Without Reservations (22 page)

By the time I left the exhibition I was in love with Gertrude Jekyll.

But then, who would not fall under the spell of a woman who, herself well-to-do, designed for no fee the gardens and interiors of the Home of Rest for Ladies of Small Means. Set in the woods of Surrey, the home was open to working women, mainly nurses and teachers, in need of a holiday. She decorated the common room of
the home with ladder-back chairs, an oak table, and country ornaments. Simple things were used, she said, to keep the interior harmonious with the “simple truth and honesty” of the house’s timbered construction.

Her life struck me as reflecting the same qualities: simple truth and honesty.

I trudged back to my flat, loaded down with books by and about this extraordinary woman. I was tired but excited. More and more I saw how complicated my own life had become; how overgrown it was with thickets of worries and regrets, unearned vanities and silly insecurities. Somehow Miss Jekyll had found a way to simplify, simplify. Perhaps I could, too.

That night Jean Gillespie called to give me details about the party her friends were giving. “Saturday night. Drinks around eight-thirty. Dinner at ten. There’ll be wonderful food and great wine. So come hungry and thirsty.”

My attempts to find out what I should wear proved futile. “Oh, dress any way you want,” Jean said. I asked what she was wearing. “I’m not sure yet. I’ll see what strikes me at seven-thirty on Saturday night. Ring the buzzer marked Robert and Olivia Morgan.”

My English friends were more specific with their advice. Dress up. Arrive at least a half-hour late. Take a gift. The last two suggestions were easy. I would take flowers and arrive at nine—after eating a light supper, of course. There was no way I could hold out until ten to eat dinner.

But their suggestion to “dress up” still didn’t solve the dilemma of what to wear. For some reason I wanted to look good. Really
good. My guess was I had something to prove: that I could fit into this group of people described by Jean as “high rollers.” Fit in for one night, anyway.

At precisely nine o’clock, wearing the black silk dress bought in Paris and carrying an armful of pale yellow roses, I rang the buzzer to the Morgans’ apartment. A butler opened the door. Inside, I could see the party was in full swing. “Allow me to take your flowers, madam,” said the butler, who then whisked them away, never to be seen again. So much for arriving late and bearing a gift, I thought.

I stood there, surrounded by a roomful of strangers engaged in animated conversation, wondering what to do next. A waiter passed by with a silver tray of tulip-shaped glasses filled with champagne. He seemed to have no intention of stopping, so I hailed him as I would a taxi, and took one. Then, just as I started to make my move toward a cluster of guests, I heard a booming laugh erupt behind me. I knew immediately it was Jean and turned around to say hello. Her appearance stunned me.

Jean looked like a movie star; a
large
movie star but a movie star nonetheless. She looked the way I imagined Geena Davis might look if she put on twenty pounds. Slowly I took in Jean’s appearance. The woman who didn’t know what she was going to wear was dressed in a draped red chiffon gown held up by two ribbons of red silk. Her dark hair was swept back into a French braid and her lips rouged the exact red of her dress. The perfection of all this—and her pretense about throwing herself together at the last moment—would have put me off were it not for one thing: her earrings.

“Remember these?” she asked, putting her hands up to the dopey-looking silver earrings she’d bought at the Freud Museum. They looked totally out of place with her getup. “These are to remind me that I don’t really belong here. That I’m just an analyst
sponging off some very rich friends.” We both laughed, a conspiratorial laugh that suggested our awareness of being outsiders at this soiree.

“C’mon, love, let me take you around,” Jean said, taking my hand and pulling me through the crowd. Each time she stopped to introduce me she would add on after my name, without pausing, “a reporter from America.” Her need to identify me by what I did didn’t bother me; everybody at the party had an identification added onto their names.
Gerald, a commodities trader … Fiona, a theater producer … Russell, a land developer … James and Terry, the horse breeders.…
I found myself thinking of Naohiro, of how pleasant it would be to have him sitting next to me. But would he even enjoy a party like this? I wondered.

It was a warm night, but a breeze coming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows made the temperature in the spacious drawing room seem almost pleasant. Jean suggested we work our way over to one of the open windows, where a man and woman stood talking. Seeing the two of them, I instantly thought of
The Great Gatsby.
He was wearing a white dinner jacket that accentuated his dark hair and slanted eyes. She was also dark-haired and wearing white—a simple silk dress, its only adornment a strand of pearls. They were talking face-to-face near a Steinway piano, holding each other’s hands in a friendly yet intimate way.

“Oh, there’s our host and hostess,” Jean said. “Let me introduce you.” I was anxious to meet this couple described by Jean as “self-made, salt-of-the-earth millionaires.”

She was right. Despite their glamorous looks, Robert and Olivia Morgan turned out to be nothing like Jay and Daisy. For one thing, Olivia’s voice was not “full of money.” It was filled instead with curiosity and intelligence and the rhythms of a native Australian. Robert was more difficult to read. Clearly he was a hard-driving man with a razor-sharp mind. But there were hints also of a
thoughtful, poetic nature when he discussed with Jean a book by William Trevor that they both were reading.

A butler appeared to announce that dinner was served. Jean and I walked behind the host and hostess into a large dining room, where five round tables, each seating eight people, were set with sparkling crystal and gleaming silver. The whole room was lit by candles that flickered from the movement of the guests entering. I consulted the card I’d been handed. I was to sit at Table Number 5. “My table, too,” Jean whispered.

Two guests were already at the table when Jean and I sat down. She introduced me to her friend Edward, a psychoanalyst, and to Georgia, a ruthlessly fashionable woman who bore a striking resemblance to the late Diana Vreeland, the famous fashion editor. Arriving next was a young, attractive couple from Australia. “He’s in business with Robert,” Jean whispered, leaning across the empty seat between us. Finally, I was pleased to see the host and hostess take their places at our table.

Almost immediately Georgia asked if anyone had read the piece in the
Herald-Tribune
quoting John Updike on Ernest Hemingway. “He delivered an absolutely delicious line,” she said. “Updike pointed out that living wasn’t what Hemingway did best, that we should remember him as a writer.” She laughed. “Quite the put-down, isn’t it?”

Edward, the analyst, weighed in with his opinion. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe it wasn’t a negative judgment but simply a statement of fact. Hemingway’s life was rather a mess, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point,” Robert said. “Who’s to say that Hemingway wouldn’t prefer to be remembered for his writing and not for what he did when he wasn’t writing?”

Edward laughed. “Bob, you’re starting to sound more like an analyst every day.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to be remembered for the way I live,” Georgia said wryly. “I want to be remembered for the way I dress.” Everyone laughed.

“Well done,” said Olivia, standing with her wineglass raised to make a toast. “And may none of us forget that dressing well is the best revenge.”

“I don’t think it’s funny,” Jean said suddenly and loudly. “Hemingway was a depressed man. He killed himself. Remember? Just like his father. Is that funny?” Her speech was noticeably slurred.

An awkward silence followed her outburst. It was hard to know what to say. I couldn’t help but think of all the depressed men in Jean’s life, including her own father. Finally, Robert came to the rescue, changing the subject to a play just opening in London. I saw Jean shoot him a grateful look.

The waiters appeared and began to serve the food. It was just before eleven and, despite my earlier dinner, I was ravenous. As soon as I saw my hostess lift her fork, I dug in.

At the end of the evening Georgia suggested we move the party—at least the one at our table—over to her place in Chelsea.

“Smashing idea,” said Jean, whipping out a mirror to add a fresh coat of red lipstick, one that only approximated the actual shape of her mouth. Everyone agreed it was a capital idea and we began preparing ourselves for the short journey to Chelsea. Outside, I looked at my watch; it was a little before two.

It was just before dawn when we left Georgia’s apartment. A few minutes later, when I stepped out of Robert and Olivia’s car to enter my building, Jean leaned out of the window to call after me:
“Don’t forget. Lunch at one. At the Connaught.” She looked exhausted but also wired. Did I look like that, I wondered? One thing I knew: the muscles in my face hurt from too much animation over too long a period of time. Having fun really takes it out of you, I thought.

“See you then,” Olivia chimed in, before letting her head drop back onto Robert’s shoulder.

Although I’d already decided not to meet them for lunch, I said nothing. Later in the morning I’d phone and make my apologies.

It had been an exciting night, but I’d had my fill of life in the fast lane, at least for now. I liked the Morgans and their friends, but they were people who lived big, sprawling, complicated lives; lives that involved drivers and butlers and houses on more than one continent and partying around the clock. It suited them. And as long as I only had to do it once every five years or so, it suited me, too.

I undressed, took a shower, and put on a pair of soft cotton pajamas. It was Sunday and my plan was to sleep through the afternoon. But first I needed to unwind with a cup of tea and something to read. I reached for the small book of essays that celebrated the life and work of Gertrude Jekyll.

One essay, a personal recollection written by a horticulturist, described a visit to Miss Jekyll in 1931, the last year of her life. He wrote of the simplicity of Miss Jekyll’s “modest and charming home amongst the trees on the sandy rising ground. Our tea was brought and we had it on occasional tables near the sunny windows, thin white bread and butter and a preserve (I do not remember what) and some little cakes. Her mellow voice floated on through the words of wisdom she imparted and I came away deeply moved by all I had seen and heard.”

She found the life that suited her, I thought, closing the book. Work that interested her, a house she loved, good friends who came
for tea and, of course, the company of her cats, Pinkie, Tavy, Tittlebat, Tabby, and the ever-excitable Blackie. It was a simple life but by no means an unsophisticated one.

Remembering the candlelit glamour of the night before, I found myself comparing its luxurious excess with the elegant economy of Miss Jekyll’s life. There was little doubt which suited me best: I was much more Jekyll than Hyde.

Still, turning off the lamp, I had to admit that every once in a while it was quite exciting to travel up front, in first class.