The View From Penthouse B

17





Your Public Awaits


MARGOT WAS NOT under a blanket but at the kitchen sink, in a lab coat I’d never seen before, furiously scrubbing a Pyrex casserole’s baked-on stains.

“He’s pretty easy to talk to,” I told her.

“I can’t,” she said.

I reminded her that she was always comfortable socially, always poised, charming even, never at a loss for words. I tried again with “If I can do it, so can you.”

She shut the water off, turned toward me, and said, “I don’t see any resemblance.”

I laughed. Translation and footnote: Chaz is handsome and these days I can’t stand the sight of Charles. I said, “So you did peek.”

“Of course! And if you can laugh, you don’t understand how annoyed—no, how traumatized—I am having this kid in my living room.”

I, who rarely took a scolding tone with my older sister, said, “It’s Olivia’s party, but you’re still the host.” I waited. What would constitute a helpful prompt and good psychology at this moment? “He designs hats,” I told her. “Expensive ones, I think.”

A pause, then a quiet “For men or women?”

I didn’t know, but volunteered that anyone studying millinery techniques at FIT surely would be interested in hats for every orientation.

She didn’t agree aloud to anything. But she did slip off the lab coat and devote too much time to its conscientious folding.

“C’mon,” I said. “It’ll be fine. He knows about you—”

“Knows what?”

“Everything. That you were married to Charles. That you divorced him because of his crimes.”

My crusade ended there when we heard male voices. Accompanying a jaunty few knocks was Anthony calling, “Where is she? Margot? Your public awaits.”

“F*ck my public,” she called back. “I’m in a very bad mood.”

Anthony and Douglas entered the kitchen, brandishing a bottle of prosecco and an empty glass. “We’ll fix that bad mood,” said Anthony. “Douglas has some compliments for you.”

“Gorgeous place,” Douglas said. “Whom did you use?”

Penthouse pride was just the right note to sound. Margot said, “I bought it as is. I didn’t change one wall color. The furniture came from my house.” She sent a smirk my way, adding, “ . . . my former marital abode.”

I could always count on Anthony for just the right conversation expander. He glided to Margot’s side, lowered his voice, and said, “Did you meet Noel? Olivia’s love? Quelle surprise.”

“How come we didn’t know this before?” she asked.

I pointed out that Noel’s appearance and physique were testimonials to Olivia’s depth of character.

Margot said, “Thank you, Mother Theresa. Thank you for that little life lesson.”

Douglas said, “Whom are we talking about?”

Anthony said, “Olivia’s paramour. The short chubby fellow.”

“I had a nice chat with him,” said Douglas. “He doesn’t take his eyes off your sister.”

“It’s very sweet,” I said. “You don’t have to be around them very long to see that they’re in love.”

Margot announced, “It’s hard to get down and dirty around Gwen. She doesn’t like to gossip.”

I protested that she wasn’t being fair. I could be critical and gossipy if the occasion warranted it. When did I ever hold back about Charles, for example?

Anthony said, “This is why we need Gwen-Laura. She steers us back onto the path of goodness and mercy when we get snarky.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“She was a live-in for this guy, right?” Douglas asked.

“He didn’t fill you in on that headline story?” Margot asked. “Daddy falls for nanny?”

Anthony said, “I’ve been busy with my bartending and cohost duties.”

I said, “You’re serving minors.”

Anthony said, “I saw you and the long-lost son having quite the cozy conversation. Do tell.”

“Not now. We’re being very rude. I came in here to drag Margot away from the sink.”

“Isn’t that a dishwasher?” Douglas asked.

“Yes! Nothing needed washing. She was hiding out in here.”

Margot said, “I find washing dishes soothing. It’s all about the hot soapy water.”

“The kitchen . . .” Douglas began, running a hand along our white Formica counter, “Nineteen seventies is my guess.”

Margot said, “The listing said ‘meticulously maintained,’ which is real estate for ‘can’t remember when it was last updated.’”

We heard something: not exactly a crash, but a loud thud. Anthony was the first one out of the kitchen. Douglas held the swinging door open for Margot and me, and it was on that threshold where we froze at the sight before us: Charles, on the floor, possibly dead. The utterly competent and CPR-certified Olivia was kneeling beside him, taking his pulse, calling for aspirin, and ordering her brother to dial 911.

I pulled Margot into the semicircle around the supine Charles, who was drained of color but now murmuring, “I’m okay. I’m okay. Don’t call anyone.”

Olivia asked, “Are you having chest pains?”

He said, “It’s not a heart attack. I just fainted.”

“You can’t be sure,” I said. “It can be other symptoms. It can be silent. People die in their sleep.”

Margot said, “He’s a doctor. He’d probably know if he was having a heart attack.”

“Are you nauseated?” Olivia asked him.

Charles propped himself partway up on his elbows. “I’m just embarrassed. I’m sure it was a vasovagal reaction.” And being Charles, who had already brought the party to a dramatic standstill, he had to make a speech. “Please . . . as you were. You’ve already given me your kind attentions. I think most of you know that tonight is something of a watershed moment for me. I’ve become a father after a lifetime of being childless—”

Margot sent a prod into his rib cage with the sharp point of her lizard pump. “Shut up,” she hissed. “Just do us all a favor and shut up.”

“Should I call 911 or not?” Anthony asked.

Charles said, “No, don’t. It was the excitement, the anxiety, and probably the martinis. I’ve fainted before. Please, can we get on with the business of this party? Has everyone met Chaz?”

Poor Chaz. His nose was running and his mouth was in a droop so miserable that I reached around Anthony to pat his tweed arm and say, “He’s a doctor. If he says he’s fine, then he is.”

Margot was scowling, and I could guess the complaints and suspicions she’d rail about later. He always has to be the center of attention. He’s trying to evoke the sympathy of every guest and possibly attract a sexual partner. He faked it.

The law-student friend of Olivia’s made her way over to Chaz and said, “My father faints all the time and it’s nothing.”

“Really?”

“I’m Julie,” she said.

I was just standing there, an awkward eavesdropper, when the young woman turned to me and repeated “I’m Julie” in the tone one uses when the hoverer is an unwelcome third party. I almost warned, “He’s barely eighteen, you know,” but instead introduced myself as Chaz’s biological father’s ex-sister-in-law, Gwen.

“Biological father? Are you adopted?” Julie asked her new friend.

Chaz said “No! No way. I only met him today.”

“You looked so upset when he fainted,” Julie said.

“I wasn’t. I was, like, what the f*ck?”

Julie said, “It was scary. He could have hit his head and died from that alone. I thought it was very sweet that you got upset.”

“He just kind of slipped to the floor. I should’ve caught him.”

Julie patted his arm. He smiled and told her that her hair was an unusual color, like, pale peach. He saw a lot of hair in his profession, but not like hers.

“Do you work in a salon?” she asked.

“I don’t. Actually, I’m a designer.” He tapped the brim of his bowler.

Why was I still standing there? I looked around for Margot and spotted her, one room away, on her tufted periwinkle velveteen sofa, next to Charles. His color was returning, and they were talking in a manner that appeared to be amicable.

I retreated to the dining room where I saw Stephanie, Olivia, and Noel, a complete conversational unit, undoubtedly in child-care talk, so I didn’t join them, either. Anthony and Douglas were tête-à-tête over the Smithfield ham, patting slices onto each other’s bread. Solange and Jacques? Gone. Chaz’s hat was now perched prettily on Julie’s head.

Although the guest list had contained an even number, I was clearly the odd person out. I poured myself the last dribble of martini from the pitcher, added a shot of gin, and took it to the kitchen. The casserole dish was submerged and soaking. A quick probe showed me that the baked-on stains still needed work. I added a few squirts of soap, which didn’t help with the scrubbing, but did ease the underwater transfer of my stubborn wedding ring from left hand to right. With my glass next to the sink, I ran hot water until rubber gloves were required.

It was still early, but I knew this night was not going to widen my social circle or yield new friends. It was then that I decided I would venture outside the building. Maybe such outreach would prove fruitful; maybe in this vast city of allegedly lonely people there was someone waiting for the Gwen-Laura I used to be.