People Like Us (3 page)

“Biarritz was a disaster,” Rochelle said to Maisie. “Rain, rain, rain, and the worst people you ever saw. Not a soul one knew.”

“Ain’t she grand? Listen to her. Nestor swears her real name was Roxy Persky, and she was three classes ahead of him at Erasmus High,” said Edwina Calder to Gus.

“Whose real name?” asked Gus.

“Rochelle Prud’homme.”

But Gus Bailey’s attention had been drawn to someone else entering Maisie’s drawing room. He heard Rochelle Prud’homme conclude to Maisie, “You’re coming to me on Thursday the nineteenth. I’ll send you a
pour mémoire
. Princess Murat is coming to town.”
Pour mémoire
was French for reminder, and Rochelle had taken up French, along with bridge, with a passion.

“Oh, I’ll remember,” said Maisie.

It was the appearance in the room of the tall and bearded Constantine de Rham that occupied Gus’s attention. De Rham made a gesture of kissing Maisie’s hand by raising it toward his lips and then dropping it. Maisie dressed for her parties with expensive care, and de Rham, who noticed such things, complimented her on the handsomeness of her pearl-encrusted bodice. Maisie, more used to business tycoons than French aristocrats, was charmed by his courtly manners. Whether entering a party, or a restaurant, or a theater, there was always someone present who whispered to someone else, “There’s Constantine de Rham.” In years past, when playboys were still in fashion, his escapades and exploits had filled the international gossip columns, but a fatal car crash outside of Paris a half dozen years earlier had ended his days as a romantic figure; his beautiful young companion, the daughter of a French duke, had gone through his car’s windshield when he was speeding home in the early hours of the morning from a ball at a country estate. It was a part of his story and always took precedence over the other dramatic circumstance of his life, the death of his wife, the immensely rich Consuelo Harcourt de Rham, Adele Harcourt’s daughter, who had died falling down the marble stairway of their house on Sutton Place, after returning home from a party she had not wanted to attend.

“There’s Constantine de Rham,” said Edwina.

“I know all about Constantine de Rham,” replied Gus.

At Constantine de Rham’s side was a young woman dressed far too elaborately for a Maisie Verdurin dinner in a revealing gown of gold lamé, with diamonds in great quantity on her wrists, ears, neck, and bosom. Her blond hair was combed straight back and coiled silkily in a bun at the nape of her neck, giving her the look of the wife of a South American dictator.

Maisie’s drawing room was now filled with guests. Waiters carried trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres, and passage from one side of the room to the other, which seemed to be Constantine de Rham’s intention, necessitated a circuitous routing. Followed by his young companion, he edged his way sideways between Maisie’s white brocade sofa and the coffee table in front of it, murmuring charming apologies to Dolly De Longpre and a quartet of seated guests, like a person taking a seat in a theater after the curtain has gone up.

Dolly De Longpre, glamorous and voluptuous, dimpled and pink-skinned, barely acknowledged Constantine de Rham and went on with her own conversation. “Seating can make or break a party,” she said. “And Maisie Verdurin has a genius for seating. She agonizes over her
placement
.”

A painting by Monet of water lilies had been hung over Maisie’s fireplace only that afternoon, in anticipation of the arrival of the immensely rich art collector Elias Renthal, whom no one in New York yet knew, except Constantine de Rham, who had brought him to Maisie to start his collection. Reaching his goal, Constantine de Rham held his black-rimmed spectacles like a lorgnette and leaned toward the pink in the center of a water lily, as if it possessed scent. “Ah, ravishing,” he pronounced admiringly to Maisie about the painting, and she smiled modestly about her acquisition.

“Isn’t the pink marvelous?” asked Maisie.

“Like the inside of a seashell,” agreed de Rham.

“It’s the pink that has so intrigued Elias Renthal’s new wife, you know. If he decides to buy it, it’s to be the color of the walls in the drawing room of the Renthals’ new apartment that they just bought from Matilda Clarke.”

Constantine smiled a superior smile, including Maisie in on this joint superiority, over people like the Elias Renthals of the world, who looked on art as an extension of interior decoration. “What an impressive group you have gathered, Maisie,” he said, looking around the room.

“Your friends the Renthals have still not appeared, and I don’t intend to wait for them when the butler announces dinner,” she replied, taking his arm and leading him around the crowded room to introduce him, knowing that, as hostess, paths would be cleared. Maisie always gave a thumbnail sketch of each guest’s accomplishments when she introduced him or her. “You’ll be at my table, Constantine, between me and Rochelle Prud’homme. You know Rochelle, don’t you? Prud’homme Products? Cordless hairdryers? Home permanents? One of America’s most outstanding women. Plays such good bridge. And I’m counting on you to draw Elias Renthal into the conversation. He’s hopeless at parties, I understand.”

They walked past a group of laughing men whom Maisie always called “my bachelors,” although they were the same group of bachelors who sat nightly on gilded chairs in the dining rooms of Lil Altemus, or Loelia Manchester, or Matilda Clarke, when she was still giving parties, or any of the other hostesses of the city, balancing out tables where widows or divorced ladies of quality sat. There was owlish-looking Jamesey Crocus, who knew more about eighteenth-century French furniture than anyone in New York, people said, and always pushed his round black-rimmed spectacles up on his nose with his forefinger as he talked excitedly about collectors and collecting, his favorite topic of conversation. And Nevel, just Nevel, which was Leven spelled backwards, who designed dresses for most of the ladies in society, and always counted how many ladies in the room were wearing his elegant gowns. And Freddy Winslow, about whom people said such terrible things, who bought and sold estate jewelry. And Count Motulsky, whose mother was one of the de Brown sisters from San Francisco, who taught French to Rochelle Prud’homme and sold porcelain at Sackville’s.

“I always expect the lights to dim when Constantine de Rham walks into a room,” said Gus.

“He doesn’t seem like Maisie’s kind of guest,” said Edwina.

“Who’s the Evita Perón look-alike trailing behind de Rham?” asked Gus.

“That is Mrs. Lupescu, or Baroness Lupescu, as she sometimes calls herself, but it’s a bogus title. Constantine de Rham calls her Yvonne,” replied Edwina.

“Are they lovers?”

“So it would seem.”

“She’s showing a lot of tit for a Maisie Verdurin party,” said Gus.

“I don’t know where to look first, at her tits or her diamonds,” answered Edwina.

“Why doesn’t anyone speak to her?”

“She has what’s called a dicey reputation.”

“Ah, the plot thickens.”

“May I present Constantine de Rham,” said Maisie, when she got to where Gus Bailey and Edwina Calder were standing.

De Rham held out his hand to be shaken, but Gus did not take it. Instead, he nodded at the tall man but still did not take his hand. De Rham, overlooking the slight, turned away, as Maisie led him on to the next group.

Gus wondered that Maisie, so obsessed with people who “do things,” could treat in such a special manner a man who had done absolutely nothing with his life, except marry an heiress who had died before she even came into her inheritance. After her daughter’s death, Adele Harcourt cut her son-in-law in public, and thereafter he was no longer invited to the sort of parties he had been used to attending. He continued to live in the house he had inherited from Consuelo, and there were rumors he sometimes used it for nefarious purposes to make ends meet.

Maisie’s efficient secretary marshaled the guests to their various tables. “Senator Marx, you’re over there, next to Justine Altemus, in the short blue strapless dress,
beneath the little Renoir. You know, don’t you, Justine Altemus is Laurence Van Degan’s niece?” And, “Oh, Mr. Fenwick, you’re next to Mrs. Renthal, who doesn’t know a soul, but her husband is the richest man in Cleveland, and Maisie’s counting on you to make her feel at home, if she ever shows up, that is.”

It was just at this point that Elias Renthal and his young wife, Ruby, entered Maisie’s apartment, flustered by their lateness. Elias was stout and not tall, with broad hands and broad chest, suggesting physical strength, and his presence was such that people turned to look at him. His glance, which was described as terrifying by the people who worked for him, was open and expectant in Maisie’s drawing room, where he was unsure of himself. Social life was as yet an unknown quantity for him, but he had been told that casual talk at New York dinner parties could be an important source of business information for him. His third wife, Ruby, years younger, with whom he was besotted, was pretty but not smartly dressed in a gown of bright blue sequins, and her hair was arranged in an unbecoming fashion.

Except for Constantine de Rham, to whom Elias nodded, and Rochelle Prud’homme, the Renthals seemed to know no one in Maisie’s rooms, although all the businessmen present, like Emil Jorst and the Zobel brothers, knew who the very rich Elias Renthal from Cleveland was. His purchase of the ailing conglomerate known as Miranda Industries for six billion dollars, using relatively little of his own money, and then liquidating it, had netted him a profit of three billion dollars in only sixteen months, a widely heralded transaction that was thought to be the most lucrative leveraged buyout ever, making the heretofore unknown Elias Renthal a financial celebrity.

“I’d almost given up on you,” said Maisie, rushing to greet the latecomers. If the Renthals had not been the possible purchasers of the Monet water lilies, asking price six million, but negotiable, Maisie, who insisted
on promptness in her guests, would certainly have been less charming.

“I’m sorry we’re so late,” said Elias. Loyalty to his new wife forbade him telling Maisie that Ruby had changed her dress and hairstyle three times in the previous hour. “I don’t think you’ve met my wife. Ruby, this is Maisie Verdurin.”

“I’m so pleased,” said Maisie. “The painting is over there, and I’m mad to have you look at it. Constantine de Rham
raved
about it. But the waiters are about to serve.”

“Plenty of time to look at pictures,” said Elias.

“That
is
the color pink I like, Elias,” said Ruby, looking across the room at the Monet.

“I hear Elias bought you the Palumbo pearl,” said Maisie to Ruby, as she took her to a table in the library, after directing Elias to her own table in the drawing room.

“Yes,” said Ruby, holding out the pearl, which hung from a chain around her neck.

“How marvelous.”

“It’s very, uh, useful,” answered Ruby, unable to think of a more appropriate word.

“I’ve put you next to Ezzie Fenwick, who’s the best friend of all the famous ladies in New York, but be careful what you say to him, because he repeats
everything
. And Gus Bailey on the other side. He writes all those magazine pieces on famous people. I hope you’ll enjoy yourself.”

“Augustus Bailey?” asked Ruby.

“Yes. Everyone calls him Gus. Do you know him?” asked Maisie.

“No,” replied Ruby, quickly. Maisie could tell that Ruby was nervous and wished that she were sitting with her husband.

“Is this your first New York party, Mrs. Renthal?”

“Yes.”

“I so admire your husband, the few times I’ve met him,” said Maisie, who always admired financiers, especially
financiers who were starting collections. “He knows what he wants in art and goes after it, although, I must admit, sometimes he scares me to death if things don’t work out. He does swear a bit, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, honey, he doesn’t mean anything by that,” said Ruby, waving her hand dismissively at the thought. “If I hadn’t understood that
cunt
meant
sweetheart
, this marriage wouldn’t have lasted out the first year.”

Maisie, startled, looked at Ruby with an astonished smile that plainly said, “Where was this woman brought up?” Depositing her at her table, she said, “Your seat’s here,” and returned to her own table.

“Your husband’s shorter than I thought he would be, Mrs. Renthal,” said Ezzie Fenwick.

“My husband is very tall when he stands on his wallet, Mr. Fenwick,” replied Ruby.

“Hmm,” said Ezzie. “
Touché
.”

Gus Bailey, seated on Ruby Renthal’s other side, smiled at her and introduced himself. For an instant, Ruby looked at Gus, as if she might have known him.

“Where’d you get that dress?” asked Ezzie, squinting his good eye at Ruby’s bright blue sequins.

“Cleveland,” replied Ruby.

“I thought so,” said Ezzie.

In the library, where she was also placed, beneath a tiny Tissot, young Mrs. Lupescu was displeased that she had not been seated at Maisie’s table in the drawing room where Constantine de Rham and Rochelle Prud’homme and Elias Renthal and Justine Altemus had been seated, and said audibly to her dinner partner, Bernard Slatkin, an anchorman on the television news, whom she had never met before, that Mrs. Verdurin had seated her at the C table in the C room. Thereafter she maintained a haughty silence, and lit cigarettes throughout the meal, to the distress of Matilda Clarke, who loathed smoking and constantly waved her napkin in the air to clear away the smoke.

Gus Bailey observed Mrs. Lupescu through the
white anthuriums of the centerpiece, while his dinner partner on the other side, Matilda Clarke, the widow of Sweetzer Clarke, who died when he fell off his horse fox hunting, drunk, and left her in bad financial straits, talked into Gus’s ear about their mutual friend Evangeline Simpson, while patting the back of her pageboy hairdo with both hands.

“Evangeline’s drunk all the time, Gus. Hiding Jack Daniel’s in her Lazlo bottles, that sort of thing. I took her to Smithers to detox and dry out. No one has to tell me anything about Smithers, God knows. I took poor Sweetzer there enough times, but Evangeline wouldn’t stay, or they wouldn’t have her, I don’t know which, and I don’t care anymore, for that matter. If you could have seen the way she behaved, to
me
, her oldest friend.”