A Fine Imitation (35 page)

Even the cold shoulder Poppy turned to her when they entered the Litchfields' apartment for a dinner party one evening did not extend to the other women. Ida Bloomer greeted Vera like a long-lost sister and admonished her for not attending the ballet with them a few evenings before.

“We missed you terribly, dear,” Ida said. “Though I hope it wasn't because you were ill again. Poor darling, to have health troubles, young as you are.”

“Everything is fine now, thank you. And I certainly plan to be at your luncheon tomorrow.” Vera smiled.

“Oh, wonderful. It hasn't been the same without you.”

The maid came in to announce dinner, and Ida took Vera's arm as they went to the dining room. Vera noted with some satisfaction that her place card sat at the top of the table, as near Caroline's seat as she could be. Even with her recent absences, she still retained her status in the building. Perhaps it had even been heightened. They had been distant when the artist was the hot subject of discussion, but when she avoided them, their interest in her seemed to have revived. Yes, she could fall back into the rhythm of her life as if the artist had never existed.

She was chatting with Kenneth Harper about his new car when something Arthur said to Caroline caught her attention.

“…and so I'll be in Philadelphia for a week, then it's on to Boston,” he said. “Not to mention late nights at the office, too many of those to count. Vera will have to attend these things without an escort for a good while.”

Vera's throat tightened. Another one of his extended “business” trips. He hadn't had one in a while. Now Vera wondered if the pleasantness that had passed between them the last few days was his way of placating her in advance of this news.

The trips had started shortly after they were married. He claimed there was the need to visit a lot of building sites, shake a lot of important hands. She had been terribly proud of her busy husband. Then, a little over two years into their marriage, she got a phone call from the Tiffany store. A clerk named Mr. Blake cheerfully reported that the pocket watch Arthur had ordered was ready early. Of course, Arthur could still pick it up on the agreed-upon date, but the clerk thought the client might like it delivered to the Plaza instead. Mr. Bellington had mentioned he was staying there, Mr. Blake explained, but then an assistant noticed that the home number on Arthur's profile card was in the city. The clerk thought he ought to phone Mr. Bellington's home in case he misheard. Confusion had given way to the sinking realization that although Vera's husband might indeed be in a room at the Plaza, whoever was staying in the room with him was not his wife. More than that, Arthur was supposed to be in Baltimore. She called the hotel and asked if Mr. Bellington was still there. The man at the desk offered to put her through, and she hung up before anyone could answer. Though Vera never mentioned it to Arthur, that afternoon was the beginning of her understanding that business was typically not what kept him away from home overnight. One night at a time was bad enough. But the extended weeks holed up with some unknown lover hurt the worst.

Hallan had been right. How well she knew someone did not matter. Everyone hid something. She had her own horrible secrets, too. She had sacrificed a friend to save herself, and for what? To be disdained by her husband? To become the queen of meaningless social rituals? To be a good girl but a bad person?

Vera slammed her fork down on her plate. Silence overtook the table as every head turned to her. Arthur's eyes narrowed.

“What in the world is the matter?” he asked.

“You're taking a trip? For several weeks?”

“It's business. I've done it a million times.”

“I'm a little surprised, that's all. You didn't mention it.”

Arthur locked his gaze on Vera's. “I didn't think it would inconvenience you. You'll do perfectly well without me, you always do.”

“Well, it's an awful lot of ‘business,' isn't it?”

“What are you saying?”

Everyone at the table seemed to be holding in a breath waiting for Vera's response. Even Bessie Harper sat silent, her mouth agape. Instead of answering Arthur, Vera turned to Poppy, who nearly leapt out of her seat.

Vera's tone lit up with false brightness. “I'm so sorry, this isn't appropriate dinner talk, is it? Perhaps Poppy should choose the topic of conversation. What is refined society discussing these days, Mrs. Hastings?”

Poppy glanced around the table, wordlessly imploring the other guests for help, but they focused on their plates or the wall. Her brow wrinkled, then smoothed again as a light of inspiration came over her face.

“You poor dear, you're obviously not feeling well. A few too many…exertions of late, hmm?” Poppy flicked her gaze at Arthur.

Vera leaned in. The brightness leached out of her words and venom took its place. “You always know just what to say to make an impression. How right you were to demand that I defer to you in social matters.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Poppy let out a watery laugh.

“Come now, no need to be so modest. You set your sights on what you wanted, and you got it. I applaud you.” Vera snatched her napkin off her lap and tossed it onto her plate. She stood and gestured to her chair. “And here's my seat, if you want to take it. You can even have my place card. Call yourself by my name for all I care. May it bring you all the warmth and satisfaction it has brought me. Excuse me, everyone.” Gloves clenched in her hands, Vera stormed from the room. She heard Arthur making hasty apologies behind her, but she could not slow her step. He caught up with her at the elevator and grabbed her arm.

“What was that hysterical display about?” His voice was low and threatening, his face an inch from hers.

She drew herself up. “I think you know very well.”

“You'd be surprised what I know.”

She turned to him, eyes widening. The elevator doors slid open with a slight creak. He pulled her on, and they rode up without a word to each other. When they reached the penthouse, he kept his grip on her arm and took her into the library. After letting go of her, he poured them each a glass of bourbon.

“Sit,” he said, holding a drink out to her. “We need to have a little chat.”

She lowered herself gingerly into a chair. “Arthur—”

“No. I'm going to talk first. How dare you act like that? What I do is none of your business, and I'm certainly not going to discuss it with you at the goddamned Litchfields' dinner table.”

She took a shaky drink from her glass. “For ten years I've been a good wife to you, and you throw it in my face.”

He sneered. “At least I don't bring them to the building.”

“So you know.”

“Of course I know.”

“Poppy told you?”

“She did. Stupid woman. But I knew anyway, do you think I'm blind? The way you two carried on in Montauk. I knew he wanted you, and I knew you'd give in eventually. You're the sort.” He took a swallow of his drink. “Overly romantic. I thought you'd outgrow it.”

“If you'd loved me, I wouldn't have gone near him.” Vera choked on the words. “But you don't. You never did. You've been carrying on, meeting women in hotels since we first married, what did you expect of me?”

His eyes narrowed. “I expect you to tolerate it.”

Her face burned. “Why did you marry me if you don't love me?”

“Because you were the best choice.” He shook his head slightly, as if her question made no sense. “The only choice. I knew you would represent me well in society, that you could host a dinner party and serve on some charity board somewhere. At least, I thought all that was true. I thought with your family, your breeding, you'd know how to conduct yourself. But you've proven you're just another silly damned woman.”

“But you've been so warm lately.” She turned away when he winced. “Things have been so nice between us. If you knew, why would you act that way?”

He swallowed a gulp of liquor and rubbed his temple. His lips parted, but he hesitated. The words seemed to crawl from his throat. “It was a relief, to be honest.”

“You weren't angry at all?”

“I thought…” He heaved a sigh. Vera noticed deep pockets under his eyes. Under the lamp's harsh electric shine, he looked a decade older. “I thought you'd finally figured out how to survive it. How to make it work.” His mouth set in a bitter line. “But you hadn't. You still want this impossible thing.”

The jeweler's voice rang in her head again as he read the initials engraved on the pocket watch. Initials that were neither hers nor Arthur's. A pocket watch. Not a necklace, or a brooch, or earrings. The truth about Vera's husband suddenly flashed before her, a truth she had carelessly dismissed time and time again. Like a dust mote passing into a beam of light, a new understanding of his indifference came into view, then slipped into shadow and was gone once more. Hallan had said Vera was living the tragedy she knew. She had not grasped that there was tragedy enough to go around. What if, all this time, Arthur had been living his? What if Vera, willfully blind to it, had made his reality sadder still?

She stared at the rug so long the pattern became a noisy jumble of colors and angles. Arthur seemed content to sip his drink in the silence. She knew at last the battle was over. Any further fighting for his affection would be as futile as all her previous efforts had proven to be.

“I'm leaving you,” she said.

He snorted. “That's not the solution you think it is.”

“I am. I'm leaving.”

“What, are you going with him? You think he can provide for you? You can't provide for yourself, that much is certain.”

“Maybe with him. Maybe not.” She stood and placed her empty glass on the table beside Arthur. “But I'm not staying here.”

He shook his head. “You'll regret it.”

“Possibly.”

She left the library, shutting the door behind her. The unexpected honesty of the conversation left her drained. She took a few steps up the stairs but grew dizzy, and she sat on the landing halfway up. Her hope, misguided though it was, had kept her fighting for the life she thought was possible. The marriage she wanted that might have made the penthouse a home. She looked over the foyer, her eyes lingering on the closed door of the library. The familiar rooms became the landscape of a foreign country, harsher and colder than any journey into new territory could ever be.

Her energy restored somewhat by her brief rest, she continued up to her room. Vera tossed in the bed for a bit, as the familiar twitch of insomnia agitated her muscles. Giving up, she turned on the lamp on the nightstand. She certainly did not have to worry about Arthur joining her that night, so no need to worry about the light bothering him. Inside the nightstand's drawer, she found the little book of Hopkins poetry Hallan had given her. She flipped through its pages, taking note of poems he had marked and reading the words he had penciled in its margins. The sight of his handwriting reminded her of what she was capable of, what she had the strength to do, and its reassurance brought with it the heavy comfort of sleep at last.

The next morning, Marguerite tapped Vera's shoulder, waking her. Vera blinked in the morning sunlight streaming through the drawn curtains. As she had expected, Arthur's side of the bed was still neat and smooth.

“Madam,” Marguerite said with a slight waver, “your mother is here.”

Vera bolted up, now wide awake. “Did she say what she wants?”

“No, madam. Shall I ask her?”

“No need. Is my dress laid out?”

“It is.” The maid wrung her hands and glanced around the room, as though she were the one about to be castigated.

“Tell her I'll be right down.”

Vera threw on her dress and brushed her hair, winding it into a plain knot at the base of her neck. She knew better than to keep her mother waiting too long. A few minutes later, she sat in the drawing room, her mother's eagle glare pinning her in the chair.

“Would you like some tea?” Vera asked.

“Let's not waste time,” her mother said. “I hope you know why I'm here.”

“I imagine you've spoken to Arthur.”

Her mother's lips flattened into a thin line. “I have. He says you've threatened to leave him. For the artist, I assume?”

Vera struggled for a way to explain her thoughts to her mother, but nothing she could say would make sense to a woman like her. Instead, she stared at her hands, crossed in her lap.

“Right,” her mother continued, “let's get one thing straight. This is not a fairy tale, and you are not some princess in a tower to be rescued. You have responsibilities. To your father and to me, who raised you better than this. To your husband, who gives you an exquisite home. And to your society. Honestly, Vera, what would people think?”

“I don't know,” Vera said softly.

“Oh yes, you do. I want to be perfectly clear. If you continue this affair, your husband has every right to cast you aside without a penny.” Her mother thrust out an arm, as if physically trying to toss Vera aside.

Vera looked up. “But why should I be the only one punished? He's carried on all over town, with God knows who, God knows how many.”

“Of course he has, that's his right.” Her voice lifted on the final word, as though Vera's objections baffled her. Vera weighed the matter-of-factness of the statement. Had her mother looked the other way at her father's indiscretions? Was that what her mother had been trying to warn her about all those years ago by the lake? Did her mother know what Vera was getting into with her marriage to Arthur? Had she known what Arthur was struggling with? How impossible his needs would make their marriage?

“You knew?” Vera asked slowly.

“What really matters is that you knew. I told you marriage to him wouldn't be bliss. But no matter what your husband does or does not do, you must conduct yourself like a lady. That does not include falling into bed with whomever happens by.”

“He's not someone who ‘happened by'—”

Her mother held up a hand. “I am not interested in the numerous admirable qualities you believe you've found in that man. I am merely telling you that you will not see him anymore. Nor will you speak to your husband as you have. It is unacceptable, and I will not tolerate it.”

“Mother, I'm not a child—”

“But you are a child.” Her mother's voice grew cold. “I cannot believe we're having this discussion again, after that business at college. Did you learn nothing? How many times will I have to rescue you from your own foolishness? You are absolutely a child. You're still behaving like one.”

“Please, I don't want to talk about what happened back then—”

“But it's the same thing all over again. You didn't think then, and you're not thinking now. You say you're leaving. What do you think it will be like, hmm? Can you launder a sheet? Can you cook a meal? You don't even dress your own hair. Look at it this morning, it's a mess, you must have done it yourself. You think this man will take care of you? Do you have any concept of what kind of income is required for a life like this?”

Vera's arms and legs suddenly felt very heavy. Her mother was right. She had not thought it out. Her experience in looking after herself was limited to personal care and the occasional mending of stockings at college. Even there she had someone to clean, someone to cook. She could not even light the stove for tea. How would she survive? And the only thing she knew for certain about Hallan was that he had lied. She did not even know his real name. What if she did leave with Hallan, and he abandoned her? Or worse?

Her mother leaned in and, as though reading her mind, said, “If you leave Arthur, you will be on your own. Your father and I will see to it that you are cut from the will, and we'll certainly offer you no assistance while we're alive. Any correspondence from you will be destroyed unread. Do you understand me? You will have nothing.”

Daddy
. She would never be able to contact her beloved father again. Her mother would see to that, and he knew better than anyone not to fight Lorna Longacre. Vera closed her eyes briefly then nodded. “Yes, Mother. I understand.”

Her mother stood. “Good. I'll see you at lunch on Wednesday. And no more of this madness, please. It gives me a headache.” She glared down at Vera. “Well? Show me out.”

Tears threatened as Vera walked her mother to the door. She assumed she would need to apologize to Arthur. Her mother would not have it any other way. She had kept Vera from making a mess of her life once before. To see her standing on the brink of disaster again had clearly reopened the old wound. Behind her mother's stony glare had been a flicker of something like regret. Not for Vera's situation, but for her own. Her mother had worked tirelessly for thirty years to mold Vera into the perfect society wife. Vera's failure meant her mother had failed, too.

Then Hallan's heaven-blue eyes replaced the image of her mother's, and his words came back to her:
Names only matter to people like you.
The gatekeepers of culture, the very soldiers of civilization, to hear her mother tell it. Vera had spent her whole life locked behind those gates and protected from herself. Hanging from the wall like a painting in a museum, lit with perfectly angled yellow lights. Dusted. Admired from time to time. Valuable, beautiful, and untouched.

Now the terms were clear, etched in sharp relief by her mother. This was no scandal about college-girl carelessness. If Vera left, she left it all behind. The money, the husband, the mother, the father, and her name. Most of all, the security. The end result was indisputable: she could not leave. She got up and went to the library to compose a note to Hallan. She had promised herself she would say good-bye, after all.

Vera heard the front door open when Arthur arrived home from work shortly before the dinner hour. She had asked Evans to send him to the library, and she presented him with a martini when he walked in.

“I hope you had a pleasant day,” she said.

“You spoke to your mother, did you?”

“I did.”

He settled in the large leather chair by the fireplace, crossing his long legs. “Good. I hope she talked some sense into you.”

Vera tugged on her earring. “Yes, well. I hope we can forget about it. I know I'd very much like to.”

Arthur gave her a tight smile. “Forgotten.”

“Thank you.”

“And, until this little episode, you have been a commendable wife.”

Commendable.
As though he were thanking her for her service. “I'm glad to hear it.”

He lit a cigar and rolled it thoughtfully in his fingers. “We so rarely get what we want in life. It's important to be content with what one does have, instead of worrying about what one doesn't.”

“I agree.”

“People like your artist…they contribute nothing. I knew you'd see it, sooner or later. You're a smart girl, for the most part. You'd never have been satisfied with a man like that.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Of course not. They're all layabouts, those artist types, flitting from one place to the next with no obligation. If he were a serious man he'd have a job, a home. Instead he's living on the handouts from his betters. I'd bet he hasn't done a thing in that pool room. He'll probably take off one day and we'll never hear another word about him.” Arthur took a drag on the cigar. “Did that detective ever find anything on him?”

Stanton's careworn but kindly expression rose to her mind. He would be pleased she had made the right decision. Of course, she could not tell Arthur what she knew; it would only make her look more foolish. “I don't think he's told Clarence anything,” she said.

“Well, doesn't matter to me anyway.” Arthur sipped from his glass. “Perfect martini, well done.”

Vera stood, smoothing out her skirt. “Shall we see if Gertrude has dinner ready?”

“Excellent idea.”

Arthur stood and walked out of the library, and Vera followed in the haze of smoke from the cigar. The years of dinners, with him, with the others, and alone, stretched out before her, empty and hollow. She hoped she could numb herself enough to endure them all, knowing now how large the hole in her life really was.