The First Wives Club (28 page)

”Okay.

Now Annie saw both of the women looking at her. “So what about Aaron?”

Brenda asked. “Any ideas?”

Hearing Aaron’s name, Annie reminded herself to try him at the office again before she left. “Not yet,” Annie admitted. She didn’t want to admit that she was having dreams about him almost every night. She was too ashamed of it.

She noticed that Elise and Brenda looked at one another and raised their eyebrows. “Get your dossier started,” Elise told Annie.

‘Remember, Aaron is last, but he’s not left out.”

“Well, how was dinner with Stuart?” Brenda wanted to know.

Annie made her report, stressing Stuart’s warnings. Instead of alarming her, however, it seemed to Annie that Elise became even more animated. ‘But dear, this is wonderful! Mitsui Shipping. I shall look right into it.”

Annie hesitated. “But remember about Stuart’s warning,” she cautioned.

“Oh, come on, Annie,” Brenda chided. “Stuart’s a wuss.”

”And Annie, Aaron is last, not forgotten,” Elise reminded her as they all rose to follow Elise down to her waiting limo. Today the club would lunch at a charming French bistro on East Fiftyseventh Street.

On West Fiftyseventh Street, Shelby Symington was nervous. Of course, she’d never admit it, but having a show at the opening of your own gallery was a heady experience. And this gallery wasn’t in some grubby basement space off Wooster Street, but here, uptown, where the big boys played.

She couldn’t wait to see who came. They had better all come. She had spent enough time kissing heinies to wear her lips right off. And Shelby Symington didn’t like kissing heinies. Down in Atlanta, where she was from, people used to line up to kiss hers. The Symington family had been running the town for the last five generations at least, and there was no one of any importance in the South whom Shelby wasn’t kin to by blood or marriage.

Things were different, though, in New York, and she knew it was a great big world out there. Besides, Atlanta had started to feel too small Shelby had big ambitions, if only a small trust fund. And she had already learned that the larger world was just filled with people who had money but no taste. Well, she would be just too happy to relieve them of some of the former, and they might even end up with some of the latter.

She was a little upset, though, about the Junior League. How could they reject a Symington? Her mother would be shocked, and then she’d begin harping again about “that Jew,” as she called Morton. Still, she knew her mother would get some of her pals to come through, and that would almost ensure a mention of the gallery in the society columns.

She had covered the art scene with millions of little favors since her marriage to Morton, introducing society people to the promising young artists before they got well-known, arranging for loans of art, actually loaning money to talent and small gallery owners. Well, now it was payback time, and they’d better be here. If only she could be sure that Jon Rosen would come.

Rosen was, without doubt, the most influential art critic in New York, maybe in the country. He wrote for ArtWorld and was on every damn grant committee in the state. Shelby tried hard not to be antisemitic, despite what her family said and especially since she had married Morton, but this guy was the worst.

At least Morton was pathetically grateful to have her on his arm. Jon Rosen was a whiner, a supercilious misanthrope who loved to feel superior to everyone, to point out the flaws, never the triumphs. And he was a tomcat, always on the prowl.

Shelby knew that her husband had his flaws, but promiscuity was definitely not one of them. If he was unimaginative and somewhat selfish in bed, at least she didn’t have to worry about finding him there with someone else. Shelby could imagine a discreet affair of her own —where was the harm?—but was damned if she’d have a man cheat on her. It had been damned difficult to get Morton into bed, and she had only done it to clinch the deal. He wasn’t going to bed with anyone else, not if she kept her eyes open. It wasn’t easy to land a rich man in New York, especially one who would be as grateful as Morton, so grateful in fact that he would give her anything she wanted, including her own business.

And she could control him, something Brenda hadn’t been able to do.

Since the day Duarto had brought Morton and Brenda to the gallery, Shelby knew he had everything she wanted. New money, no taste, and the drive to be even richer.

But Jon Rosen couldn’t keep his long, soft, white hands off shiksas.

It seemed to Shelby it was the Yiddish form of alcoholism. That and therapy. Wasn’t his sister a psychiatrist or psychologist or something even more disgusting? Well, she’d just have to hope that Jon Rosen would get lucky tonight and be in a good mood when he wrote up her show.

Now she looked around the gallery with pride. The show was profound, deeply felt, but with that twist of irony or neurosis that was necessary to capture attention in this city. The four main rooms of the gallery were hung with Phoebe Van Gelder’s mammoth collages, the two smaller rooms contained the work that even Shelby felt might be objectionable. After all, it was art, not dirty pictures, but some people didn’t know the difference. Look at the flap that Jesse Helms had started. Of course Shelby wanted, needed, to shock the audience, otherwise this would be just another opening, another show. But she didn’t want to shock them so badly that they wouldn’t buy.

Well, there was the insurance of Phoebe’s family. The Van Gelders were to New York what the Symingtons were to Atlanta, but perhaps more so.

Power and money. The Van Gelders had been in international banking and shipping in New York since the place was Dutch. And when that family showed up, all of New York would follow. After all, Phoebe’s uncle had once been vice president, and another uncle had been the city’s mayor for three terms. But mostly the Van Gelders were known for being what the Symingtons had never been, wildly rich.

Well, this show would start to change that. No more sweet little jobs as gallery slave to Leo Castelli while he and the other established art crowd made fortunes. Shelby would start to do it herself now. And she wouldn’t be the first woman to connect commerce and art. It was just too bad she had had to marry to do it. Shelby sighed.

Well, I’m doing the best I can. Maybe I could enroll Morton in the SoHo School for the Terminally Unhip. She smiled and comforted herself by surveying the gallery—her gallery. Once again Shelby walked through the rooms, admiring the gleaming floors, the virgin white walls and the utter havoc displayed on the vast canvases.

Over and over Phoebe had depicted lips—lips more luscious than life could produce, lips pulsating, pushing off the canvas. Some were three dimensional, built up by layers of gesso, others were plaster mounds glued on the painted surface. All looked wet, gleaming, dripping open, with promise. If de Kooning’s frightening women were the last word in vagina dentaa, Shelby was certain that these massive works by Phoebe would become the dernier cri in female acceptance. They were disturbing, certainly, but they were alive. They were this generation’s Georgia O’Keeffes. And if she was lucky, several dozen would be hanging in libraries and salons all over the city in just a few months’ time. And she’d be off and running. Wait until Ross Bleckner and Richard Prince saw this.

Speaking of which, she’d better be off and running now. She had to check the sound system, since Phoebe insisted on playing her own recording of new age music as part of the environment. And she’d need to freshen up, and see to the refreshments.

The elevator doors pulled open to reveal the caterers. Usually, these things were white-wine, green-grapes, and cheese affairs, but Morty had suggested more, and for once Shelby agreed. But it all had to be done immaculately, or not at all. She showed the whitejacketed crew where to set up and left them to be handled by her very own gallery slave, Antonia.

Art for Art’s Sake.

Morty stood awkwardly at the elevator, watching Shelby’s gallery as it began to fill up. Exhibition was certainly the word for this show. If these huge pictures weren’t enlargements from Hustler, Morty didn’t know what was. But what did he know about fucking modern art? He figured you could pick this stuff up on Forty-second Street, but Shelby used to be a curator at the Museum of Modern Art, so she ought to know.

Still, he had never paid for snatch in his life, and he couldn’t imagine that these people would either. They didn’t look shocked, though.

Even though there was not much of a turnout yet, there were men in dinner jackets and women dressed for parties later wandering around, munching pate.

At least the food was good, as good a chopped liver as his mother, may she rest in peace, used to make. It was only the panpipes, or whatever the hell it was playing over the sound system, that would make him meshugge.

Bill Atchison kept one arm around Phoebe. As usual, she was wearing something outrageous, and as usual, Bill couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was really something, and everyone knew it. She had it all, he thought, money, breeding, creativity, and sex appeal. Bill felt himself stand taller. Everyone was looking at her, and he could feel their covetousness, their envy. Not bad for a man pushing sixty. Not bad at all.

As he always did, he became anxious when he thought of his age. He didn’t look fifty-seven. Christ, he didn’t look fifty, and he felt twenty years younger than that. He thought like a young person, therefore he was young. Phoebe said so, even though, in their most intimate moments, she called him Daddy.

He looked around the gallery. People were beginning to arrive. Now they’d all see the fabulous talent that he had recognized and nurtured.

Now she would belong to the world.

But just for a moment, he pulled back from the idea. Two young men had joined them. One looked a pansy, but the other … was Phoebe looking at him? Bill wished his divorce was over, so he could marry Phoebe and be sure that she was his. Oh, but what was he getting nervous about? She loved him. He knew that.

She was staring because of all the coke she had done. Just opening-night jitters. Only he could understand her. Such an old soul. Once more, he looked at her paintings. Such an old soul, and so very hot.

Aaron Paradise and Leslie Rosen were on their way to the opera, but had to stop in for the opening. It wasn’t just that Aaron had to show up to please Morty, his valued if somewhat crass client. “I want to see what this girl produces, Aaron,” Leslie had admitted. “From what I’ve seen of Phoebe, I think she needs help, and I’d like to be the one to help her.” Leslie was sure Phoebe’s art would be very revealing to her and would help her understand Phoebe better. Besides, both she and Aaron could scout around for clients. Not a bad idea. And Gil Griffin would be there. It never hurt to press the flesh of the CEO of a major account.

Aaron was, he had to admit, a little uncomfortable about the possibility of seeing Annie. But, he told himself, it had to happen sometime. He was prepared. And as Leslie had said many times, they simply had to refrain from allowing Annie to play the martyr.

Leslie looked beautiful tonight, Aaron thought as they stepped off the elevator and into the new gallery. She dressed not merely simply, but almost starkly. Tonight her hair was pulled back, revealing her creamy neck. Her strapless black dress hugged her ample cleavage, then dropped severely to the floor. It was a McFadden, he thought, in that crimped fabric that made women look like classical statues. And she did look classical. She was so much more female than Annie. “I love you,” he whispered into her hair.

“Good,” she said as she looked around the room, raising her eyebrows as she did. Aaron followed her look.

“Oh, my Holy Redeemer,” he breathed, staring at the enormous genitalia on the wall.

“Wait until Jon sees this!” Aaron wasn’t sure if Leslie meant the display on the walls or the one Phoebe Van Gelder made. She was standing in front of them, beside Bill Atchison, wearing a kind of transparent, black body stocking and limp tutulike skirt.

“What do you call that?” Aaron asked Leslie.

“Exhibitionism.” Aaron laughed. “Shall we?” he offered, and they moved together toward the couple. It was time to hustle.

Larry Cochran stepped off the elevator and saw Asa standing just inside the doar of the gallery. He went up to him, smiling. “Asa, so sorry I’m late.”

Larry patted his friend on the back. Asa awkwardly gave Larry half a hug, somewhere between a handshake and an embrace. Asa was gay, or maybe bisexual, it seemed to Larry that Asa never quite got it straight in his own mind. He was not a physical person. Larry sometimes wondered if Asa had ever had a crush on him, but it was something he didn’t like to dwell on.

“Larry, good to see you. Just got here myself. Just in time for champagne,” Asa said as he hailed a passing waiter.

Larry slowly scanned the room, then guided Asa over to a quiet corner.

‘So, what’s new, Asa? What’s been happening?”

Asa shrugged slightly. “Same old, same old, pal. And you?”

Larry had hoped that Asa would get the conversation going until he found an opening to casually ask for the loan. He’d like to get it over with. But he could see something was bothering Asa. He’s as down as I am, Larry thought.

Not unusual for either of them, of course, since their common lack of money and success seemed to be the thing that kept them friends for all these years.

It wouldn’t be easy to stay pals with a guy who skyrocketed to fame and fortune.

Larry asked Asa his usual question whenever they met. “Got any good stock tips for me?” As if he could invest in them even if Asa gave him a tip.

Asa smiled, as usual and said, ‘Nothing we can make use of.”’ Larry shook his head. He was aware of Asa’s ethics when it came to his career. No insider info, just keep it clean. But then, surprisingly, Asa added, “Everyone’s gotten rich but me, and I know more than most of them. Wish I had some cash, the way the market’s going, it looks like no one can lose.”

Larry’s stomach flipped. “Do you mean you have none?”

“Broke as a two-dollar watch,” Asa admitted grimly. “Living on my privileged checking. Hardly a privilege to my way of thinking.”