violent flailing lest his point be mistaken.

"Gosh, I don't think so. He's so busy with his novel."

"Oh, blast," sighed Mummy. "I'm sure he's wonderful as you say but I do wish I could meet him a bit sooner than it seems I'm going to."

"So do I, Mummy. I need you here! I don't know where to begin!"

"Nonsense. If you need me I'm only a phone call away. You'd be surprised how much I can accomplish with a few well-placed calls. Why, only yesterday I made arrangements for your wedding gown."

"My gown?" said Moira, casting a nervous glance in Pina's direction.

"Yes. Lady Pym's flying to California next week to stay with Jimmy Galanos. He owes her a favor and she owes me a dozen so it's good as done."

"That was very sweet of you, Mummy. But I've already taken care of the gown."

"Have
you?" asked the duchess, with a throatful of dry ice. "And who, pray tell, is designing it?"

"A friend."

"A friend? Oh, Moira,
please
tell me it's not that horrid Vampira woman who made the monstrosity you wore to the Smythe-Northrop-son's party last time you were here!"

Moira smiled weakly at the three of us. I gazed over at Vulpina. Her face was completely expressionless as it always is when she's truly livid.

"Mo-therrr!
She's my dearest friend-and a brilliant designer."

"Don't tell me such rot--I remember that dress far too well. It was mauve with glass eyes on it! If you think I'm about to spend a small fortune for the privilege of seeing my only daughter march down the aisle of St. Patrick's Cathedral looking like an opium dream you are tragically mistaken!"

Things continued in this sticky manner for some minutes. Moira squirmed, Gilbert and I suppressed giggles and Pina did her impression of an Easter Island stone deity. Moira attempted to mollify all parties by telling the duchess that Vulpina was so eclectic a designer
that she could function brilliantly within any stylistic limitations imposed upon her. Eventually the duchess relented so far as to withhold judgment until Moira had mailed her some sketches.

"Listen, Mummy, I was just on my way out when you called, so-"

"I can take a hint, precious. Just one more thing."

"What?"

"Aren't you curious about how this is all to be paid for with me and my magic checkbook trapped over here?"

"Oh. I hadn't thought of that. Well-why don't you just send me a check large enough to cover whatever might come up?"

"Inadvisable, dear."

"Why?"

"You know what a tightwad Nigel is. Any check I sent for a large amount would have to be co-signed by him. And it wouldn't matter how frugal it was. He'd insist it was too much."

"What are you saying, Mummy?"

"I'm just trying to explain how your stepfather has to be handled. You see, Nigel doesn't mind spending money as long as he doesn't
know
he's spending it. The best way to get him to pay for something is to make it a fait accompli. He may complain, but he'll pay. So dear, you pay for everything yourself, then give me the receipts- whatever you do,
save
the receipts!-then I'll give them to Nigel, and he'll grumble a bit then give you a nice big check to cover it all. Believe me, it will save quite a few headaches."

From the look on Moira's face she was not in agreement regarding the scheme's analgesic advantages.

"But, how am
I
supposed to pay for things? This wedding will cost thousands and thousands of dollars! I don't have that kind of money."

"Yes, you do. In your trust fund."

"But, Mummy! You told me I'm not allowed to
touch
that money."

"Yes. And now I'm telling you you are. I'll send your trust officer a letter telling him to liquidate everything. That comes to about two hundred thousand. He'll open you a checking account."

"You want to liquidate my fund! How can you do that-I mean, I'm living on the interest."

"Well, you can live off the money itself just as easily!"

"But wouldn't it be much simpler if I just bought what I had to over here and had everyone send the bills over there?"

"Are you
mad\
Have you any idea what utter hell my life would be with a new bill coming in every day and Nigel making a great bloody fuss about it? Not a day would pass without him bursting into my sickroom screaming 'Look what came in! Does that girl think I'm made of money!' "

"He can't be as bad as all that!"

"He's worse! And I'm suffering enough as it is. I don't mind having
one
fight about the money this will cost but I'm not going to have one every day! There are limits to my affection for you. You just call Winslow at the bank next week. By then he'll have heard from me. Isn't that simpler?"

"Oh, much. Well, I have to run. I hope you feel better."

"So do I. Give my best to Gilbert."

"I will. I love you, Mummy."

"I love you too, dear. Sporadically."

And with that she was gone.

None of us said anything for a moment because none of us knew where to begin. Should we try to soothe Vulpina's bruised ego? Should we ask Moira to explain just why she'd kept secret the existence of a two-hundred-thousand-dollar trust fund? Or should we, more to the point, ask her why she was now staring down at her stomach as if she could see protruding from it the bloodstained handle of a butcher's knife. As it's the third of these issues which most concerns the outcome of our saga, I will dispense quickly with the first two.

Vulpina's wrath was easily assuaged. We told her she had every right to withdraw her offer rather than pander to so despotic a philistine as the duchess. But what would this accomplish beyond throwing Moira into the hands of some derivative bourgeois lacemonger? Wouldn't it be more satisfying to stay on and design a gown which would, to the unschooled eye, seem absolutely conventional, but which a discerning few would recognize as a wickedly subtle parody of the whole phallocratic bridal tradition? Pina nodded sagely at this suggestion and departed, muttering something about having to reach a pay phone and hoping it wasn't too late.

The moment Vulpina was gone Gilbert turned and faced Moira.

"You've got a fucking two-hundred-thousand-dollar trust fund!"

"Yes," she replied curtly, "what about it?"

"You might have mentioned it!"

"Did you ask?"

"How long have you had that little pile tucked away?"

"I don't see that it's any of your business. Now, if you two will excuse me I'm going to lie down. I have a splitting headache."

She turned and walked quickly out of the room.

"I don't get it," said Gilbert. "Why would she be
secretive
about a trust fund? I mean, she's always bragging about the duchess. You'd think she'd have rubbed our faces in it."