Diamond Girl (27 page)

I was holding Petal, and when the interviewer asked me what I thought an 'It Girl' was, I smiled and said, “Oh, it’s a state of being, you know, like an 'It Girl' never wears stockings, even in winter, and they are always nice to waiters.”

That clip had by my count been played a hundred times following the weekend’s disaster.

Leno said, “An ‘It Girl’ is nice to waiters but she runs over doormen.”

Letterman quipped, “An 'It Girl' never wears stockings because it’s easier to wash blood off bare legs after you run over sixteen people.”

I didn’t understand any of it. I hadn’t done anything, I hadn’t hurt anyone.

Michael wasn’t taking my calls, neither was Daddy, and when I reached Milan, she was kind but evasive. “I know, Cares, no one thinks you ran over anyone. It’s just, you know, you were there and you’re visible and that stupid documentary just gives them a killer sound bite. Try not to watch it. In a month no one will remember this.” She paused. I asked her what she was thinking. Hesitantly she said, “It’s nothing. I was just wondering what your parents have said.”

“They haven’t said anything. I can’t get a hold of Daddy, and Mother hasn’t even called to see if I’m all right. You’d think that
…” My intercom buzzed. “Hold on a second, Mills, it’s the door.”

“No, go get it, Cares I have a shoot for Glamour. I’ll call you later. Listen, don’t worry, this will be okay. Love you, bye.”

The intercom buzzed again. I heard my doorman say, “Miss Carey, it’s your mother. Can I send her up?” 

My mother walked into my apartment, dressed from head to toe in black. She didn’t hug
me, she only smiled coldly and asked for a glass of water. When I returned with her drink, she nodded and took it from me. Before I could move away, she exchanged the glass in my hand for a long white envelope.

Uncertain, I looked down at it. “What is this?” 

She gave me her thin social smile. “Its choices, Carolyn. I suggest you look them over and then pick one.”

Chapter 29

With brochures, and with my mother’s usual excellent communication skills, she had chosen to tell me to get the fuck out of Dodge. The envelope held two brochures, one for a most amazing vacation destination called The Sanctuary. According to the brochure, 'The Sanctuary is nestled on the most easterly end of Australia.' Finally my mother had found a boarding school on a different continent. 'The Sanctuary is a luxurious rehab facility which specializes in the treatment of substance abuse and psychological disorders such as depression, stress and trauma.'

I couldn’t argue that I seemed to suffer from all of the above. After all, the source of each of those disorders was sitting in my living room right at that very moment. 'For a reasonably priced fee of eighteen thousand five hundred dollars a week …' cheap compared to coke and retail therapy; obviously my mother was trying to teach me how to economize, '… clients of The Sanctuary are ensconced in beach front bungalows, treated to a private chauffeured limousine …' limousines to go where, crocodile hunting so you could make your own shoes in crafts class and have a nifty souvenir to show the folks back home? '… and are assigned their own private chef, acupuncturist, personal fitness instructor, and a yoga and meditation teacher, as well as access to round-the-clock medical care.'

I wondered out loud if that was for the gallons of liquid valium I would be requesting. My mother just sighed and looked at the ceiling. To be fair, the encounter was hard on her, I’m sure.

'The Sanctuary is also known for its unique alcoholism treatment program, which is based on a mix of yoga, meditation, shiatsu and Western therapy methods.'

I laid down the brochure, commenting, “I’m glad it’s unique. Anyway, at those prices, I’ll just take a look at door number two, shall I, Mumsy?”

She smiled sourly at me and pushed away Petal with her foot. “Door number two, how clever of you, Carey. Yes, well please do. I’m guessing you might prefer door number two, as you call it. That one is your father’s idea.” She had aimed and hit with that remark.

“Daddy’s’ idea?
He knows about this, about your visit, about these?” I threw the brochures at her.

She caught them neatly and gazed at me levelly. “Who do you think called and asked me to come and talk to you, Carolyn? Your father does not reside in an alternate reality. He does receive newspapers and has, along with the rest of the country, viewed your sound-bites and the resultant comments.”

“Oh, well … and he … he doesn’t want to talk to me himself. He sent you? I didn’t know the two of you were talking.” 

She smiled. “Oh, we don’t talk much, but recently you could say there has been a rebirth of conversation. Your father and I have decided to divorce, and after a certain amount of pressure on the part of myself and my divine lawyer, Alan, your tight-fisted son of a bitch, and I do mean that literally, Carolyn - your grandmother was a gorgon - at any rate, your father has finally agreed to a reasonable settlement.”

She smiled in clear triumph.

“How much, mother, is a reasonable settlement?”

She fished out a pack of cigarettes, offering me one. I took it automatically. Smoking was one of the rare activities my mother and I enjoyed doing together.  She exhaled a plume of smoke. “A hair under seven hundred million dollars. It seems about right. After all, I am the mother of his children.”

I snorted. “Not so we’d notice but, really Mother, seven hundred million? How in God’s name did you pull that off? Kelleher trusts are supposed to keep this sort of thing from happening.” I gestured at her with my cigarette. “You know, the trusts were set up to keep gold diggers like you from hitting the mother lode. What did you do, blackmail him?”

“I would hardly use that term, Carolyn. Your father and I have been married for over twenty years, a marriage of long standing such as ...”

“How did you do it?”

“Oh I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. Let’s just say your father became homesick.”

“You’re losing me, Mother. Could you please just tell me in plain non-cryptic bitch
language.”

“Carolyn, you … oh never mind, I don’t care what you think of me anymore.”

“Now that you’ve got yours, you mean?”

“Yet another charming expression from the It Girl.
But why not? Yes, now that I’ve got mine. It’s all quite simple, Carolyn. Your father is apparently uncomfortable residing anywhere but in the Kelleher apartment. Since I live in the apartment, and have for a great many years, and it’s the place I have raised my children in ...”

“Oh Jesus, Mom, cut the crap. Raised your children?”

“Do you want to hear this or not, Carolyn?”

“Yes, I want to hear it. Maybe I’ll learn something.”

“Maybe you will. I simply had my attorney inform your father’s attorney that despite the apartment being a trust-held property, I would never leave unless forcibly removed. Your father, as you know, has an almost phobic aversion to publicity. He quickly and sensibly realized that in addition to the humiliation of seeing his name spread out all over the tabloids, thanks to your recent antics ...”

“They aren’t my antics. Please, Mom, tell Daddy
...”

“No, I’m not involving myself in your relationship with your father to any further extent than today’s visit, and you can wish to shoot the messenger, Carolyn, but that is all I am. You leaving - and you will be leaving, Carolyn - well kid yourself all you want, and hate me all you want, but it is your father’s decision, and he, as you should have long ago understood, holds all the money and therefore all the power.” 

“But, Mom, I don’t … What do you mean leaving? And anyway, you just told me you’re getting nearly three quarters of a billion dollars, so couldn’t you …” Seeing her cold face I switched tacks. “Never mind, I have my own money, my own trust.”

She lit another cigarette. “You didn’t let me finish, Carolyn. Thanks primarily to you, your father was not willing to engage in a degrading public battle with me over the apartment, and it’s possible that he feared I would, in a burst of emotion, leak the details of his current inamorata to the press. He has, in effect, bought me out at a fair
market value.”

“You say tohmato, I say blackmail. Whatever, you made Daddy buy his own home back from you or else you threatened to smear him all over the papers, right?” She shrugged. “And you shamelessly used his being upset about me being in the papers right now to do it.”

“If that’s the way you choose to see it, Carolyn, but before you decide to make me the villain in this, you should know that The Sanctuary was my idea. This is your father’s idea.” With that she tossed back the second brochure, the one I hadn’t looked at, the one I had assumed was another swanky rehab advertisement. It was a brochure for Sotheby’s real estate, Los Angeles. I looked over at her, confused. It was one of the rare times my mother didn’t meet my eyes. She was /is not a woman comfortable with self-recrimination or, God forbid, any maternal feelings, but even she couldn’t face me while she delivered the epitaph on my life in New York. “I don’t actually agree with this, Carolyn, but at present there is nothing I can do to help you. The negotiations for my own settlement will take several months to finalize. Your father believes that starting over somewhere fresh, somewhere where ... well ... where the press is uninterested in the lives of anyone who is not an actress, for example, is a good choice for you right now. He has expressed the hope that you will re-enter college out there, maybe do something in films, behind the scenes. He says you are interested in …”  Seeing my collapsed face, she stopped speaking and stood up, walking towards me, then, unable or unwilling to touch me, she moved instead over to my tall windows, the windows that gave me my daily view of the only world I wanted. Her back to me, she began again. “I know this seems harsh; maybe it is harsh. I’m sorry, Carey, I really am, but I don’t have a choice and neither do you. You’ll need to begin packing. This apartment was sold yesterday afternoon.” 

“Sold? He sold my
…? Okay, I kind of thought that was coming anyway but, Mom, I’m not moving to L.A.. I’m not leaving New York. I have my own money, I’ll buy ...”

“If you are speaking of your trust, Carey, you will find
, if you attempt to write a check, that your funds are frozen. Your father and Herbert did that as of this morning. Your money will only become available to you in Los Angeles. There is a flight leaving on Saturday. You have a reservation on it. Anything you haven’t organized by then can be shipped to you, or you could just …”

“Just?”

“Just start over. Your father has offered to pay for a new wardrobe. He has also said he will underwrite your living expenses in Los Angeles until you have found a house to purchase that is mutually agreeable to both you and the trustees.”

“And then what?”

She turned around confused. “And then what? What do you mean? And then you will begin your new life in California and resume control over your money.”

“And if I fuck up again, or if I any of you think I fucked up again, then what?”

She sighed. “I don’t know then what, Carey. Maybe you shouldn’t be planning to fuck up, as you put it. Maybe you should try to make something of your life, return to school, or find something you want to do, or who knows …?” she tried to smile, “…  maybe you’ll meet someone. This doesn’t have to be a bad thing. It’s all up to you now.”

“You can take my home from me, take my life, my city, my friends, and my world away and send me out to L.A., and still say any of that with a straight face.”

I lost it then and rolled onto my side, sobbing hysterically. Petal jumped up anxious, and began licking my face. My mother didn’t touch me. She waited until I couldn’t cry anymore and was hiccoughing, then brought out a handful of Kleenex from the bathroom.

Her news, her lack of comfort, made me consider running past her to the floor-to-ceiling windows and not stopping. I didn’t. Maybe I should have, but I didn’t. When she saw that I was calm, which I wasn’t, I was semi-catatonic - but that was good enough for her, I guess - she leaned down and lightly kissed the top of my head. In her own eccentric attempt at comfort, she said. “There … a good cry, it can help. I’ve had my share, and over your father and money as well. It doesn’t change anything but sometimes it’s a release. Now you’ve had your cry and you can begin again. I wish I could stay and help you sort through everything, darling, but I’m leaving for Paris. It's collection time, so I … well I’ll just have to come see you when you get settled in California. Call Herbert for anything you need, movers, etc
.. Do the same when you reach L.A.. Oh, and Carey …?” I looked up at her hopefully. My swollen face must have made her fearful that I would seek comfort or something equally uncomfortable, because she moved rapidly towards the door, speaking over her shoulder, “… I was only going to suggest that you stay somewhere fabulous while you’re getting settled. Don’t skimp on yourself. Remember, it's only money, your father's, to be specific. Have some fun, darling. I’ll call you soon.”

I didn’t miss my plane on Saturday and I didn’t need any movers at all. I left New York with a carry on,
Petal, and a vague promise from Michael to head out to see me soon and a stronger vow from Milan and Christy to come out and stay for a month when I got settled.