Rare Objects (41 page)

“It's a lot like the real thing,” he observed. And then, seeing the perplexed look on my face, he explained, “A lot like being in Italy.”

I'd never thought of it like that. To me, it had always been the wrong end of town, not a small slice of an exotic location.

Mr. Winshaw dug his hands into his pockets, seemed to be weighing something up. “You know, Fanning,” he announced out of nowhere, “you're clever.”

“I'm sorry?” I thought I'd misheard him.

“You write well, you're perceptive, your intellectual instincts are good.” He stopped, frowning a little, as if he'd suddenly realized he'd flattered me more than he'd intended. “The point is, you have ability. You could do things with your life.”

“Thank you.” I wondered why he was telling me this.

“I mean something real. Something of substance,” he elaborated.

He had the uncanny knack of turning any compliment into an insult. “And what makes you think I'm not doing that now?”

“Those people, back at the theater, they're not worth your time.”

“
Those
people?” I folded my arms across my chest.

He sighed with frustration. “You know what I'm talking about! Don't be seduced by the tinsel and the lights. You're worth more than that. To quote our favorite bard, ‘All that glitters is not gold.'”

“Maybe, but have you ever noticed how gold glitters too?” I was irritated that he thought me gullible and starstruck.

“Well, fine.” He gave up. “If that's what you want.”

He took out a cigarette, lit it.

I scowled at my feet, kicked a bottle cap into the gutter. “Why do you always think so little of me?” I asked after a moment.

“So
little
!” He stared at me in amazement. “Why are you so determined to misunderstand me?”

“I understand you perfectly well. You think I'm shallow.”

“I just told you that you were clever!” he pointed out.

“And then warned me not to be taken in by shiny objects!”

“Jesus!” Staring up at the sky, he took a long, hard drag. “Well, I suppose perhaps we're not destined to understand each other.”

We both glowered in silence.

“Well, thank you,” I said finally, “for seeing me home.”

“My pleasure.” He gave a sharp nod. “Good night, Fanning.”

Then he headed off down the street, past the accordion player and watermelon eaters. In his white tie, he looked tall and debonair and, oddly, not the least bit out of place.

The next day a note was delivered to the shop from Diana.

I'm so sorry, darling. I wanted to meet with you but I just can't. Please don't hate me. I've thought about this all very carefully, and the truth is, I don't want to discuss it. I know you won't like it, but I don't want you to try to change my mind. No one knows better than me how strange this all must seem, but I have my reasons. I hope you're not cross. I've enclosed an invitation to my engagement party. I do so hope you'll come—even if you violently disapprove. I still need you, perhaps now more than ever.

Your friend always,

Diana

An engraved invitation was enclosed.

Mrs. J. R. Van der Laar requests the pleasure of your company to celebrate the engagement of her daughter Diana Elizabeth Van der Laar to Charles Henry Peabody at their home in Cohasset, Massachusetts, from 2:00 in the afternoon onward.

I thought of the No Way Out Club, of the silver pen above the door.

All that was over now.

Diana had found an exit.

I continued to meet James Van der Laar at the Copley Plaza Hotel when he was in town. It was always the same. Flowers would
arrive at work, with a date and a time, and although I didn't want to go, told myself I wouldn't, there was always another part of me that couldn't keep away. Very quickly all pretense was dropped. We didn't bother with the Oak Room anymore but dined in the room. There were gifts—a sable stole, a jade bracelet, a silk nightgown too beautiful ever to wear to bed—and always plenty to drink, champagne followed by whiskey followed by brandy.

I drank only with him. And with the curtains drawn, lying in bed, he whispered to me about the places we would go, the things we would do. He told me how he couldn't do without me, that he'd never cared for anyone the way he cared for me, how he would be lost without me.

I wanted to believe him, and so I did.

I was lost with him or without him. And in that dark room, with a drink in my hand, I didn't want to be found.

The day of Diana's engagement party dawned bright and flawless, a warm sun-kissed morning with a clear blue sky. The Van der Laars had booked two trains to deliver guests to Cohasset, where a fleet of cars were on duty to ferry them onward to the house. At Diana's request I took an earlier train, arriving at the house before luncheon, just as the caterers and decorators were at full hysterical pitch with final arrangements.

My nerves were strained taut with anticipation and fear; was this the moment when my clandestine relationship with James would become real? When I would walk from the shadows of his life into the full glare of his family's awareness? Or would we continue to lie, to greet each other like cordial acquaintances? All morning I'd weighed the two possibilities against one another; both felt unreal. And my own ambivalence unnerved me.

Diana had a suite of rooms on the south side of the house that consisted of a bedroom, bathroom, dressing room, and private parlor, all done in the same bright pearly tones with modern mirrored furniture. I'd never seen such a big bedroom; it was at least twice the size of our whole apartment. It looked like something from a movie set, with high narrow French doors leading to a terrace overlooking the sea. These were propped open; a cool, briny breeze swept through, tossing the sheer curtains into the air like feathers of smoke. Diana was curled into an armchair in her dressing gown when I arrived.

“Oh, thank God, you're here!” To my surprise, she got up, rushing to embrace me with a genuine outpouring of emotion. The distance between us melted as she clung to me, leaning her head on my shoulder. “I don't know how I'm going to make it through the day! I really can't tell you how much this means to me. You're the only one who understands!”

After so much time consigned to the edge of her life, I'd forgotten the strange, luminous warmth of Diana's attention. It had the power to dissolve resentments and disarm all doubts.

“I thought this is what you wanted.” I looked round. It was a dazzling room; light danced from one reflective surface to another, casting a myriad of rainbows over everything. I was disoriented both by the opulence and by her sudden rush of affection. Being with her was as blinding as trying to find my bearings among the radiant shifting reflections.

She stepped back, held me at arm's length. “You're weren't fooled, were you?”

I didn't understand. “What do you mean?”

“The charade is for them, not for us. I had to play along.”

“It seemed pretty real to me.” The memory of the night at the theater still smarted.

“I can't afford to fail, May. But I don't really want to succeed either.” Her smile was tinged with sadness. “I'm lost either way.”

“Why do you want me here?” I asked. “You don't want my advice, you don't need my help. So why am I here?”

“I need your friendship,” she said. “I need to be with someone who knows me, who cares. I'm frightened, May.”

One look at her face and I could tell it was true.

Like tightrope walkers balancing on a dangerous ledge, we were trying to convince everyone, including ourselves, that we weren't afraid of heights. But at least when we were alone we could drop the pretense of being fearless.

“I'm just . . . I'm just glad you're here, is all.” She took my arm, leading me out onto the terrace. An informal luncheon had been set up on a low table overlooking the lawns that rolled, rich and green, to the abrupt cliff face and the sheer drop to the sea below. Gulls circled; distant waves crashed against the rocky shore. Below, armies of staff assembled tents and tables, swarming like carefully choreographed dancers in a large-scale musical production.

Diana looked down on them, doubt lining her face. “I can't wait until this is all over.”

“It's not too late to change your mind—”

“Shhh!” She pressed a finger to her lips. “Don't tempt me, darling.
Please!
”

Our time alone together was short. Soon hairdressers and a manicurist arrived, and the great juggernaut of a society event lurched into action.

The festivities began in the early afternoon with a swimming party, a polo match, and several musical performances. Guests arrived in waves, wearing anything from bathing costumes to
morning suits. Gradually, members of the Van der Laar family put in appearances. Mrs. Van der Laar presided over a piano recital on the side lawn with Elsa, while Charlie Peabody played polo with surprising skill for a man so awkward off the field. Afterward an elaborate tea buffet was served before the guests changed for cocktails and supper.

Diana spent most of her time wandering from one room to the next, introducing herself and shaking people's hands like a visiting dignitary. I trailed along in her wake; more than once I was mistaken for her personal secretary. I didn't bother to disabuse anyone. So many of these people had never even met her before. And though she might have been nervous, she was an accomplished hostess; I marveled at the ease with which she talked to complete strangers. Here was the role she'd been groomed to play all her life, and as in the “hazards” she was so fond of, she acted her part with complete conviction and charm.

For my part, I remained happy to recede into the background. Like Diana, I was conflicted, trapped between excitement and dread, in a purgatory of my own making. Around every corner I anticipated seeing James. But he remained elusive; it was as though we were playing a grown-up version of hide-and-seek, and he was winning.

The afternoon waned. Diana wafted from place to place like a wisp of perfumed smoke, never settling. The tea concert ended, and the polo match was cut short so that everyone could dress for dinner. Long tents had been constructed on the front lawn, housing extra changing rooms, with rows of dressing tables, private cubicles behind swags of silk, and an army of extra maids on hand.

I was given the use of Diana's private parlor to change for
supper, and when I came back in my red-striped gown, Diana applauded. “How charming! Where did you get that dress?”

“My mother made it.”

“Isn't she clever! It's just like one I saw at Stearns.”

Her eye fell on the arrow diamond brooch I wore on the bodice.

“Well,” a quizzical look creased her brow, “isn't that lovely!”

“I borrowed it.” I said quickly, feeling conspicuous. Perhaps I should have left it at home.

“You know, Cartiers get their diamonds from us. That arrow brooch is one of their biggest sellers. I could get you one of your own, if you like it.”

She made it sound as easy as passing the salt.

“Really?”

“There was a time when Mother used to give them as hostess gifts when we stayed with people. It's charming, don't you think?”

“Very charming.”

Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to take off the brooch and my reproduction designer dress and leave the party altogether. But Diana was heading downstairs; she turned back and held out her hand to me. “Come on!”

She opened the bedroom door; the strains of an orchestra swelled, the sound of hundreds of voices laughing and chattering filled the air like an empire of exotic birds. We descended the stairs. Charlie was waiting in the crowded entrance hall; he looked up and gave Diana an anxious nod as she approached, and together they proceeded to make their rounds.

Waiters flitted by, glasses filled with champagne balanced on silver trays. I wanted to reach out and grab one, to wash my self-consciousness away in a few easy swallows, growing more and more translucent until I vanished altogether inside myself. But tonight was important, and I was on my best behavior.

Diana was walking away from me now on Charlie's arm, disappearing into the crush of people. I looked around for a familiar face. In the next room I heard Smitty's bored, flat drawl cutting across the din. So I went the other way, into the library.

The room that had seemed so vast months earlier was now cheek by jowl. I slipped through, pretending to be searching for someone.

“Oh! Hello! Say, you're Diana's friend, the girl from the lobster bake, am I right?” Nicky Howerd was looking very dapper but no less rotund in his black-tie attire.

“Yes, that's me!” I was grateful for anyone to talk to, even Nicky.

“How about a drink?” He stopped a waiter, took two glasses. “I think you and I have some catching up to do.”