The Pink Hotel (24 page)

The Lobby

“Let nothing you dismay
. . .” On an impulse, Purcell went back to the lobby, told the Desk to have him paged in the bar, just in case Mary did decide to call, when he saw poor old Mather. Poor old Mather was piled up against the wall with a lot of suitcases and rugs and steamer trunks, and he looked like a piece of sour dough.

“You leaving us, sir?” he asked. “Awfully sorry.” Not that it wasn’t the only feasible thing to do, considering.

“No merger possible under ah-circumstances,” Mather told him miserably. “Opening for single man only. Call 2-75482. Impossible contact ah-Degno.”

“Poor Da,” a pretty blonde girl said. “He’s been working too hard.” She squeezed Mather’s arm.

Old Needle-Nose gave her ancient mink a significant shake and prepared to take it out by the tail. Mrs. William Prentice Mather wrinkled her commanding nose. “Mice!” she said balefully again. “I smell mice.”

Purcell shrugged. Short of belling Violet, there was nothing he could do. “Merry Christmas, anyhow,” Purcell said weakly as Violet swept out to the hired car that was to take them to Palm Beach, and poor Old Mather followed, carrying some books and a black silk umbrella. Violet said something about being
known
at the Colony and no one else said anything. Purcell hoped that it wasn’t a maroon convertible.

The Pool

In an ill-advised burst of Christmas Spirit, Peggy Furman had brought the William McCannons and the Earle Tribbies unwillingly together at an on-the-house alfresco luncheon by the pool.
“Two
honehmoon couples. Ah think that is key-yute! Simply dowlin’!” In the feeling of Peace On Earth, Good Will to Men, Furman had even had them photographed together for the papers. That would be a sweet li’l ole su’prize for Edythe St. Clair Conyngham.

Mrs. Furman was sensitive to all things bridal right now. Her turn might be coming up at any moment. Hadn’t that dowlin’ Tommy Jeff jus’ come right out an’ called her “Mrs. T. J. Stuh-h-h-t, the Thud” last night? It was practically as good as a proposal, even if he had been boiled. “Mrs. T. J. Stu-h-h-h-t, the Thud.” Furman tasted the words on her lips, savored them.

But the luncheon hadn’t gone well. Furman in her flurry of romanticism hadn’t reckoned that the Tribbies and the McCannons would have nothing—less than nothing—in common.

Ann and Bill McCannon found Dawn and Earle Tribbie too incredibly dreary and, although they were well above minor snobbery—farther above it than Dawn, at least—the Tribbies struck them as almost comically common. And Dawn, while impressed by the marquise floodlight of Ann’s engagement ring, while knowing that the McCannons were Society and ought to be cultivated, was incapable of Ann’s easy
chicti.
She had been grimly disapproving to learn that the McCannons had both been married before, had been smugly superior to hear that the McCannons were subletting a furnished apartment instead of owning a lovely home. She had been stunned when Bill McCannon said, “Why don’t we knock off this luncheon bit and go upstairs for the matinee performance?” and openmouthed with horror when Ann had kissed the palm of his hand and said, “Oh, let’s darling!”

Nor had Edie Conyngham been one bit grateful to Peggy Furman. “Well, I mean
rilly!”
she had expostulated and from her thin lips had issued a torrent of well-bred irritation featuring such terms as “most presumptuous,” “overstepping the bounds of” and “usurping the prerogative of.” The Tribbies, Mrs. Conyngham stated loudly, were neither key-yute nor dowlin’, were instead rilly nobodies,
no-bodies!
But the damage had been done, the photograph taken and glossy prints on their way-via air mail-to the Society Editors of the New York
Herald-Tribune
and the
Jersey Journal.

The choristers stood foolishly beneath the diving tower, seeking protection from the relentless sun.
“Dashing through the snow”
they sang jubilantly, great prisms of sweat standing out on their made-up faces,
“in a one-horse open sleigh. O’er the fields we go,
laughing
all the way!”

Peggy Furman, curvaceous in a white knitted maillot, wept dewily into the hairy chest of T. J. Sturt, III. “Ah-ah wouldn’t talk to a
feel-han’
the way Edie Conyn’um talked to me. All Ah was doin’ was tryin’ to do my job; show those po’ li’l ole Tribbies a good time. Give somebody a li’l happiness becose Ah’ve had so motty little of it mahself. Oh, motty little, Tommy Jeff.”

The Third cupped her breast in his hand, considered the pool and wondered how much it would cost to have it filled with very dry martinis.

“The bells on Bob-tail ring, making spirits bright. What fun it is to laugh and sing a sleighing song tonight.”

“I’m not gonna wear it. That’s all there is to it, Sandy. I’m not gonna wear it.” Claire de Lune stood defiantly in one of the dressing cubicles off the Fontainebleau Room. She was naked save for her sandals and an opal cross she’d picked up in an antique jewelry shop.

“But, baby,” Sandy said, perspiration running down from beneath his hairpiece. “Think of the Chrissmuss floor show.”

“You
think about it. I’m thinkin’ about that ole-fashion costume and I’m not gonna wear it. It’s all dirddy. I’m not
gonna have some dirddy ole thing like that touchin’ me. I could get a duz-eeze.”

“Ohhhhh! Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh!”

Mrs. Westbury surveyed the Trianon Club des Bains from the vantage point of her cabaña—a
double
cabaña, if you please. She had rented it just this morning, now that it was definite that they were going to stay on through February, at
least,
and possibly beyond Easter.

The hotel was divine, the pool was divine, the carolers were divine, even the two lifeguards were divine in their cute red and green Christmas trunks with the sequin holly codpieces. Mrs. Westbury didn’t for the life of her know why the lifeguards wrapped towels around themselves, hulked self-consciously in the lengthening shadows instead of showing off their divine little outfits proudly.

Mrs. Westbury had a slight twinge of hangover but otherwise she was feeling, well, divine. She could dump that old Mrs. Tewksberry like a sack of cement now, if she felt like it. Let Mrs.
Tewksberry
come to Mrs.
Westbury
from now on. She clicked her ballpoint pen and continued the intimate little note she was writing to Countess Alexandroff. . .
.1 do hope you can dine informally with us—
à
trois—
on Christmas night. . . .
Should she say
nuit de Noel?
No. America first!. . .
Christmas night. Say about eight in the Fontainebleau Room
. . .

“
Oh, the holly berries red, hanging gaily overhead, do remind us that the Christmas time has come,
”
the boys sang, looking up at swaying palm trees, down into the cool turquoise depths of the pool.

Maggie Alexandroff snubbed out her cigarette on the balustrade surrounding the penthouse and gazed beneath her at the Trianon Club des Bains.

“Everything packed, Celeste?” she called to her maid. “Call
down for a couple of bellmen and let’s get out of this charnel house as soon as possible.”

The Bar

The walls in the lobby vibrated to “Adeste Fideles,” and in the bar, Purcell tried to smile. Forty-eight hours and still no word from Mary. Christmas Eve—the most popular night for suicides, Purcell thought cheerily.

“Merry Christmas to you, too. Say, you know anybody in East St. Louis?”

“Pardon. Didn’t quite catch the name. My wife.”

“How-do-you-do.”

“How-do-you-do.”

“Not much like Chicago. That old wind off the lake.”

“It came upon a midnight clear—”

“A-hm simply ex-owsted,” Furman said. “Those funneh li’l old Tribbies,” and T. J. Sturt nodded sympathetically for he, too, was very tired.

“That glorious song of old . . .”

“Asleep on my feet,” he said, although he was sitting down.

Furman laughed unreasonably, exposing almost all of her glistening white teeth and a fringe of coral gum. “Y’all are a
mess!”
she said gaily.

The Third struggled to his feet. “Very important announcement to make,” the Third articulated with difficulty, and seemed to faint.
Mrs. Thomas Jefferson Sturt, III!
“Honey, dowlin’,” Furman whispered happily. “You hesh!”

“. . . let nothing you dismay”

Purcell paced the room warily. He’d sent Mary the flowers anyhow, two dozen white roses and one big red one, but he hadn’t heard from her, and the Baldwins might as well not have a phone. I should have known something like this would happen, he thought.
Call me, baby. Please call me.
You’re too good for me, but call me anyhow.

“Merry Christmas!” Mrs. Westbury and Mrs. Tewksberry
were on his back all the time now, and the Old Man seemed to be damned near crazy about him in a Senior-Executive kind of way. Notes. Conferences on the phone. Conferences in the gold-white Executive Suite from behind dark glasses. The Old Man was pretending to be a businessman again and was damned near as fond of luncheon and dinner conferences as he was of the Browne-Smythes. Anything that belonged to the Browne-Smythes, including their dirty towels, was AA in the Old Man’s book.

Red Snapper and New York Sirloin and Stone Crab, and the best drinks in town. The Old Man had no reason to know what the bar whiskey was like, and the new pantrywoman was a honey. Her horseradish sauce for shellfish was the best Mr. Wenton had ever tasted, and her black raspberry parfait and her frozen peach shortcake made with whipped cream and a special almond sponge were ambrosia.

“We, Three Kings of Orient are-r. . .”

Laugh yourself sick if you wanted to, but all he wanted was Mary. Mr. and Mrs. Dave Purcell, and the biggest goddamned gold wedding ring in the business. Mary was the one, he guessed the only one, for him. That was the way to do it. Bless her heart. There was something to this love stuff after all.

“Bearing gifts, we traverse afar-r.”

“How-do-you-do, Mrs. Oliphant. Nice to see you.” “

. . .
field and fountain, moor and mountain.”

“Ah, Mrs. Paget Wynne. Master Roger. Shake hands, young man!” No children or dogs, but what the hell, it was Christmas Eve.

“God rest ye merry gentlemen
. . .”

Mary, baby. My lovely girl. He’d been Big John, the Conqueror, but it wasn’t that. He loved Mary, but he liked her too. I shouldn’t have done it, he thought, and his head began to ache again.

He liked Dukemer too, liked her as a guy. Poor kid, he thought, and detoured to the pay station, dialed 3-75482. She probably hadn’t figured on Mrs. William Prentice Mather. “Wrong number,” Dukemer said promptly and hung up. 2-75482 did not answer again. “Merry Christmas—”

It was now or never. Purcell would sneak out of the bar, grab a cab. Get over to Palm Frond Avenue. Break the door down if necessary. He had to see Mary. No fear that the Old Man would catch him. He’d be in purdah until his black eye had faded.

But the Baldwin house was dark and empty. The box Purcell had sent from the hotel florist leaned tipsily against the Baldwin’s unlighted Christmas tree. Disgruntled, Purcell settled back into the taxicab and returned to the bar. He might as well get good and drunk now. High as a kite. Stiff as a board. Stewed to the . . .

The bar rang with synthetic geniality.
“All is calm, all is bright
. . .”

“Want to hear a cute story?”

“One more won’t hurt you. A straight just sort of pulls you together.”

“An emerald! What a lucky girl! And the simulated ones are so wonderful-looking. It takes a jeweler to . . .”

“He’s all right. Perfectly all right. I looked him up. Merry Christmas from Dun and Bradstreet. Oh, but I mean he’s nice, too. . .”

“. . . cute story? Well, it seems that this . . .”

“If the bar closes we’ll simply go up to Ferdy’s room. He
never
makes a pass at you. He’s always so paralyzed he can’t.”

“. . . simply
owns
Sewickly. Millions, my dear. . .”

“But what could you expect from a woman named Fern?”

“Born a king on Bethlehem’s plain. Gold I bring to crown him again. . .”

Purcell spotted Edythe St. Clair Conyngham alone at a table along the banquette, queenly in her rings, her brooch, her bracelets, her pearls, her thrift shop sables; a gay hat tilted saucily over her blue bangs. He looked at her and tried to imagine how Mrs. Conyngham must have looked twenty, thirty years ago before the sharp prettiness of her face had bogged down into soft lard, when her blue gaze, unpouched by bruised puffs, had been clear and straight. Purcell didn’t
like Mrs. Conyngham. Nobody did. But he decided that she must be the only person in the hotel who was as lonely as he was tonight.

“Merry Christmas, Edie,” he said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Oh, David, dear! How lovely. Rilly lovely. I didn’t even see you come in. I was locked away in my Ivory Towah dreaming of my Prince Charming.
Hahahahaha!”

Christ, she was cockeyed!

But Edythe spoke the literal truth. The walls of Mrs. Conyngharn’s Ivory Tower were of white tile and her Prince Charming was the little brown man in the shot glass. Mrs, Conyngham would wait patiently until Peggy Furman had left the neighboring bedroom, could not come barging into the bathroom they shared. She usually started her drinking then, sitting comfortably, from long habit, on the lid of the toilet, a generous glass in her hand. She could be reasonable then, rationalize things, and she would drop easy, self-indulgent tears on her
House Beautiful,
she who had never kept house. She would have another drink then, thinking of the perfidy of Mr. Conyngham, of the remodeled seediness of her bridal gown, the corner-cutting of their wedding, of his outspoken disappointment at learning that there was to be no dowry, that Edythe’s branch of the St. Clairs had been the poor branch. And she would weep still more freely recalling her own shock that his branch of the Conynghams had been even poorer. Gulping thirstily she would remember their few years together: their lofty promises to landladies and creditors; their brave, anxious gaiety in the company of the very rich; the lordliness with which they sponged on their friends—a week end at Bar Harbor stretching into a week, a fortnight on the Lido becoming a month, a month in Biarritz turning into August
and
September. Carefully she considered the transparent excuses that had been their stock in trade: lost letters of credit, luggage that had not yet arrived, a little misunderstanding with the bank, the purloined wallet, the pickpocket in the marketplace. And then Edythe would think—she could hardly avoid it—of being abandoned in Venice. No note, no word of explanation, no goodbye. Suddenly Mr. Conyngham was gone and with him her seed pearls, her gold chain bag, her modest diamond sunburst—everything but the clothes she stood in and the hotel bill. Still reasonably young, reasonably attractive, it had been her lot to struggle back to America as best she could.

Then Edythe would pour herself another drink, a real block-buster. She would force herself to think of winsome, wellborn Edie St. Clair as she
had
been; of the glories of her coming-out dance, of the throngs of suitors who would have pleaded for her hand. Gradually she would come almost to believe it. She was a St. Clair, she would tell herself aloud. “A St. Clair
and
a Conyngham, by God!” Draining her glass, Edythe would emerge from the bathroom, her tipsiness sternly in check. Edythe would put on her mouth then, a self-conscious cupid’s bow, following the still innocent contour of her lips, fluff her blue bang, drape the rump-sprung old mink or the balding sables over her shoulders and saunter down to the bar to do her duty, mix with the common herd.
Noblesse oblige.

Purcell watched Conyngharn’s wary, glazed eye roll in the direction of the door.

Then she spoke again, slurringly, vivaciously. “I’d love to have a drinkie with you, Dave dear, but here comes Brewster Fitzsimmons—you know he was an old beau of mine when I was just a slip of a girl—and I’ve rilly sort of promised him to . . . Yoo-hoo! Brewster!”

“Sure, I get it,” Purcell said and melted away into the crowd.

“I shink atshing what I always do shink about
he,”
Gracia Mellot told Chiang, who brooded over a smoked-salmon canapé while Alicia looked on
jealously. “I shink he wud a booflat,” Gracia intoned, but it was really Alicia who had brought it off. “No children or
dogs
permitted in the bar, I believe,” she had told the Captain, and swept grandly in with Chiang. Gracia had been glad enough to follow her
then.

“You-all ah-h-h the sweetest li’l old thing,” Furman told T. J. Sturt, III. “For me?” and her eyes widened incredulously as the waiter brought her a fresh highball, a jumbo
shrimp cocktail. “You-all go’way!” she admonished an imaginary audience. “Ah just cain’t,” she said. “Paiggy hasn’t been so ti-ahh-ed since pussy was a cat.”

“Love you—love you—love you,” Bill McCannon whispered, and laid his hand in Ann’s lap. “This is it,” he said thickly. “Gentle Annie. Dearest love—”

“Salute!” Ann said, and picked up her glass. “A twenty-one-gun salute to the guy I love best.”

“Best!” Bill said. “Best! That’s great. But what about the others? The also-rans? Let’s make this a family party, and the hell with Bill, the Barnstormer. I’m just a one-night stand. Let’s talk about You, the girl who couldn’t say No. Let’s talk about all the guys you promised to love and honor. The Spastic and the
very
Simple Cell and good old Kim, the Kellikek Kid . . .”

E. J. Westbury gulped, considered par, the long shot he had tried on the eighth, the twenty-five-foot putt that he had been confident would win him the hole with a birdie three. “Two Haig & Haigs with soda and a double Hiram Walker neat,” he told the waiter.

Nona’s wonderful Mrs. Tewksberry looked and talked like an old whore, he decided. From what he’d seen of her, she probably
was
an old whore. Maybe he’d try Oak Hill tomorrow. “But Jane,
darling,”
Nona was saying, “not in your adorable garden.”

“Christ,” E. J. Westbury said aloud, downed his whiskey and did practice swings in his mind.

Julie Templar, back for just one sentimental Christmas Eve drink, shrank into her chair, looking sensitive and withdrawn, almost as sensitive as she had looked in the big fade-out of
Miss Minority’s Children.
Her great eyes slid from the mirrored fastnesses of the bar, mocking their blueness, skipped lightly over the dark intensity of the young man opposite her. One
must
be seen, mustn’t one? She permitted her blue glance to drop slowly into the deeper blue of her
décolletage.
Her lovely features assumed again the arrested expression of Someone who has stepped in Something. That look had won Julie an Academy Award.

One had had just as much privacy—and worn almost as many clothes—on the runway with Billee Frank, she told herself. The artful boning of her bodice constricted her breathing, cut into her armpits. One had been a damned sight more comfortable in a G-string and a neon bandeau. Hell, one couldn’t even sweat, with one’s pores full of Never-Ever, the
Lifetime
Deodorant.

Julie lifted the celebrated blue Templar eyes to the correct young man across the table from her, sipped her champagne wryly. There were times when one would like an onion sandwich and a bottle of beer.

A heavy miasma of
Je Suis Julie,
her special blend, settled down, around and over the correct young man, who moistly regarded the large black pearl on her middle finger, her jutting
décolletage,
clung, for a giddy instant, to her outrageous eyes.

“Don we now our gay apparel, fa la la, fa la la, la la lah!”

Purcell pushed his way through the crowd standing at the bar, confronted the night bartender.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Purcell. What’ll it be?”

“You got a schooner, Charlie? A real old-fashioned beer schooner?”

“Sure, I guess so, Mr. Purcell.”

“Good. Fill it up with the very best Scotch. No water and no ice.”

“You kiddin’?”

“Never more serious in my life. Go on. Fill ‘er up.”

“Hey, Mr. Purcell, ya know that-there countess dame was stay in’ here?”

“I know her. What about her?”

“She left me kind of a message for you. I didn’t seem to be able to make head or tail of it. She said . . .”

“She said what?”

“She said, ‘If you see Golden Boy—that Purcell fellah—tell him for me to get the hell out of this dump while he’s still got the chancet.’ Can yumagine that!”