This provoked a grunt from Thack, but nothing else. She wasn’t about to ask him what he meant. He was forever grinding his axes in public, and she’d been singed by the sparks once too often.
Michael gave Thack a peevish glance and seemed on the verge of saying something, when Burke reappeared. “Look,” he told her sheepishly, “my friends have asked us to join them for drinks at Stars. If that’s not O.K….”
“No,” she said. “It’s fine.”
“It’s Russell and Chloe Rand. I think you’d like them.”
“Fine. Whatever.”
“Guys?” Burke turned to Michael and Thack.
“Great,” answered Michael, apparently speaking for both of them. She couldn’t tell what Thack was thinking. When he brooded, his face became an infuriating blank. She was halfway hoping he would make a fuss, or at least talk Michael into bowing out graciously. Four tagalongs was a bit much. The Rands were already getting more than they had bargained for.
Burke gave her another doggy look. “I would’ve mentioned it earlier, but…”
“Look,” she said, getting a brainstorm. “Why don’t you invite them here?”
“Well…”
“They can just…kick back and relax.”
“That’s nice of you,” said Burke, “but I think they’re kind of…entrenched.”
“Right,” she said evenly. But she was thinking: He hates the house. He thinks it’s not chic enough for them.
“Shall I check with Brian?” Burke asked.
“No,” she said. “He’ll go.”
“Great,” said Burke, and he went back to the phone.
Where had she screwed up, anyway? The Indian blankets, the saguaro skeleton, the painted steer skulls…?
The tiny, clear voice of her fashion sense told her that was impossible.
She had copied that stuff from a Russell Rand ad.
It was agreed that they’d arrive at the restaurant in two cars: Mary Ann, Brian, and Burke in Mary Ann’s Mercedes; Michael and Thack in their VW. There was also the minor matter of a baby-sitter, and Nguyet, as usual, required nothing less than a bald-faced bribe before consenting to stay at the house past midnight. Brian, typically, knew next to nothing about the Rands, so while Burke was in the bathroom, Mary Ann dug into her stash of Interviews and gave her husband a hasty briefing.
On the way there, while Brian and Burke gabbed away in the front seat about Joe Montana’s vertebrae, she filled her nostrils with the sweet scent of her gray leather interiors and took stock of herself. Had she known the evening would end with the Russell Rands, she might not have worn this uneventful little Calvin Klein cocktail dress.
Still, it showed she cared about such things. It seemed a bit much, anyway, to wear a Russell Rand outfit in the actual presence of Russell Rand. She conducted a hasty mental inventory of the women she’d seen with him in photographs. Had Liza worn his clothes when she went out with him? Had Elizabeth? Maybe only desperadoes like Prue Giroux did that.
For that matter, what about the Passion she had on? Was it gauche to wear Elizabeth Taylor’s perfume around people who knew Elizabeth Taylor? People who knew what she actually smelled like? Maybe her real friends found the stuff laughable and pretentious. Certainly Cher’s must. How could they not?
She would not dwell on it. The stuff wasn’t cheap, after all, and Taylor had done so much for AIDS. Mary Ann had worn it mostly to please Michael, to show her support. She would say that, if the subject came up. It was the truth, anyway.
“And over there,” Brian was telling Burke with great authority, “is the Hard Rock. It’s O.K., but it’s kind of a kid’s joint.”
“Brian,” she said, “I think they’ve got one in New York.”
“I know that. I was just telling him about this one.”
“They’re all the same,” she told him.
“The one in London is decent,” Burke put in. “It was the first, I think.”
“Yes,” she said. “It was.”
“Look at that fog,” said Brian. “Look what it does to the neon. Isn’t that great?”
Burke made an appreciative noise, obviously just being polite.
She shot Brian a quick look. “Not everyone likes fog, you know?”
“Go on,” he replied with mock disbelief.
“Well, it’s true.”
Brian looked at Burke. “You like it, don’t you?”
An easy grin and a shrug. “Sure.”
“You gotta admit it beats the shit outa that stuff in New York. That stuff you have to scrape off your face.” Brian laughed, apparently to keep this from sounding hostile, but it didn’t work. “I mean…c’mon.”
Burke was gallant about it. “Yeah…well, you’re right about that.”
“He’s such a San Francisco chauvinist,” she told Burke.
“And you’re not?” Brian mugged at her.
“I like it,” she said calmly. “I don’t think it’s the be-all and the end-all. And I don’t think it’s particularly nice to bad-mouth our guest’s city.”
“C’mon,” said Brian, smiling to cover his tracks. “He didn’t take it that way.” He gave Burke a buddy-buddy wink. “Anyway, I like New York. I wouldn’t wanna live there…et cetera, et cetera.”
She clutched for a moment. Was that remark just coincidental, or was he onto her? Either way, she vowed to ignore it.
“How do you know the Rands?” she asked Burke pleasantly.
“Oh, you know,” he replied. “Through friends.”
She started to tell him about meeting them at Prue’s, but changed her mind in fear that they wouldn’t remember her. If they did remember her and remarked on it, her silence at this point would simply come off as self-effacing. It was better to keep her mouth shut.
As Brian swung the Mercedes into Redwood Alley, she gazed out the window at a gaggle of operagoers heading up the sidewalk toward the restaurant. Who among her associates, she wondered, might see her there tonight with the Rands?
It was almost too delicious to imagine.
The cavernous elegance of Stars never failed to seduce her. To enter this room full of feverish chatter and French poster art was to feel at one with a living tableau, something from the twenties, maybe, and certainly not from here. If you squinted your eyes just so, the illusion was more than enough to transport you.
As she had already envisioned, the Rands were imperially positioned on the platform at the end of the room. Chloe was in red leather tonight, her shoulders pale as milk under the stained-glass chandeliers. Russell looked wonderfully Duke of Windsorish in a herringbone Norfolk jacket. Where had they been, anyway? The opera? Another party?
Chloe saw them first. She wiggled her fingers at Burke, then tilted her cheek to be kissed when he reached the table. “You’re so sweet to do this,” she said.
Burke kissed her, then clapped Russell amiably on the shoulder. Russell smiled at him for a moment, then turned his gaze toward Mary Ann. “Did we sabotage your dinner?” he asked, as if they had known each other forever.
“Oh, no,” she replied, “not at all.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Really.”
“Aren’t there some more?” asked Chloe.
“They’re coming later,” she said, “in another car.”
“This is Mary Ann Singleton,” said Burke.
“Yes, I know,” said Russell. “I think we’ve met.”
“You have?” asked Burke.
“Russell, Chloe…” Secure in her identity again, Mary Ann felt a warming rush of self-assurance. “This is my husband, Brian.”
Brian and Russell shook hands. Then Brian and Chloe. “Please,” said Russell cordially, “sit down, everybody.”
“When did you guys meet?” Burke asked her, taking the chair next to Chloe.
“At Prue Giroux’s.”
“What’s that?”
Chloe smirked. “I don’t think you wanna know.”
Russell gave his wife a brief, admonish
ing glance.
So, thought Mary Ann, she hates her too. Things were looking better all the time.
“She’s kind of a local party girl,” Brian told Burke.
“Yeah,” Mary Ann said dryly. “Kind of.” This was just enough, she felt, to let Chloe know she concurred without causing Russell further distress. Prue, after all, had been buying his dresses for years. She could see why Russell wouldn’t want to appear disloyal. He had no way of knowing, really, which of these people might blab to Prue.
“I’m a real idiot,” Russell told Burke. “When you told me about her, I just didn’t make the connection.”
At first Mary Ann thought he meant Prue. Then it occurred to her that Burke must have briefed the Rands about the local talk-show hostess he wanted for his new venture. In a moment of abject panic, she realized that Russell was dangerously close to spilling the beans.
“O.K.,” said Chloe. “Who needs a drink? Let’s see if we can rustle up a waiter for these people.”
“Uh…right,” said Russell. “Of course.”
He had the unmistakable look of someone who had just been given a swift kick under the table.
Half an hour later, in the john, Chloe said: “Look, I’m sorry about ol’ dummy out there. Burke told him not to bring up the talk-show stuff.”
“It’s no problem,” said Mary Ann. “Really.”
“Have you told him yet?”
“Not yet.”
Chloe fixed her lips in front of the mirror. “It’s a fabulous opportunity.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Burke is so smart. He really is. I don’t think you can go wrong with him.” She blotted her lips together once or twice, then turned and cocked her head apologetically. “Sorry. I know it’s none of my business.”
“No,” said Mary Ann. “That’s O.K.”
“It’s scary to move, isn’t it? Gets you right in the gut. I felt that way exactly when Russell asked me to marry him. I mean, I knew what a life it could be, but all I could think of was how foreign everything would be. It’s so stupid, isn’t it?”
“You seem so collected,” Mary Ann remarked. “I can’t imagine that.”
“Sure,” said Chloe. “Now. Three years ago…forget it.”
“Actually,” said Mary Ann, warming to her, “I’m pretty good about kicking over the traces. I did it when I moved here. I came here on vacation, and just…you know, had a few Irish coffees…”
Chloe giggled. “And didn’t go back?”
“Nope.”
“Damn. I’m impressed. Where was home?”
“Ohio,” said Mary Ann. “Cleveland.”
“Well, no wonder!”
Mary Ann laughed uneasily. “Really.”
Chloe stuck out her hand. “Akron.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope.”
“But you seem so…so…”
“Like I said, it takes a while. It didn’t hurt to know Russell, of course. I was Geek City before I met him. Stringy hair, awful skin…and this honker on top of it.”
Mary Ann felt a mild protest was in order. “C’mon. You have a beautiful nose. Like a Spanish aristocrat.”
“Try Lebanese.”
Thrown and a little embarrassed, Mary Ann changed the subject. “And you really met him at Betty Ford?”
“Yep.”
“That’s such a romantic story.” And what a movie it could be, she thought. She makes him clean and sober. He makes her beautiful and rich.
“It was just an administrative position. I wasn’t a therapist or anything.”
“Still,” she said. “You befriended him in his hour of need.”
“Yeah, I guess so. So what’s the deal with your husband? He hates New York, huh?”
She nodded grimly. “More or less.”
“Well, it’s not like you wouldn’t have contacts and everything. Burke and Brenda know practically everybody, and if you need help—you know, finding a co-op or something—Russell and I would be glad to help.”
Perhaps for the very first time the package she was being offered became vividly clear to her, and it was almost too much to take. Real fame, bright new friends, a home that would be her salon. She could see the place already: big pine cupboards, an antique harp, paper-thin Persian carpets against bleached floors. Something in SoHo, maybe, or just down the hall from Yoko at the Dakota…
“That’s so sweet of you,” she told Chloe.
“Not at all.” Gazing into the mirror, Chloe swiped at the corner of her eye with her little finger. “We could use some new faces.”
“That’s great to know. That dress is genius, by the way.”
“Oh, thanks.” Chloe turned and smiled at her. “I can’t wear it at home. Ivana Trump has one just like it.”
“Bad luck,” said Mary Ann. She was dying to ask what Ivana Trump was really like, but thought it might sound too hungry, too much like a desperado.
When they returned to the table, Mary Ann found Brian regaling the men—Michael now among them—with his current pet opinion. “I mean, give me a break, man. I’m no Republican, but the woman is being ragged about not dyeing her hair. In the old days, dyeing it was the scandal! What the fuck is going on here?”
Russell Rand, she noticed, made a valiant effort at laughing. Brian had a way of demanding too much from his audience when his turn came for center stage. It put people on the defensive, embarrassed them. He had no way of knowing this, of course, and she had never thought of a nice way to tell him.
That was her problem now, wasn’t it? A nice way to tell him.
“Where’s Thack?” she asked Michael as she slid into her chair.
It was Brian who answered. “He pooped out on us.”
“His stomach’s bothering him,” Michael added.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Hope it wasn’t the spring rolls.”
“No.”
“He dropped you off?”
“Yeah.”
They’ve had a fight, she thought. It was just as well. Thack would only have made trouble.
“You haven’t met Chloe,” she said. And she touched Chloe’s shoulder lightly, just to prove to Michael she could do it. “Chloe Rand, Michael Tolliver.”
They greeted each other across the table. Michael was clearly captivated.
“Anyway,” said Brian, blundering on, “Barbara Bush is a whole shitload better than that bitch we’ve got in the White House now. All she ever does is have her hair done and con free dresses out of designers.”
Dead silence all around.
Brian looked from face to face for reinforcement.
How typical of him, she thought. If he’d thought for half a second before shooting off his mouth…
“Oh,” said Brian, looking at Russell Rand. “I guess this means you…?”
The designer managed a thin smile. “It wasn’t a con, really.”
“Well…it’s good advertising, at least. I mean, the people who like her are probably the ones who…anyway, it doesn’t imply a personal endorsement on your part.”
“I’m very fond of Mrs. Reagan, actually.”
Brian nodded. “Well, I don’t know the lady.”
Mary Ann gave him a look that said: No, you don’t, so shut up.
Russell Rand remained gracious. “She’s gotten kind of a bum rap, you know. She’s not at all the person she’s perceived to be.”
“Yeah, well, I guess, since I can only go by things generally available to the common man…”
“I don’t blame you for thinking that way. I really don’t.” Brian nodded and said nothing. Michael sat perfectly still, staring at his Calistoga and looking mortified.
Somebody had to lighten things up, so Mary Ann said: “Can’t take him anywhere.”
“Not at all,” said Russell Rand. “We’re all entitled to our opinion.”
“Thank you,” said Brian, speaking to the designer but casting a quick, sullen glance in her direction.
A Bad Dream
/> THE DREAM WAS STILL VIVID AS LIFE WHEN MICHAEL stumbled out to greet the dawn. A thick coat of dew covered the deck, and he was reminded of how Charlie Rubin once referred to this phenomenon as “night sweats.” Below, in the neighboring gardens, the wetness on the broad, green leaves suggested deceitfully that the drought had passed. Only the garden of his dead neighbor told the truth, its ravaged tree fern blunt as a crucifix in the amber light of morning.
He lifted his eyes until they jumped the fence and fled into the valley below, where a thousand Levolored windows were ablaze with sunrise. Sometimes, though not at the moment, he could see other men on other decks, watching the valley like him from their own little plywood widow’s walks.
What he loved most about this view was the trees: the wizened cypresses, the backyard banana trees, the poplars that marched along the nearest ridge like Deco exclamation marks. There were some, of course, the cypresses in particular, that could only be appreciated through binoculars, but he knew where they were just the same.
Suddenly, a flock of parrots—forty strong, at least—landed in the fruitless fig tree of the house next door. While they screeched and fussed with their feathers, he stood stock-still and debated waking Thack for the event. He had never seen them this close to the house.
“Wow,” came a voice behind him.
Thack stood in the kitchen doorway. Clad only in Jockey shorts, his smooth body looked heroic in the morning light, but his thinning, sleep-bent hair muddled the effect, lending it a comical, babyfied air.
“Should I come out?”
“Yeah,” said Michael, “but make it graceful.” He couldn’t help but feel vindicated. He’d been raving about these creatures for almost a year now, without so much as a flyover to prove to his lover that he hadn’t been hallucinating.
Thack joined him at the rail. “Noisy little fuckers.”
“Yeah, but look how beautiful.”
“Not bad.”
“They used to be pets,” Michael told him.
“That’s what you said.”
“See those little ones? Those are the parakeet groupies.”