The Rich Are Different (23 page)

‘Oh Paul, I was going downstairs to join you for breakfast! Am I too late?’

‘Yes, but never mind, we’ll make up for it at lunch time.’ He kissed me and I clung to him. My maid eased herself tactfully from the room. ‘You look wonderful!’ he exclaimed, kissing me again. ‘The sort of vision every man should see first thing in the morning … Can I be very brutal and discuss domestic affairs with you before you’ve had your first cup of coffee? I can only spare ten minutes so you won’t be deprived for long.’

‘Of course! I’ll just get my notes.’

‘I’ll be
in the library.’

When I reached the library he was pacing up and down as he waited for me, and I had barely closed the door before he launched into instructions for a dinner-party for thirty, his favourite number.

‘… and then I think it’s time we had another ball – can we fit it in before everyone runs off to Florida? Find out the best date and get the invitation list drawn up – not less than three hundred but no more than four hundred, and I’d like to approve the list as soon as possible …’

I scribbled frantically in my notebook. There was no time to look at the clock but I heard it strike the half hour.

‘… and now tell me what’s happening in New York.’

‘Well, Lord and Lady Louis Mountbatten will be the guests of Brigadier-General and Mrs Cornelius Vanderbilt before returning to England – their names are appearing in connection with a new supper club which is being inaugurated by Count and Countess Zichy …’ I skimmed over other important social events, dances at the Plaza, Sherry’s and the Colony Club, a thé-dansant at the Ritz-Carlton, a musicale at the Rockefellers. ‘—there are a series of lecture-musicales being given at various private houses, and I’m on the committee with Mrs Winthrop Chandler, Mrs Otto Kahn, Mrs—’

‘What’s the Kahn lecture to be?’

‘Significant Periods in the History of Choral Music. I’ve volunteered the use of our house, of course, Paul, and suggested a guest speaker on
bel canto
.’

He approved. Our conversation gravitated naturally to the opera. ‘I’ve seen the list of new boxholders – fewer changes than usual in the Golden Horseshoe this year, and since none of the prominent families who own parterre boxes are in mourning this season, there are fewer absentees …’ I talked about
Boris Godunov
and a production of
Der Rosenkavalier
. ‘Oh, and Paul, the talk of the town is that
Hamlet
opens on the sixteenth with John Barrymore in the lead.’

‘Get tickets at once.’ He glanced at his watch. Time was running short. ‘How are the charities?’

‘The December ball at the Ritz-Carlton is being given to raise funds for Grosvenor House …’ I skimmed feverishly through the charities and listed the appeals while he said ‘Accept’ and ‘Refuse’ whenever I paused for breath. ‘Then there’s Christmas,’ I added rapidly. ‘The question of the servants’ bonus—’

‘Draft a proposal and show it to me later.’

‘—and Mrs Wilson’s in hospital. I’ve sent flowers, of course, but the bill—’

‘Pay it.’

Another minute had ticked away.

‘Yes – oh Paul, what about Mildred? She’s invited us to Cincinnati for Thanksgiving.’

‘Out of the question but write and invite them all here instead. I must
do something about that boy of hers.’ He was moving towards the door. My ten-minute audience was about to expire. ‘Twelve-thirty at the Ritz-Carlton,’ he said, smiling at me over his shoulder as he moved into the hall.

‘I’ll be there.’ I hurried after him. Peterson was waiting as always and Mason the butler held Paul’s coat and hat.

‘Goodbye, darling!’ I gasped, and just had time to snatch a kiss before he disappeared outside and left me breathless with exhaustion in his turbulent, exhilarating wake.

[2]

He was five minutes late for lunch. ‘But I had to stop,’ he said, ‘to buy you this.’ It was a corsage of orchids, pale and graceful.

I had been waiting in the lobby for him but now we set off through the Palm Room and up the short flight of stairs into the main restaurant which had long been a favourite of ours. It was a delightful room decorated in white and robin’s-egg green and adorned with Girandole mirrors reproduced from the eighteenth century. In the corner by the Georgian windows our special table was surrounded by banks of flowers which provided both romance and privacy, the latter an essential ingredient since I soon realized we were about to break the law.

‘And where’s that lemon soda you promised me?’ exclaimed Paul to the head waiter as soon as we were seated.

A tray of hot-house lilies was raised to reveal a bottle of vintage French champagne.

‘Paul!’ I protested half-heartedly as all the waiters smiled but Paul only said: ‘The Eighteenth Amendment is the enemy of all fine restaurants – look how it’s wrecked Delmonico’s!’ and after that I felt it was my duty if not my legal right to drink champagne.

‘To us, my dear!’

‘To us …’

We had dressed crab, roast duck and Florida strawberries. For Paul, who liked the English custom of concluding a meal on a savoury note, there was some Camembert but I merely contented myself with a cup of fresh-ground coffee.

Afterwards we both thanked the head waiter and then, leaving O’Reilly to attend to the delicate task of handing out the tips, we walked into the sunshine of Madison and Forty-Sixth Street and took the Rolls south to Thirty-Seventh and crosstown to Fifth Avenue.

Inevitably O’Reilly had informed the press of our impending visit to Tiffany’s, and as the cameras clicked the representatives of the
Tribune
, the
World
and – most celebrated of all in its reporting of society news – the
Herald
converged upon us followed closely by reporters from the
Post
, the
Mail
, the
Globe
and the
Sun
.

‘A little late this year, aren’t you, Mr Van Zale?’ inquired a large over-rouged lady whose skirts rose embarrassingly towards her knees.

‘What is
time,’ said Paul, ‘when one’s in love?’

They lapped that up greedily, said it was ‘just lovely’ and asked if they could quote him.

‘Why not quote Tennyson?’ said Paul. He was quite shameless. ‘He says it so much better than I do.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘“Love took up the glass of Time, and turn’d it in his glowing hands; every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.”’

‘Well, isn’t that nice! You’re a lucky lady, Mrs Van Zale – are you glad he’s home?’

I simply laughed because the question was so ridiculous. The cameras clicked again as Paul led me into the store and no sooner had we crossed the threshold than the chief floor-walker came gliding up to us.

‘Good afternoon, sir … madam …’ More pleasantries were exchanged.

‘Well, my dearest,’ said Paul, ‘what would you like?’

I had one of those helpless moments which often assail me when I walk into a store such as Tiffany’s.

‘Perhaps one of the fancy gold pins,’ I began but he waved that aside.

‘You had a brooch last year – this time you must have something special! After all – ten years! I’ve never been married ten years to anyone before!’

‘Might I suggest diamonds, sir?’ breathed the floor-walker.

‘An excellent suggestion,’ said Paul. ‘Let’s look at diamond rings.’

He bought me one of the most exquisite rings I had ever seen, a large central yellow diamond surrounded by small white diamonds, all set in a plain circle of gold. He wanted to have the band engraved with the date of our anniversary but I said that was unnecessary. I did not want to be reminded of the day I had been alone in New York, and the ring alone would recall memories of our reunion.

‘Now what can I possibly buy you?’ I said in despair. ‘And please, please don’t say cuff-links!’

Paul laughed. The floor-walker began to murmur discreet suggestions and I continued to pray for inspiration.

I finally chose a watch. I had no idea how many watches he already had but he always enjoyed wearing a new one. It was a plain gold fob watch with Roman numerals, a touch which appealed to his fondness for the classical.

Not a penny changed hands, of course. I doubt if Paul had more than a nickel in his pocket for he hated to carry money. Later in the month when the bill came I would give it unopened to Paul who would write a cheque drawn on one of the accounts in which I had no share. I never knew how much our anniversary presents cost. It was a tradition between us.

‘I guess you have to go back to the office now,’ I said as we emerged from Tiffany’s with Peterson trailing in our wake.

‘No, I think I’ll walk down to Gramercy Park and see Elizabeth.’

I was shocked by the pang of jealousy which shot through me. It was a long time now since I had had any real excuse for being jealous of Elizabeth, and again I remembered Paul saying to me with curt finality some time after
Vicky’s death: ‘It’s over. I promise you I shall never sleep with Elizabeth again.’

I knew that as usual he had kept his promise. Elizabeth’s changed attitude towards me proved that, and our friendship, dating from that time, had never faltered.

‘It’ll just be for an hour or so,’ said Paul, watching me. ‘Then I’ll come home.’

‘An hour doesn’t seem long when you haven’t seen each other since March,’ I said, pulling myself together abruptly. After all, I could afford to be generous. ‘Stay longer if you wish. And darling, thank you – for everything …’

He kissed me warmly and walked off downtown with Peterson while I travelled home alone in the Rolls.

He returned at six, asked for a plain omelette and said he would really have to go back to the office. I had a cup of coffee with him in the dining-room while he ate the omelette and talked about his visit to Elizabeth. At seven he ordered the car to the door.

‘Don’t wait up for me, will you?’ he said in the hall. ‘I may be very late. There’s a large amount of reading I must do in order to find out what’s been going on in my absence.’

I told him I understood. After he had gone I fingered my diamond ring as if to remind myself conscientiously how much time he had spent with me that day, and then, determined to regard my solitary evening as an ideal chance to catch up with my correspondence, I retired to my boudoir to write to Paul’s niece Mildred in Ohio.

[3]

I liked Mildred. She was the only child of Paul’s only sister Charlotte who had died of pleurisy soon after my marriage. I had never known Charlotte well; she had been ten years Paul’s senior, twenty-seven years older than I, and although she had been as gracious to me as Paul’s mother, I had never imagined us becoming close friends. But Mildred was different. Since her mother had married young, Mildred was only nine years younger than Paul, and this small gap in their ages made Paul regard her more as a sister than as a niece. She was large, good-looking, good-humoured, and endowed with a great sense of melodrama, a gift she had exercised to the full when she had met an Ohio farmer on a train, fallen in love violently and resolved to marry him. What her chaperon was doing while all this was going on I have no idea, but I was quite sure any chaperon would have been as powerless as everyone else to deflect Mildred from her chosen course. The family finally yielded to Mildred’s iron will when exhaustive inquiries revealed that her farmer was not only hard-working and religious by Eastern Seaboard standards but by middle-western standards was well-off and well-to-do. Mildred married her farmer, bore him a daughter and son and as far as anyone could tell lived happily ever after. Naturally no one ever visited
her but once a year Mildred made the pilgrimage back east and stayed one month with her parents. Her husband did not accompany her, and although the family never failed to inquire after his health solicitously they remained relieved he had the good sense to stay at home. It was generally agreed that Mildred had managed a
déclassé
marriage with skill and good taste.

When her farmer died shortly after their seventh wedding anniversary, Mildred plunged herself into deepest mourning, declared she would remain a widow for the rest of her life and then remarried with a speed that shattered even those who knew her well. Fortunately her second husband, Wade Blackett, was acceptable to the family. He was a younger son of a prominent St Louis family, and by the time he met Mildred he was a successful surgeon in Cincinnati. After their marriage they moved to Velletria, one of the most exclusive of the Cincinnati suburbs, and when Wade formally adopted Mildred’s two children Mildred’s story seemed to resemble the happy endings of the romantic novels she read in such profusion. This time the family’s verdict was that after a disastrous start Mildred had done better than anyone had dared hope.

The children were pretty but painfully shy. Mildred was loquacious and no doubt in her household it was hard to get a word in edgeways. Emily had good health and like all the Van Zale women was gifted scholastically, but Cornelius was delicate, suffering from asthma, and showed no great interest in his lessons. I always felt sorry for him. He was such a dear little boy with his golden curls and huge solemn grey eyes – or at least he was when I had married Paul in 1912. Cornelius was now fourteen but neither Paul nor I had seen him since our return from Europe in 1919. Cincinnati is an awkward place to visit from New York and Paul was always so busy. We kept inviting the Blacketts to visit New York, but Wade was too busy with his surgeon’s schedule and whenever he did get time off he felt it his duty to visit his widowed mother in St Louis.

When it seemed that Paul would not be returning from Europe before the end of November Mildred had invited me to Cincinnati for Thanksgiving, and now it was at least a pleasure to tell her he was back in New York even though I had to decline her invitation. Following Paul’s instructions I invited her instead to New York, and although I expected to receive a reply in the mail Mildred as usual preferred the drama of a long distance telephone call. The telephone service had greatly improved – the other day I had even been connected to Philadelphia in sixty seconds – but unlike Mildred I felt such electronic communication was cold and I much preferred to put pen to paper.