'She'll need someone, then.'
'Don't be a fool, van Renssaeler. She's using you. She knows you're involved. And if not now, afterward she'll certainly know.'
'Nonsense. How could she?'
'I imagine my organization has sprung a leak. And I intend to locate it. In the meantime, I suggest you stay away from her.'
Perhaps I should have taken some comfort from the fact that Dr. Rudo was warning Brand off Marilyn, but I knew Brand too well. He had never listened to his father, never listened to me, and he wasn't going to listen to this Dr. Rudo person, either, if he could help it.
A noise, like a chair bumping the wall, made me flee to the bathroom, heart racing. I put away my address book with shaky, sweaty hands, and then made a commotion coming out again. But they had already headed down the hall to rejoin the party.
Though I could have caught up with them I didn't feel I could face Brand right then, so I went in search of friends — only to learn that Patricia and most of my social circle had left.
I headed straight for the bar and ordered a highball, And another. And another. But the alcohol didn't dissolve the indigestible knot that had formed in my stomach.
The sun was rising by the time Brand finally blurred into view and announced that it was time to go home. As he hailed us a cab I remember hugging myself, looking at Brand, wondering if he'd already taken her someplace and had her — someplace filthy like a stairwell. Or perhaps he'd thought to rent a room. A tear or two trickled down my face. I rubbed my belly again.
With that artificial clarity that comes as drunken euphoria collapses into toxicity and illness, I recall thinking as Brand bundled me into the cab that all I'd have to show for this night was a terrible hangover and a lot of trouble.
***
Incidently, I can't help but notice that you're feeling the heat a bit. I would turn down the thermostat but you would find me talking ve-e-ery slowly.
Do feel free to remove as much clothing as you need to, to remain comfortable. It's just us ladies here tonight and as you can see, all I wear any more is my scales.
Tuesdays, at promptly nine-thirty A.M., Patricia and her car and driver would arrive at our apartment. I would rush down, climb into the back of her grey Mercedes limousine, and we would descend upon the upper class midtown stores. Our sweep usually encompasse Chanel, Bergdorf's, Di Laurenta, Jaeger, and the higher quality midtown boutiques along 5th Avenue. We'd hand our purchases to the driver as we went along, to dump into the trunk of the limo.
Afterwards we would send him on his break and eat a late lunch at the Russian Tea Boom on 57th Street near Broadway, where we would pull out some of our smaller, choice pieces to croon over, and look for Igor Stravinsky. The famous composer ate chicken-with-giblets soup at the Russian Tea Room every Tuesday afternoon. He was a friend of my parents, and it wasn't unusual, if we ran into each other, for him to join us for lunch. Often, though, Patricia and I got there too late. More rarely, we had a chance to dine with Salvador Dali as well.
This Tuesday four days after Brands party was, in some respects, no different than most of our outings. Once the waitress had brought us our drinks and taken our orders, Patricia spread the
'Have you been following Dr. Spock's trial? They've selected an all-male jury.'
I caught her cocktail glass barely in time to keep it from toppling; cloudy drops stained the newsprint. She brushed the liquid away and went on. 'It's simply shocking, isn't it? Him egging boys on to dodge the draft.'
'I wish you'd wear your glasses, dear. You're terrifically clumsy without them.'
'Oh, thank you very much I'm sure!' She turned to the inner pages and sat up a little straighter, studying the ink-sketched advertisements. 'I
I sighed and ran a finger slowly around the rim of my glass. It made a tone like a flute or a bell; I stopped, embarrassed, and folded my hands in my lap. 'I'm all shopped out.'
'You? Impossible. Besides, the glade green sounds perfect for you.'
'I'm just not in the mood.'
She folded up the paper with a sigh of mild exasperation and looked at me. 'What's the matter with you? You haven't been yourself all day.'
The waitress brought our lunches. I leaned my chin on my knuckles, poked at my salad, and said nothing for a moment. Tears gathered in my eyes.
'He's having an affair. I'm sure of it. With that horrid Marilyn Monroe.'
Her thoughtful nod told me she'd already known.
'Everyone knows, don't they?'
She nodded again, looking uncomfortable. 'He's not making much of a secret of it, I'm afraid. Several people saw them leaving Tuxedo Park together yesterday. She met him there after the golf game.'
My throat got tight and tears spilled down my cheeks. She took my hand and made several false starts.
'Look,' she said finally, 'he's swinging a bit, that's all. Free love, you know?'
'You're the one who told me to keep him under lock and key.'
'And you were the one who said he'd never go for her.' At my hurt glance, Patricia grimaced. 'What I mean is that it's a little late to lock him up now. Why not let it run its course?'
'Thanks for the understanding.'
'I mean it. She won't be in town long.'
I shook my head, miserable, took my hand back. 'This isn't just a fling. He's in love with her.'
'You're exaggerating.'
'I'm sure of it.' I bailed my napkin up, shook my head. A tear ran down my cheek. 'He came home Sunday night smelling of her perfume and last night he didn't even come home. And with her, of all people. Damn him.'
More tears came. Patricia shushed me, looking around. The couple two booths down stared; I pointedly stared back till they looked away.
In a lowered voice I said, 'He can't treat me this way.'
'There's not much you can do, though. Really.'
I was silent a moment, eyes downcast. Not because I didn't know how to respond or because I didn't know what I wanted; I'd given it plenty of thought. I hesitated because if I said what was on my mind it would be made too real.
But when I looked up, Patricia read my intent. 'You know you can't. How would you survive?'
'I have my trust fund.'
'That only gives you ten thousand a year! You'd live like a pauper, you'd have to get a job. And doing What?'
'I'll find something.'
'What about Clara? You can't deprive her that way.' She grabbed my hands again and held them. 'Don't do something in haste you'll regret later. Brandon, you know, he's a fine catch. He'll probably be general counsel for Morgan Stanley someday. You'll have everything you ever dreamed of if you just stick it out.'
I pulled my hands loose. 'How can you say that? You know how miserable I've been. He doesn't care about me. I'm just an ornament on his arm. A hostess for his parties.'
'It beats not having anyone.' She paused, thinking. 'Besides, Brandon will fight it. And he's a lawyer. They know all the tricks and they close ranks. You'll never win. At the very least he'd get custody of Clara.'
Patricia must not have realized what was happening with me right then. Though the word 'divorce' had never been uttered, the subject of how miserable I was with Brand had always been a favorite topic. Always before her arguments had supported nicely my reluctance to act.
This time was different. This time he was in love, with something other than his dreams and ambitions. The
