People Like Us (25 page)

During the weeks of Constantine’s recuperation at New York Hospital, Yvonne could often be seen dining alone at Clarence’s. Sometimes she brought a book to read, but mostly she sat quietly, exotically turbaned, and watched the ebb and flow of the restaurant, as if she were looking at a film. Occasionally she made notes in a notebook that she always had with her.

Sometimes Chick Jacoby would sit at her table for a few minutes, perched on the edge of a chair to indicate that his visit was merely transitory, and get the latest reports on Constantine’s condition, which he would then pass on to anyone who happened to evince interest in the subject of Constantine de Rham’s gunshot wound. If it hadn’t been for Chick Jacoby, no one would have spoken to Mrs. Lupescu, but she gave no indication that that was a matter of concern to her.

20

For Lil Altemus and her friends, there were only ten buildings in Manhattan where people like themselves could live, four on Fifth Avenue, three on Park Avenue, one on Gracie Square, one on Sutton Place, and, of course, River Place, but even River Place had begun to let in what Lil called “a certain element.”

After their marriage, Justine and Bernie Slatkin moved to a new apartment in a new building on Park
Avenue that Lil Altemus described as “one of those buildings on Park Avenue where no one we know lives,” although that was a statement she made to her daughter, but not to her son-in-law. Bernie Slatkin, she soon found out, did not capitulate to her every wish, as Justine once did, nor was Justine available anymore to make up a fourth for bridge at the last minute or fill in at the opera if someone dropped out of her box.

“Poor Cora Mandell is very hurt that you didn’t use her to decorate your new apartment,” said Lil Altemus to her daughter. “After all, she’s done every one of the Altemus houses.”

“Bernie didn’t like cabbage-rose chintz,” replied Justine. “In fact, Bernie hates cabbage-rose chintz. And, lest you forget, Mother, I’m no longer an Altemus. I’m Mrs. Slatkin now.”

“No, I haven’t forgotten that, Justine,” said Lil.

“Come and see how the living room looks. It’s marvelous, really. A whole new look for me.”

Lil Altemus, on her first visit to the new apartment, walked silently through Justine’s just completed living room. Occasionally she nodded at things she recognized from before. “Sweet,” she said finally in judgment, in a qualified tone. And then she repeated the word again. “Sweet.”

“Sweet?” replied Justine.

Lil continued looking, without further comment.

“Sweet wasn’t the effect I was striving for, Mother,” said Justine.

“But it was meant as a compliment, Justine,” said Lil.

“I find the word inadequate,” said Justine.

“My dear, isn’t marriage making us independent,” said Lil. She sat down in a bergère chair and took off her gloves. “These lamp shades aren’t quite first rate. They should be lined in pink.”

“ ‘Lined in pink,’ ” repeated Justine, as if she were making a list. “It so happens that my husband doesn’t like lamp shades lined in pink.”

“It makes women look so much prettier, tell him,” said Lil, giving a gracious smile to her daughter. “You have far too many hyacinths in here, darling.” She fanned herself with her gloves and pretended to reel from the heavy scent.

“Make the best of it,” said Justine, impatiently.

Lil, who had expected Justine to remove the hyacinths, said, “Well, pardon me.”

“I wouldn’t, if I were you, Mother, make any of these comments in front of my husband,” said Justine. “Hubie and I, we’re used to you. We put up with you. But Bernie will let you have it.”

“Ho, ho, ho. I’d like to see Bernie Slatkin let me have it,” said Lil, chortling at the thought.

“Just be warned.”

“Hmm,” said Lil. She continued to look around the room. “What do you call this color?”

“Green, mother.”

“Well, of course, it’s green. I know it’s green. What I meant was, does the green have a name?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Mother. Forest, I think it’s called. Or evergreen. I can’t remember. Do you like it, and, please, don’t say it’s sweet.”

“Where’s my Aubusson rug?” Lil cried, as she suddenly remembered that her wedding gift was not under her feet.

“Bernie didn’t like it.”

“Bernie Slatkin didn’t like my Aubusson rug! That’s the laugh of the week. If you don’t like it, I’ll take it back then, thank you very much,” said Lil, indignant.

“We sold it,” said Justine.

“You what?”

“Ruby Renthal bought it for her swell new apartment.”

“That rug belonged to Grandmother Van Degan, from the house in Newport.”

“That’s why Ruby liked it so much. ‘It has history,’ she said.”

“Really, Justine. That awful Mrs. Renthal.”

“Bernie calls Ruby Renthal the talk of the town,”
said Justine. “Here, there, and everywhere, as Dolly says.”

“I’m going to ask Cora to get it back from Mrs. Renthal,” said Lil.

“Look, you gave it to us, Mother. You didn’t say there were strings attached,” said Justine.

Lil nodded, then rose, putting her gloves back on. “Well, I’m off.”

“I thought you came for tea,” said Justine. “Bonita’s making tea.”

“No, I must go. What’s all that ladder equipment in the dining room?” asked Lil.

“I’m having the wall behind the buffet painted in
trompe l’oeil
to look like a coromandel screen. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”

“Donina did that in her dining room,” said Lil.

“You’re a hard lady to get a compliment out of,” said Justine. “I’m using the same painter that Donina used.”

“He better paint quick, from what I hear.”

“Why?”

“What’s that disease they all have, those boys, where they’re dropping like flies?” asked Lil. Justine turned quickly to look at her mother. “Bobo says there won’t be a man left in New York to hang a curtain or hem a dress.” Bobo was her hairdresser.

Justine continued to look at her mother.

“How’s Hubie?” she asked.

“Hubie? Fine. Why?”

“Just asking,” said Justine.

21

“Do you mind if I light a cigar?” asked Elias Renthal.

“No, not at all,” replied Ruby Nolte, who loathed cigars, especially in confined areas.

“Some women do,” said Elias.

“Surely you can’t think I am one of those women who would interfere with a man’s pleasures, Mr. Renthal,” said Ruby, smiling at him.

“It’s Elias, please,” replied Elias, smiling back at her.

“Elias,” repeated Ruby, as if she were savoring the word. “Here, let me light it for you.”

Ruby Nolte took Elias’s gold lighter out of his hand and leaned forward toward him, holding the lighter in both hands. Elias, as if to steady her hands, took them both in his as he put his cigar into the flame.

“How come you took off your wedding ring?” asked Ruby.

“Well, you know.” Elias, embarrassed, shrugged.

“Put it back on.”

“Why?”

“What’s the point of adultery if you pretend it’s something else? Right? Besides, it adds to the charge.”

Elias, only just satisfied minutes earlier, was ready to go again. They stared into each others’ eyes for the several moments of the lighting process. Only then, her head surrounded by clouds of pearl-gray smoke, did Ruby allow her imagination to revel in the possibilities that the future held for her with this immensely rich man: the clothes, the jewels, the furs, the houses, and that which meant more to her than anything else, money of her own, in her own name.

All of this had happened four years ago. Or five. In Cleveland. It was not the first time Elias Renthal had removed his wedding ring for the purpose of extracurricular love, but, as things turned out, it was the last. Gladyce Renthal, the wife from that marriage, Elias’s second, had been taken care of quite handsomely in the divorce settlement. She continued to live in her large suburban house in Shaker Heights, the smart part of Cleveland, and, until she began to read in the press of the splendors of the life-style of Elias and his new wife in New York, she had been reasonably contented. People from Cleveland, when they ran into Elias, told him that Gladyce had started to drink and, when drunk, talked badly about Elias, saying he had treated her shabbily. They didn’t tell him that Gladyce called Ruby a whore, if she was feeling kind, or a cunt, if she wasn’t.

Ruby Renthal’s picture was everywhere. Photographers waited for her on the opening nights at the opera and ballet, at the library and the museum. She became known as a patroness of the arts but, in truth, she only attended the opera and the ballet on the nights of the gala performances when there were supper dances on the promenade afterward. Pieces on the life-style of the Renthals had begun to appear in all the fashionable magazines. The name Renthal was, in short order, becoming as well known in social circles as it already was in business circles. If Ruby Renthal’s name was on the committee of a charity, followers of such matters knew that that was the event to be at that night.

Matilda Clarke said to Lil Altemus about Ruby Renthal, “She has someone,” and Lil Altemus nodded in agreement. They didn’t mean a lover. They meant a publicist, someone quietly behind the scenes orchestrating Ruby’s rise to social prominence.

“They come, they go, these people,” said Lil Altemus. “Last year everyone was talking about Constantine de Rham. Now you never hear his name, or you hear it and people shudder. This year Mr. Renthal’s is the name on every lip, and his wife is here, there,
and everywhere, and it seems like only yesterday that no one had ever heard of them.”

“Loelia Manchester claims that Ruby Renthal is here to stay,” said Matilda.

“We’ll see,” said Lil.

“That’s Lorenza, isn’t it?” asked Ruby, looking at an antique coffee pot crammed full with dozens of multicolored roses in various stages of rose life, from buds to swollen blossoms, the trademark of Lorenza, the most expensive florist in the city, that was only one of several on the tables in Loelia Manchester’s temporary suite in the Rhinelander Hotel.

“What?” asked Loelia.

“The flowers? Aren’t they Lorenza?”

“Lorenza, oh, yes. She comes here every Monday and Thursday to do the flowers.”

Ruby was thrilled with this information. Imagine, she thought, having Lorenza herself come to your house to arrange your flowers twice a week, even when there were no parties planned. It seemed to her yet another level of refinement what these people, who had begun to take her into their midst, understood and took for granted as normal living.

Loelia Manchester snuggled back against the pale yellow damask of a bergère chair, one arm resting on the gilt frame over her head. What an elegant pose, thought Ruby. I must practice that. Loelia dazzled Ruby with her glamour. Ruby was spellbound and, at first, tongue-tied in her presence. She had not imagined that such a thing as conversation could be so exhilarating, and she was always asking Loelia to speak louder so as not to miss anything she said in her husky, fashionable voice. Loelia, in turn, was flattered by Ruby’s adoration, especially as her own friends, like Lil Altemus and Matilda Clarke, were being cool to her since she had abandoned Ned for Mickie, whom they all liked to dance with at charity balls but found totally inappropriate as a suitor for her. Loelia also found Ruby lacking in
artifice and was herself spellbound by the truth of her tales.

“Go on,” said Loelia to her new friend, prodding her to continue with her story.

“I began having my period when I was eight,” confided Ruby.

“Eight?” cried Loelia, aghast.

“I was advanced for my age,” explained Ruby.

“An understatement!” exclaimed Loelia.

“By the time I was ten, I was like a woman, full breasts, the works. By the time I was twelve, I was having sex. By the time I was fourteen, I was having affairs. By the time I was sixteen, I was married for the first time. By the time I was twenty-two, I was married three times.”

“Heavens!” said Loelia, fascinated with such a story.

“I was twenty-eight when I met Elias and ready to settle down. By that time I’d seen a thing or three. I knew about people like you and how you live. I wanted to be one of you. And when I met Elias, I knew I could be, with his bucks and my brains.”