The Wrong Kind of Money (17 page)

“Cory, she invited
me
to lunch. I didn't invite her.”

“But if the Van Degans have already turned down Brooke Astor, why in the world would they approach the museum through someone like you?”

Carol had always known she disliked Mr. Corydon McCurdy, and now she decided the feeling was mutual. “Cory,” she said carefully, “I merely called to ask you for your permission to begin negotiations on the terms of the gift—if she should bring it up.”

“Sure,” he said. “Sure, go ahead. But I can guarantee you won't get anywhere with her. If Brooke Astor can't do it, nobody can.…”

Now Jacques appears at their table. “Can I get you something from the bar, Mrs. Liebling?” Though Carol Liebling is not one of his regulars at Le Cirque, Jacques always makes it a point to know the names of Mrs. Van Degan's luncheon guests. Mrs. Van Degan likes to see her name mentioned regularly in the columns, and so does he. He will telephone this item to Roxy, Liz, Cindy Adams, and Billy Norwich this afternoon, and one of them is bound to use it. That's what makes a restaurant, the column mentions.

“Ingraham's V.S.O.P. and water, please.”

Georgette fingers the stem of her wineglass and tries not to register any expression. But whiskey seems to her a rather
heavy
drink for lunchtime, and ordering the family brand seems—well, just a trifle crass. What if she were to order her wine served in a glass made by the Van Degan Corporation?

As though reading her thoughts, Carol smiles and says, “Sorry, but it's an old family rule laid down by Noah's father. Whenever anyone remotely connected with the company orders a drink in public, it must be one of Ingraham's premium labels. Noah's father used to say, ‘And say it loud—so the whole room can hear you.' I don't go quite as far as that, though.”

“How amusing.”

Looking at Carol, Georgette decides that Carol is actually a pretty little thing, though she will always have that problem with the Kansas face. The face is a little too scrubbed-looking for New York, a little too open and trusting. New York women did better who went for the bored look, or the suspicious look, or an artful combination of the two. The tiny freckles on Carol's nose and cheekbones don't help. Dermabrasion could get rid of those, of course, but nothing could be done with the wheat-colored eyes, except perhaps contacts. And Carol would look better as a blonde, she thinks, not with that reddish-chestnut hair, which must be a rinse. Certainly Georgette knows that
she
looks better as a blonde. Both women are at that age when all women look better as blondes. But would blond hair change that outdoorsy, milkmaid's heart-shaped face? Probably not. All Kansas women had that, and quite a few Texans, and there was nothing they could do about it. It was a face that had no corners to it, that simply looked too healthy for Le Cirque, though it might do all right for football games. Georgette guesses that, in high school, Carol Liebling was probably a cheerleader, and was voted Most Popular. And that navy silk faille suit. It is a Versace, but it was bought off the rack, and Georgette knows exactly where Carol bought it and how much she paid for it. It was a Kansas suit. “Love your suit, darling,” Georgette says.

Eying her companion, Carol is thinking that Georgette merely looks costly. She looks costly in that special way that only very rich city women manage to look. Her hair looks expensive, her skin looks expensive, she smells expensive. Georgette Van Degan would look expensive in blue jeans and a faded Brooks pink shirt. She dresses simply but expensively, and today she is wearing a champagne-colored cashmere sweater dress with the sleeves casually pushed up above her expensive elbows, and along her slenderly expensive arms many chunky gold bracelets cascade down. A champagne-colored Chanel bag, in alligator, with a long gold chain lies beside her on the banquette seat, open, with many little Vuitton objects poking out at artless angles—a glasses case, a billfold, a notebook, a checkbook, a compact, a key case. Georgette Van Degan is by no means a beauty—handsome, yes, even striking, with a thin, strong-jawboned face that is composed of many flat, highly polished planes. It is a face, Carol thinks, that mostly has the look of money.

But it isn't just money, Carol thinks, that has bought that attitude that Georgette wears so comfortably—that air of brittle poise and utter self-assurance. If that could be bought, Carol might try buying a little of it for herself. Georgette looks as though she was born to sweep through the doorways of Bergdorf's, Harry Winston, and David Webb. Carol has learned to manage Bergdorf's now, but just barely. For years the haughty-looking saleswomen in that store intimidated her. If she paused to look at something on a counter there, and was approached by one of these sleek creatures, she would blush, mutter an apology, and hurry on. She has managed to overcome some of these country-girl feelings of inadequacy, at least where Bergdorf's is concerned. But places like Winston's and David Webb are still beyond her. She knows it is foolish, but stores like these are just too daunting. And then there is the little matter of Georgette Van Degan's Chanel bag, casually unclasped. Georgette Van Degan, Carol thinks, could walk down Fifth Avenue with an open handbag slung over her shoulder, the little Vuitton cases peeking out, and even the most intrepid thief would think twice before attempting to mug her. Carol, from years of habit, still clutches her handbag to her side when on the street. Seated at one of the best tables at Le Cirque with Georgette Van Degan, Carol does her best not to let Georgette suspect that women like this make her feel vulnerable and out of place. Even though they do. She smiles brightly.

After all, she reminds herself, Noah once told her that one of the things he loved about her was that she didn't look or act like a city girl. He meant that as a compliment. “I miss our Brearley parent-teacher meetings,” she says to break the little silence.

“Yes, and how is dear Anne?” Georgette asks her now. “Let's see, she goes to—”

“She's at Bennington.”

“And doing well?

“Oh, yes. Very.”

“Such a
pretty
girl, I remember. Linda is at Vassar, and also doing well, I'm happy to say. Those two were such good friends back in the Brearley days.”

“Yes.” In fact, Carol can't remember that Anne and Linda Van Degan were friends at all. Classmates, yes. But perhaps they were friends. Anne was then at that age when daughters don't tell their mothers much of anything, at least not as much as they begin to tell them later on. Carol also has trouble remembering what Linda Van Degan looks like. She has a picture of a rather chubby little dark-haired girl, who unfortunately inherited her father's no-nonsense nose. But perhaps over the past three years Linda has grown taller and lost some of that baby fat. That can often happen to girls between the ages of fifteen and eighteen. Ugly ducklings can turn into swans.

Carol's drink arrives. “Tell me,” Georgette says, “do you still have all those projects you were working on? I remember you always had lots of exciting projects going on. You were very active with the Met, if I recall.”

“Still am. That's my main thrust, the Met. In fact, I was just talking this morning with Ivana Trump—”

“Ivana
Trump?
Forget her, darling. She can't do anything for you. She's on everybody's B list now. She's dead in the water. She's really become one of yesterday's people, I'm afraid.”

There is a brief silence, and Carol sips her drink.

“But how I envy you all your projects,” Georgette says. “I wish I could find time for things like that. But Truck and I always seem to be so busy, with travel, with keeping up three houses, and all the social life, which I absolutely
loathe,
but which I feel I simply must do for Truck's business.”

“Yes, of course …”

“Do you and Noah find yourselves doing
much
too much entertaining—much more than you really want to do?”

“Well, not
too
much, perhaps,” Carol says, and then, lest Georgette think that she and Noah are a pair of boring stay-at-homes, she says, “I did have a small dinner party on New Year's Eve. Mostly family, but William Luckman came.”

Georgette's eyes widen. “William Luckman?” she says. “The author?”

“Yes.”

“You
had
him
for dinner?”

“As a matter of fact, he was sitting at my dinner table when you called.”

“Well,
well
!” Georgette says, looking at her guest with new appreciation. “How did you ever succeed in snapping
him
up?”

“He's a friend of a friend of Anne's.”

“Really
! Every hostess in town is after him right now. He's on everybody's most-wanted list, but he's terribly hard to get, always dashing off here and there, promoting his book. They say he's terribly attractive.”

“Oh, he is.”

“And I hear his book is fascinating.”

“So is he. Very—articulate.”

“And you had him for dinner. Did you phone it in to Roxy?”

“Roxy?”

“Roxy Rhinelander. I'm surprised she didn't have an item in her column.”

“It was mostly a family dinner,” Carol says modestly. “I didn't want any publicity.”

“Carol, I think you are an absolutely fascinating woman!” Georgette says, meaning it, and calling Carol by her first name for the first time. “You have a dinner for the hottest new man in town, and nobody even knows about it! I call that
class
!”

“Just a little family dinner,” Carol says for what must be the third time, but very much aware that she has made a strong impression on the famous Georgette Van Degan, and pleased with that.

“And you say he's a friend of Anne's.”

“A friend of a friend of hers. Melody Richards.”

“Is she Loyce Richards' daughter?”

“A different family. Her father's a diplomat, stationed in the Far East. But I know Loyce Richards. She's on our museum board.”

“Loyce and Peter spread themselves too thin, if you ask me. They're on
every
board, and when you're on every board it stops meaning anything. People forget which board you're on, and pretty soon they stop caring and you're dead in the water. You become one of yesterday's people.”

“I suppose you're right, yes.”

“But what
you
do is so much cleverer, darling. You concentrate on just one thing, the Met Museum. That's your main thrust, as you put it. As a result, when I think of the museum, I think of you, and when I think of you I think of the museum.”

“And I envy
you,
living right across the street from the museum,” Carol says, feeling sure now that the conversation is leading to what this lunch date is all about.

“It's absolutely the best place to live, I think.”

“Being able to step across the street and be among all those treasures …”

“Well, there's that, of course,” Georgette says. “But the best thing is the security. The museum has fabulous security, around the clock, and we get all the benefits of that. The blocks between Eighty-second and Eighty-fourth have got to be the safest blocks in town.”

“Of course. I hadn't thought of that,” Carol says.

“Anyway, that brings me to what I wanted to chat with you about.”

“Yes,” Carol says, leaning forward and giving Georgette her best smile, but trying not to appear too eager, though she is now quite certain what is coming next.

“I was thinking,” she says, “about the way some things are fashionable. Then they go out of fashion. Then they come back into fashion again. Then they go out again. But then they can come back again.”

“But some things, like great art—”

“Yes, but the point is always to be one jump ahead of the fashion. To spot the trends before they become
too
trendy. That's always been my motto, to be a jump ahead of the pack. Timing is everything, particularly in this town, if you don't want to become one of yesterday's people. And that's why I think the timing is just right for this idea I have for you and me.”

“I absolutely agree,” Carol says.

“You do? But I haven't told you what my idea is yet.”

“Let's say a little bird told me.”

“Who told you? Have you been talking to Patsy Collingwood? She's the only one I've told. Besides Truck. And Truck doesn't talk to anybody.”

“Let's say I guessed it. From conversations you and I had, back when our girls were at Brearley.”

“Oh. Well, if you know what it is, what do you think of the idea?”

“I think it's absolutely wonderful,” Carol says. “And I'm honored that you'd let me have a part in it.”

“You'd have a big part in it. We'd share it. It would be wonderful publicity for both of us.”

Carol covers Georgette's hand with hers. “No, the publicity should be all for you. You and your husband. After all—”

“No, you and I should share it, fifty-fifty.”

“I don't care that much about publicity, Georgette.”

“Nonsense. It could help you with the museum. They might put you on the board.”

“I don't really care about getting on the board, Georgette. All I care about is what's good for the museum. Why, those two Lang Yao vases alone—”

“As centerpieces, you mean?”

“Perfect centerpieces for the whole thing!”

Georgette looks dubious. “We're not supposed to put water in them. Perhaps dried arrangements, but I think dried arrangements are tacky. I'll ask Truck. Anyway, I was thinking of about a thousand people.”

“To announce it, you mean? Well, perhaps we could get two of the Annenberg galleries.”

“Oh, I wouldn't want to have it at the museum—would
you?
Too stuffy. I was thinking of the Piping Rock Club, under a tent. And I don't think we want boomp-chink-boomp-chink Whatsisname, do you? Lester Lanin. Wouldn't you rather have Peter Duchin? And I assume your husband's company could provide the liquor, which would save us both a lot of money.”