Blue Rose In Chelsea (24 page)

     After introductions, and giving respectful attention to The Joseph’s rendition of
I Remember It Well
, Sinclair and I trot to the bar for a pow-wow.  We stand shoulder-to-shoulder, speaking out of the corners of our mouths, like gumshoe detectives exchanging game plans under some pink neon checkpoint.

     “A juicy tidbit.  Today’s is Evan’s birthday,” Sinclair informs me, as I marvel at this news.  “Could the signs be any clearer that he’s destined for you?”

     “He could just as easily be destined for Wanda.  He had his arm around her when I came in, or at least around the back of her chair,” I report surreptitiously.

     “When they ordered drinks, she said to him, ‘You know what I like,’ sort of perturbed, the way a woman clearly would if her lover forgot her highball of choice,” Sinclair whispers emphatically.

     “Okay, so what have we got against him, so far?” I review. “The toothbrush, the arm around the chair, the haughty highball comment.  One more sliver of evidence, and he’s obviously guilty!”  I gulp my margarita in one swig, like one of the great dames of Golden Era Hollywood.

     “Lay off the sauce, Gigi, or you’re likely to say something you’ll regret!”  The Scottish Count yanks the drink from my mouth as I dribble the last of it onto my tongue.

     “Oh, you’re one to talk!” I yell-whisper back at him.  “When your blood alcohol hits point five you spill all my secrets.”

     “Joseph has a plan.  We’ve got everything under control!”  Sinclair slicks his hair with his pinkies, as if my outburst has somehow upset his coiffure.  He pivots me about by the shoulders, taking care not to crush the feisty feathers on the gown.  Six strikingly handsome men have lined up along the dance floor, dressed in impeccable morning coats, and what appear to be white satin brocade waistcoats and white gloves.  The shine of their shoes is rivaled only by the shine of their teeth.

     “Are those waiters?”

     “They are Admirers for Hire.  We recruited them from Joseph’s ballroom dance class.  Two of them were in Madonna’s Material Girl video.”

     It takes me a moment to register this news.

     “Oh, yes, I recognize that guy,” I point tactlessly, as Sinclair slaps down my hand.  “They look as if they’ve stepped straight out of a Jane Austen novel.”

     “There’s nothing straight about them.  I wish there were!  I’m not thrilled at the thought of TJ cha-cha-ing with those stallions every Saturday night.”  Sinclair has taken to calling The Joseph TJ for short.

     “What is this about?” I demand of Sinclair, as the first Admirer approaches me, gallantly offering his hand with a genteel bow.

     “We’ve arranged for you to display your talents.  Wanda Steely Heart Topsy-Turban is stiff as a stuffed turkey in her tacky taffeta,” he spits out, and I raise my eyebrows, impressed at his finesse of this tongue twister.  “Whereas you, my dear, will float like the graceful swan you are over the dance floor in this glorious creation.”  He smoothes the creases of my silk gown, fawning over the feathers.

     “But I don’t ballroom dance,” I snarl, like a swan in a snit, through gritted teeth.

     “A basic waltz step and some
chaine
’ turns, and they’ll do the rest.  You must look as if the very last thing on your mind is Evan. 
Curtsey while you’re thinking of what to say.  It saves time
,” the Red Queen orders, giving me a once over and flicking the feathers to stand at attention at my shoulders, before urging me forward with a shove, as the orchestra segues into but another song from the
Gigi
score.

     Joseph sings, “
She’s so gay tonight. She’s like spring tonight; a rollicking, frolicking thing tonight. So disarming, soft and charming—She is not thinking of me!”

    
Joseph punctuates these words with a look sharp as a porcupine quill, as if sending me some message, which is perhaps that I am not to be thinking of Evan.

     “
In her eyes tonight, there’s a glow tonight; they’re so bright, they could light Fountainbleu tonight. She’s so gracious, so vivacious; She’s not thinking of me!
”

     I try to appear gracious and vivacious as the swarthy dancer indeed does all the work.  He waltzes me in sweeping concentric circles about the floor, before delivering me into the arms of the next swarthy suitor without missing a beat.  Each handsome hoofer passes me reluctantly from one to the other, with a series of stylish turns.  I’m thankful for the soft golden lighting and buzz from my margarita.  It seems as if every patron has surrendered his drink and suspended conversation to observe the Mr. Darcy Debacle.  I pull myself up taller, and make a concerted effort to execute a clean technique: toes pointed, carriage lifted out of my hips, arms gracefully held so that if water streamed from my shoulders it would follow the curve of my arms to flow from my fingertips.

     I spy Sinclair, who remains by the bar, signaling to the Admirers like an impresario, cueing each one for his entrance.

     “
Bless her little heart/Crooked to the core/Acting out a part/What a rollicking, folicking bore!/She’s so fun tonight/she’s a treat tonight/You could spread her on bread, she’s so sweet tonight/So devoted, sugar coated
.”

     Joseph does Louis Jordan proud.  We’ve got the entire place in the palms of our hands, and I find myself camping it up just a bit.  The dancers “vie” for my attention as they “steal” me from one another.  The skirt of my gown fans out beautifully with each turn, revealing a black tulle lining.  I don’t dare look at my table.  All I can make out are their blurry figures as I swirl about like some anthropomorphic yard of silk.  I can tell by the expression of wicked delight on Dylan’s face that this spectacular display may very well replace the Goya Bean story as the
piece de resistance
in his repertoire of embarrassing Haley incidents.

     “
But it’s heartwarming to see/Oh she’s simmering with love/Oh she’s shimmering with love/Oh she’s not thinking of me
/
She’s not thinking of me!  Someone has set her on fire—Is it Jacques, is it Paul or Leon?  Who’s turning her furnace up higher?  Oh, she’s hot, but it’s not for Gaston!”

     Joseph repeats this particular verse and substitutes Evan for Gaston, but I’m praying that his faux French Louis Jordan accent has rendered it unintelligible.

     “
She’s so gay tonight/a gigantic, romantic cliché tonight/How she blushes, how she gushes, how she fills me with ennui/She’s so oola-la-la, so untrue la-la-la, oh she’s not thinking of me
!”

     My partner leads me in a finale of surplus turns and then dips me with great aplomb, ending exactly as the last note of the orchestra sounds.  There is a roar of applause.  I’m not sure if I want to take a bow or bolt for the door.  I offer a curtsey, a demure smile, and flash a “you are so dead” look at Sinclair, before turning to thank my Admirers for Hire, who perhaps were paid extra to hover afterward and appear unable to part with me.

     “What the hell was that?”  Dylan can’t resist when I return to the table.

     I shrug innocently, dab my forehead and
decollete
with a white linen napkin and stall by sipping my ice water.

     “This happens everywhere we go,” the Red Queen gushes.  “Men appear out of the woodwork, wanting to dance with our dear Gigi.  It’ really becoming quite a nuisance.”

     “Really?  This happens everywhere you go?  It must be some new phenomenon, because this is the first I’ve seen of it.”  Dylan chews on a toothpick pilfered from the olive in his date’s martini.  His face is like a struck match, lit perhaps, with the possibility of future shtick.

     “You were like Ginger Rogers, except with six Fred Astaires instead of one!” Dylan’s date effuses, bless her heart.  I decide right there to take her side in any of her future disputes with Dylan.  At Christmas she will receive a lavish gift from me, and when Dylan gives her the eventual slip, I will go to great lengths to tip her off to his whereabouts, perhaps even recruiting Mom for inside espionage.

     David has missed the entire spectacle, as I later discover that Sinclair—as part of his elaborately choreographed scheme—sent David on a wild goose chase to the reception area, on the pretense that there was a phone call for David.

     I don’t dare look at Evan, but when I finally do he is watching me as if he is struggling to suppress an implosion of emotion.  Is it possible that Sinclair and TJ’s preposterous plan has actually made him jealous?  There is no disputing that The Admirers for Hire are devastatingly handsome.  Wanda Everhart Teely-Turpin studies me as if I were some assemblage of dinosaur bones at the Museum of Natural History that don’t quite fit together in her expert estimation.  She casts glances at Evan as if piecing together some puzzle.

     I’m rescued from further scrutiny when a psychic makes her way to our table.  She wears a scarlet chiffon caftan, her eyes rimmed in smoky kohl; the palms of her delicate hands bear intricate henna etchings.  For ten dollars she will predict one’s future, but she can only see the upcoming year, not beyond that, because she reads the pathways of one’s current intention, and a change of personal will could alter one’s destiny radically, she explains to the inquisitive Wanda.  Dylan’s date pays for a reading for Dylan, eager, I’m sure, to see if she’s in Dylan’s future, and is informed that before the year’s end Dylan will find himself in the midst of a revolution.

     “A musical revolution?”  Dylan begins to hum the Beatles song, Revolution.

     “Are you a solider?” the psychic asks in what seems to be an Eastern European accent.

     “Accountant,” Brandon answers for him.  “You’re always saying it’s time to reform the tax code.  Perhaps you’ll lead a revolution against the IRS.”

     But the psychic insists it’s a political revolution, and Dylan clearly thinks his money’s been wasted.

     The Joseph is next.  “I see you surrounded by sheep, droves of sheep,” the incredulous and blushing Joseph is told, and everyone giggles at this, except Sinclair who shifts nervously in his chair.  Can it be that Sinclair has never told Joseph about his being a Count, with an accompanying castle, moat and sheep station?

     Wanda Teely peels a crisp twenty from her pricey blue Dooney & Bourke wallet, and requests readings for both she and Evan.  Evan is told that the direction of his life is about to take a dramatic and unforeseen turn.  Everyone interprets this to mean that his television series will be a success.  Wanda is told that she will soon meet a new client, one that may prove a rainmaker for her business.

     I’m told that I will soon face a decision that will determine my fate.  “Choose wisely!”  The psychic wags at me a long fingernail that looks dipped in gold.

     “Perhaps it will be two publishers vying for your book,” David suggests, raising his glass to me.

     Wanda’s ears perk up; she inquires if I am a writer.  “I’d like to read your work,” she says, with the command of someone who is not generally refused.  She and David strike up a conversation.  When he discovers that she represents not only authors, but a large battalion of actors for commercials and films, he makes the insufferably condescending pronouncement, “Ah, there must be people to peddle the products of your consumer society,” and follows it up with this doosey: “I’ve never quite understood the appeal of acting.  It seems to me the need to pretend to be someone else is symptomatic of some inner emptiness, of not liking oneself and wishing to escape into other identities.”

     I am wondering if David has recognized Evan’s face from the chewing gum ad, and if he knows exactly what he is saying, or if he has unwittingly put his big foot in his mouth.

     “Children pretend all the time,” I counter.  “It comes naturally to them, and from a place of joy and creativity.  Are you suggesting that every child suffers from some neurosis?”

     “Well, that’s quite different, you see.  An adult understands the necessity of surrendering the things of childhood.”  I can tell by the lines formed across his forehead, that David has gone into debate mode.

     “Perhaps surrendering the dreams of childhood is not the antidote to neurosis, but the cause of it.  Jesus said that to enter the Kingdom we must become as little children.”  In exasperation, I gulp the rest of my margarita.  This is met with silence.  Nobody’s taking on Jesus.

     “Ah, yes, The Gospels.  Those nice little stories,” David remarks after a moment, as if they were
Aesop’s Fables
.    

     Evan watches David with a perfect poker face.  Sinclair attempts to change the subject, informing David of Evan’s past career with the ballet.  Certainly, David can find no grounds for neurosis in achieving a six-year run with one of the great ballet companies of the world.  I feel a sudden stab of shame that my date has insulted Evan, whereas his date has extended an offer of assistance to my career.

     Mercifully, David settles into a conversation with Evan about dance.  Yet it soon leads into David asking Evan where he has gone to school, landing Evan in the uncomfortable position of having to say he never finished high school, something that is beyond David’s comprehension.  I try to wait it out, hoping the tide will turn and Evan will be delivered from David’s undertow of questioning, but with some uncanny sixth sense David hones in on Evan’s Achilles heel: his lack of formal education.