Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (6 page)

“We’re going to the Copenhagen for dinner,” Nancy said, glowing. “No cooking, no cleaning up. Isn’t that nice?”

Okay, so they took something away from you, children always did, it was more or less nature’s law. But would she really change places with husbandless, childless Clover? But there could be no ready answer to that. She couldn’t imagine Clover’s life any more than Clover could imagine hers. Their lives were, quite simply, entirely different. At the moment, right here and now, she was supremely content.

Tomorrow she might feel differently.

And she probably would.

When two weeks had passed, Rodney announced that he really must get cracking and look for a flat.

“You don’t know what you’re in for,” Christine told him. She had been poring over the
Times
ads even before he had arrived. It was as she thought: it would be a hassle. Studio apartments were few and far between, there was only a column and a half of listings each day and the rents were astronomical. True, there was a sprinkling of moderate-priced ones but you knew damned well they were — to say the least — dingy, if not downright rat traps. In the main, studios were renting for anywhere from $475 up, depending on location and desirability.

And of course
everything
was going co-op.

“It’s because the whole world is gravitating to New York,” she informed Rodney. “All the moneyed parasites, the kind of people I despise, they’re coming here. Leaving Rome and Paris and Geneva and coming here, damn them. They’re pissed off at taxes and insecurities and kidnappings and the threat of another Europe-based war. How dare they barge in with their Swiss bank accounts and their petro-dollars and take over this city? It’s a rape, it’s plunder, ordinary people can’t afford to live here anymore.”

“It’s also inflation,” he said, unruffled. He had his own copy of the
Times
now, so that they could compare notes. “How about this, Chris? Two and a half rooms, full kitchen, clean, $225.”

“Where is it?”

“Amsterdam Avenue.”

“Forget it,” she said crisply. “I
was
wondering about this. Seventy-third Street, just off Second. $240, a studio. Oh, it can’t be anything! Something over a greasy spoon.”

“A what?”

“Some crummy eatery. Let it go. Or no, we won’t let it go. There are few enough leads as it is, we’ll have to investigate them all, anything that sounds in the least feasible.”

She got up. “God, it’s discouraging. Okay, let’s get started. I’ve circled a few possibilities. I’m not very hopeful.”

The first day was the worst because even though you knew it was going to be a rat race the full impact only hit you when you actually got out there and faced it. Rodney lost a bit of his composure when he walked into some of the “airy studio” and “sunny L-shaped room” offerings. He did a lot of throat-clearing and he didn’t have very much appetite when they stopped off at The Brownstone for a three o’clock lunch. “Never mind,” Christine said bracingly. “We didn’t expect to find something first crack out of the bottle, did we?”

“I didn’t realize they’d be so seedy,” he admitted.

“We simply had phenomenally bad luck today. There
are
things around, I know that as well as I know my own name, even if it doesn’t look that way. We must be patient, you see.”

“Yes, of course, patient.”

And after a few days he began to perk up, taking this hound and hare exploration as a kind of lark, so that before long his gusto returned, along with his appetite, and they set out each morning with Rodney in fine spirits. Now he took along his camera, as if they were once again sightseeing.

“We haven’t time for that,” she protested, when he kept asking her to pose over there beside that tree, or in front of some building he fancied would make a good background.

“It’s only just for a moment. Smile, please.”

She smiled and he snapped the shutter. “You’re very lovely,” he said.

“I’m just a Mum.”

It became almost a way of life after a while, getting up with the roosters each morning, weekends included and both of them very practiced now. “No, not there,” Christine would say, in regard to a listing. “Don’t you remember? We were on that block a day or so ago, the whole street is a decaying shambles.”

A morning’s fruitless search and the real estate page thrown in a litter basket, its usefulness over for that day. Lunch somewhere in the late afternoon and then back to the Colonnade. Carl stopped asking, “Any luck?” because she had snapped at him and said if they had any luck he would be the first to know about it. She sensed he was restless about the status quo. Men didn’t care for disorder in their lives, he wanted everything as usual, for her to sit beside him and watch television of an evening. He’d had a busy, hectic day and now he wanted peace and quiet, not somebody else’s kid yakking away in his British accent and interrupting an otherwise quiet evening.

She finally phoned Peg Thornley about what limit she would set on rent and Peg said, in her chipper Mayfair voice, “Oh, I should think about two-fifty, perhaps three hundred. That should do it, don’t you agree?”

“No, Peg. Not in this city. Well, I’m sure it’s the same in London. I’m afraid it will be far more than that, unless you want Rodney in some questionable neighborhood.”

“Good heavens, certainly not! It’s really of so
little
importance, I shall leave it up to you.”

“Could you set another limit, a more realistic one?”

“It’s only for a year or so, you must use your own judgment. You’re being so frightfully kind, love, it’s a great deal I’m asking of you.”

“Not at all, Peg. We’ll find something perfectly splendid.”

“I say. What about a hotel?”

“Same as in London,” Christine said dryly. “A hotel would break the bank, my dear.”

The conversation at the dinner table was invariably centered on the treasure hunt. “Find anything perfectly splendid today?” Nancy had been privy to Christine’s London call.

“No splendid, much sick-making.” Rodney, rueful, admitted that the quest was a tour through the lower depths. “One flat really gave me a pause. I simply can’t tell you. As soon as we left Christine told me that on pain of death I must not put my hands to my face until I’d washed them. She made me go into a department store and find the loo, told me to use a great quantity of soap.”

“Well, he
touched
things. We should really have worn masks.”

“That bad?”

“I can’t tell you. Grease on every surface, and some beastly animals.”

“Animals?”

“Mr. Feelers,” Christine explained.

“Yuck.”

When at last they did stumble onto the Sixty-first Street place it was without confidence, because why should this day be different from all other days? It was the first ad they answered, with a phone number to call: the location was “low Sixties,” which could mean anything at all. It was only $365, which by now seemed a widow’s mite. Of course, Christine said gloomily, it was probably over a store.

“A greasy spoon.”

“Uh huh. Some smelly souvlaki place. A one-bedroom for $365? I must be crazy even to give it a second thought.”

“It says “small” bedroom.”

“That’s why I’m willing to consider it, it’s probably a walk-in closet or a plyboarded L. All right, I’ll phone.”

It was Sixty-first between Third and Second, she announced hanging up. “All ready to go, Rodney?”

They cabbed down to Sixty-first, where Christine suddenly recalled a few visits to a podiatrist on this very street: his office was just off Second. This was a street of brownstones, or limestone row houses, tree-lined, not a highrise in sight. The cabbie pulled up in front of one of the five-story row houses and she said, “This can’t be it, what’s the number?”

“The one you gave me.” He turned in his seat. “See? There it is, right over the door.”

“Why shouldn’t it be here?” Rodney wanted to know.

“Does this look like the kind of shit we’ve been seeing? Excuse me, Rodney, don’t tell your mother I use bad language.” She consulted the slip of paper on which she copied the address the man had given her over the phone. “Well, okay, let’s get out.”

She paid and stood looking up at the building. It was the number she had written down, all right. “There must be some mistake,” she insisted flatly.

“I hope not. It seems so dignified, don’tcha know. Rather like London.”

“It seems divine, but far too good to be true.”

Some of the houses had stone steps leading up to the first floor level, some had been stripped of these attractive, old-fashioned appurtenances: this one had the steps. At the top was the “stoop” and then a heavy, carved door through which you entered on a small vestibule where there was a bank of brass mailboxes, one of which bore the name E. Manson, the man spoken to on the phone. “Here we go,” she said, and put her finger on the bell.

The inner door, of heavy glass behind iron grillwork, was opened by a woman who had a worn but pleasant face. “It’s about the apartment,” Christine said. “I spoke to a Mr. Manson.”

“That’s my husband. He’s there now, it’s the third floor.”

“Thank you. Coming, Rodney?”

They climbed. Three flights up, but who cared, Christine thought, still darkly suspecting some error in the listing, because the entrance hall was clean and vacuumed, with no musty food smells and the stairs were carpeted in a soft taupe, would you believe it. Beautiful old banisters, a fine, dark wood and niches in the bend of the stairway with old-fashioned busts, one of Shakespeare. “I say, this is more like it,” Rodney said enthusiastically. “I shall certainly take it, Christine.”

On the third floor a door stood ajar, the one leading to the front-view flat. It was apparent that there were two apartments on each floor, which meant about ten units altogether. “I’d like to live here myself,” Christine said pensively. “I wonder if this is a dream or something.”

“Or maybe Mr. Feelers is in residence,” he murmured.

They pushed open the door and went in. She knew at once that this was it. They were in a large, high-ceilinged room, rectangular in shape, with a fireplace that was sealed off but which nevertheless lent grace and elegance, its moldings adorned with carved caryatids. Oyster-white walls and parquet floor with the patina of age, and the ceiling was festooned with plaster moldings, in the center a great sunburst design. The sun, strong and effulgent, blazed in through almost floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Oh, Rodney …”

“Oh,
Chris …
”

“You’re sure you have your checkbook now.”

“Yes, of course.” He patted a pocket.

“It will be a month’s security, maybe two. And the first month’s rent.”

“Right.”

Voices, coming from another room, grew louder, and a couple of men appeared in the doorway that led beyond the living room. Or drawing room, Christine thought, it was a gracious, old time drawing room. A middle-aged man and a younger one. “Mr. Manson?” Christine said to the older one.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“I’m Mrs. Jennings, I phoned a short while ago. This is Mr. Thornley, who’s interested in the apartment. May we go through and see the rest of it, please?”

There was an exchange of glances between the two men. Uh oh, Christine thought. The young man was also looking for a place to live. “My friend isn’t just interested,” she said quickly. “He wants it. Just let us know what the deposit will be and he’ll write out a check for that and the first month’s rent.”

“I’m sorry,” the young man said, “but you’re just a little too late. You see I’ve already written out my check.”

“But we came right away!” she cried. “I mean, when I phoned it was still vacant! If there was any question you should have said so, Mr. Manson. Well, really! Couldn’t you at least have waited for us to see it before deciding?”

“It’s a hard, cruel world,” the younger man remarked. “First come, first served. I’m truly sorry.”

“My God.”

She felt like weeping. Beside her, Rodney stood glum. She felt his disappointment, his letdown. Shock, too. Hell, she herself wanted to hit somebody.

“You know, this is really too much,” she said furiously. “It isn’t fair,
I
don’t think it’s fair. You have to be given
some
chance. We’ve been looking for days and days. We’ve turned this town upside down. We’ve — ”

“I know,” the young man said. “Take my word for it, I know. People look for years. Just the same, though, I have an idea. If you can stick around for a few minutes I may be able to help.”

“How?” she asked scornfully.

“I’m serious.”

“I fail to see how we can stick around. Stick around and lose out on other listings? You’re
sure
you want this place?”

“Very sure.”

“I see. Well, it’s all very depressing. Finding just what Rodney wanted … he can’t afford to pay very much.”

“I can’t afford to pay very much either. I was reckless enough to ditch my job, which if I still had it would enable me to move aside and let you have this place with my compliments.” He smiled. “It’s not easy to turn a deaf ear to the entreaties of a lovely lady.”

“Compliments won’t get us an apartment,” she retorted, but found herself, with great reluctance, answering his smile. He was a prepossessing sort, interesting-looking and very dark in his coloring, dark eyes and dark crispy, curly hair, quite a lot of it and rather undisciplined, though not long and shaggy. He was a little too thin for his considerable height and he had a strong face you couldn’t help noticing, strong and thin. Artistic? Maybe a painter, except that a painter would want north light. He would have been attractive to her under any other circumstances.

“Did you want something more, then?” the super asked, the check for the rented apartment in his hand.

“No, I think we’ve settled everything, Mr. Manson. I have the keys, it seems to be all for now. I’ll let you know my moving date, of course. And many thanks.”

“Well then, good day and I hope you’ll be happy here.” He nodded to the other two. “Good day to you too.”

Christine, sulkily resigned, was curious. “Why is the rent so low?” she asked when the super had gone out. “The dives we’ve seen for higher. Why
is
the rent so low?”

“One of those lucky strikes you never expect to come your way. The last tenant was here for a hundred years, so the rent was low for a hundred years, no turnover. Now they can only take the standard hike.”

He shook his head. “Who would have thought it would happen to me.”

“If you hadn’t beat us by a scant few minutes it would have happened to us.”

“Oh. Look, I said I had an idea, and I think I can save the day, fix you up. By the way, I’m John Allerton.”