Searching for Grace Kelly (13 page)

And then there was her, Laura Dixon of Greenwich, Connecticut, former debutante, Smith junior,
Mademoiselle
college editor, about to go to El Morocco with arguably the city's biggest catch. These were, without question, the bona fides of a glamour girl. And yet inside she felt empty, inauthentic. She loved the dress, loved feeling pretty and feminine and envied, and her heart danced with adrenaline from anticipation of the night ahead. But deep down, didn't she feel more at home in the cluttered, dusty confines of Connie Offing's bookstore, thumbing through an old copy of
Rebecca
? Was she really not the second Mrs. de Winter, shapeless and nameless, swept up in Maxim's world of romance and intrigue but never quite at home?

She hadn't told Marmy about Box. Her mother was difficult to impress, but Laura knew that would have done it, and in some ways that prospect was worse than not impressing her. Laura had managed to put off Marmy's New York visit, decrying
Mademoiselle
obligations that didn't exist. But that wouldn't work much longer. It was bad enough being unsure of who she was in a moment like this; she knew exactly who she was when she was in a room with her mother. And that girl she despised.

Only a few others remained on the mezzanine. It was a peculiarity of the Barbizon that girls took pains not to notice one another on occasions such as this—no one wanted confirmation that the girl next to her had a more inviting evening approaching than she did. Any comparison was done with a faux smile, darting eyes. Laura felt like she was suffocating. She started pacing again. It was like waiting for your name to be called as a finalist at the Miss America Pageant.

“He's here!” Dolly stage-whispered, bounding onto the mezzanine. “I gotta tell you, he looks really good.” She pulled Laura to the edge of the shadows of the balcony. “Look.”

There he stood, not far from the elevator bank. Girls buzzed about him like caffeinated bees. More than one dropped pretense and outright stared. His blond hair was once again perfectly cresting. He wore a fitted white dinner jacket and black trousers.

“Please tell me you didn't say anything embarrassing to him,” Laura said.

“Oh, hush up and go.”

Laura picked up her bag and wrap, shot Dolly a questioning look. “Well, here goes nothing.”

Descending the staircase, she felt like she was in the opening credits of
The Loretta Young Show
, minus the applause. But really, weren't these girls silently applauding? She was tonight's winner, and tomorrow they would all be talking, trying to guess what had happened. And secretly hoping it had all gone very, very badly.

But that was tomorrow.

Box Barnes approached her at the bottom of the staircase, leaned in for a light kiss on the cheek. “You look incredibly beautiful,” he whispered.

She did the most un–Laura Dixon thing she could think of: Standing there, a hundred eyes on her in the middle of the Barbizon, she extended her arms and twirled, laughing. “Do you like my dress?” she asked. “It's new.”

 

Laura could not recall having ever witnessed a woman smoking through a cigarette holder, other than in movies. Her arm in Box's, winding her way through the bejeweled and bedecked throng in front of El Morocco, all she could do was stare at the woman with the shocking white hair spun around her head like cotton candy, elegantly puffing through the long silver holder.

Angelo, the club's formidable maitre d', gave a barely discernible nod as they approached, sweeping them past the red velvet rope into the club. Flashbulbs popped. “Box! Over here!” yelled one photographer. Laura smiled. “Hey, Boxy, who's the girl tonight?” yelled another. Her smile vanished.

He guided her through the crowd, his hand never leaving the small of her back. “I just noticed,” he said, “you're not wearing the gloves.”

“They were lovely. But it was too warm out.”

He slipped his hand into hers. “Good.”

They stepped down the few stairs leading to the main room. It was actually a tad on the gaudy side—the lavender walls, too much crystal, too many centerpieces, too many candles—but watching the coterie of couples waltzing around the dance floor, all of its slightly vulgar qualities faded away, until all that was left was supple light, perfume, the gentle rustle of skirts, and the soft click of shoes. A clarinet tumbled out the notes of Cole Porter.

Her eye caught a stunning couple circling to their left. “He looks like Errol Flynn,” she said.

Box leaned in. “That
is
Errol Flynn.”

The host told them he'd seat them in a moment.

“I don't understand,” Laura said. “Why is everyone crowded onto the right side of the room, when there's all of these empty tables on the left?”

“Because that is Siberia. No one with any self-respect would be caught dead sitting on the left side of Elmo's. Only the tourists, and they only get in on slow nights, which aren't many. Angelo hates them, thinks they diminish the place.” The host waved them over. “Great. We're ready,” Box said, moving her to the right. “Let's go.”

It took a good hour before Laura found herself truly relaxing, despite the fact that she never left the security of their blue-and-white zebra-striped booth. They nibbled on small plates and drank champagne, and she fought to concentrate on the conversation, a near impossibility with so much stimulus arriving from all corners. Gowns gathered as they were threaded through openings between tiny tables. The throaty laughter of men drifting by on clouds of smoke from expensive Cuban cigars. Flickering candlelight hidden under tiny lampshades, dotting tables around the room like constellations. The husky urgency in the chanteuse's voice. The quick glint of light on a silver cigarette case being opened and proffered for a lady. The clink of ice cubes swirling in an emptying cocktail glass. The danger of a surreptitious wink.

Laura felt Box's breath on her neck, turned to see him again leaning into her, his hand sliding behind her along the shelf of the banquette. “You're writing this,” he said.

Oh, that smile
. “What?”

“You're writing this. I can almost hear the Olympia typewriter pinging every few seconds as the carriage slides back and forth inside your head. You're here, but you're not really here. You're still acting like an observer instead of a participant.”

Her avocation had come up in the cab ride over; she'd playfully threatened that she had only agreed to the date because she was going to write a tell-all for
Mademoiselle
. Now she felt embarrassed about it. She took a casual taste of her champagne. “Not everyone is to the manor born, sir. This is new for some of us. You have to spot me a period of adjustment.”

“It isn't like you're exactly from the wrong side of the tracks. You grew up where?”

“Greenwich.”

“And you go to school where?”

“Smith.”

“Neither exactly Flatbush. This can hardly be all that new.”

“Knowing how to dance a waltz is not the same thing as having a full dance card. I am not going to inherit a department store in the middle of Manhattan.”

“No. You are going to marry well and raise lovely children in an immaculate center-hall Colonial somewhere in Rye.”

She felt her hackles flare. “What do you—”

“Wait, wait! That came out wrong.”

“That happens a lot with you, doesn't it?” It carried more bite than she'd intended.

The frankness of his reply caught her by surprise. “It's what people expect. And I'm stupid enough sometimes to fall into the trap of playing the role.” He shrugged, gulped some champagne.

“You can't just leave it like that. Explain.”

“I have, shall we say, a reputation, of which you are no doubt aware. It gets me into trouble, and it gets me blamed for things I didn't do or say, but if I'm being honest, it also gets me great tables at restaurants and brings in a lot of publicity for the store. But it's a character, a version of me I put out for public consumption. It's not really me.”

Or is this—the candid, sensitive guy—not really you?
she wondered.
Is
this
the act?

He laughed. “You're sitting there thinking, ‘This guy is full of shit.' Sorry. I shouldn't have said that, either. God! I'm making a mess of this.”

It was her turn for candor. “Why did you want me to come here with you? We talked for five minutes, and it didn't exactly go well. And by your own admission, you are not at a loss for company.”

He smiled. “Because you're different.”

“How do you know I'm different? According to you, I'm just some girl who's going to end up in a center-hall Colonial.”

“Ah! Okay. See, let me explain what I meant. That's one possible outcome, and certainly the most likely for a girl with your background. But I don't think that's really the life you're looking for. In fact, I imagine you're looking for something radically different. The only question is whether you're brave enough to actually step off the path you're on, the safe route, and go for uncharted waters.” He grinned, grabbed his glass.

How much time had she spent with this man—a few hours over three very different interludes? And yet already she'd identified his pattern: Charm, disarm, attack. But behind the twinkling teasing in his eyes, she saw something else, something she found genuine, which indicated that he found her worth more than just fleeting interest. But wasn't this the trap every girl fell into with men like Box Barnes: believing
they
were different, they were special, they were the one to turn the frog—or more accurately, the rogue—into the prince?

“I'm getting worried,” he said, turning his gaze to watch Kitty Car­lisle and Moss Hart do the cha-cha.

“What do you have to be worried about?”

“These contemplative silences.”

“Are you afraid of a thinking girl?”

“I'm afraid of a girl who thinks too much.”

She placed her elbows onto the table, crossing her arms. “Can I ask you something?”

“Fire away.”

“This place. This whole life. The constant parties, the tuxedos, the travel. Do you ever tire of it?”

“Honestly? No.” He looked into her eyes with an intensity she found slightly unnerving. “And just to be clear: It's not all parties and airplanes. I work hard. Harder than I get credit for. But to your point, I do enjoy a nice life. And no, I don't tire of it. I think it would be disingenuous to say otherwise.
Will
I tire of it? Perhaps. But what is there to tire of? Beauty? Fine wine and fine food? Interesting people saying interesting things? I live a life that I am very fortunate to live, I've never denied that or taken it for granted.” He laughed. “Well, I may have taken it for granted. But I no longer do. And I see no reason to apologize for it, or to not enjoy it.”

“Hmmm.”

“‘Hmmm'? What does that mean?”

She shrugged, leaned back into the banquette. “I don't know. I wish I could be as self-assured in my convictions. I love this, being here, but it doesn't feel real to me somehow. This isn't how the real world lives.” If she was going to consider dating this man, she needed to be able to be honest. He needed to understand she was a girl who spoke her mind, even if her mind was occasionally muddled. These days, often.

He glanced away. “Who gets to decide what the ‘real world' is, Laura? Answer me that.”

They were interrupted by a hand on Box's shoulder. An oily banker associate of his father, named Cathcart or something similarly Old Money sounding, here with his wife to do a smile-and-greet. They demurred Box's offer to join them for a drink but lingered by the booth for several minutes, talking about the music, the weather, the performance of that new musical
Damn Yankees
they'd caught earlier in the week at the 46th Street Theatre. Laura smiled, nodded, tried not to fidget with her pearls. She laughed delicately in all the right places. If Marmy had managed to teach her one thing, it was how to take a social cue.

The waiter brought fresh coupes of champagne. “Tell me something embarrassing about yourself,” Laura said after the man and his wife had gone. She wasn't completely sure why she was asking. Actually, yes, she was. She needed affirmation, some evidence, that his life had not been as perfect and as flawless as his appearance belied.

He chuckled. “Wow, you really
are
going to be a journalist, aren't you?”

“Come on,” she pressed. “Just one thing.”

He pushed his fingers through his hair, searching for an answer. “Okay . . . Well, reports to the contrary, for the most part I have always been a very obedient child. I was raised with order, you have to understand. When I was seven, I was attending a very fancy private school here in Manhattan. I was originally supposed to go to school in London, but the Nazis had just come to power in Germany, and my parents were nervous about sending me to Europe amid that kind of political unrest.

“My mother has always loved music, so I decided that I would try out for the Christmas musical at school. Mind you, I had very little actual musical talent, but I was determined. Well, it turned out I couldn't sing, and I had no aptitude for playing a musical instrument, either. But I
was
a decent dancer.”

“I look forward to seeing you prove that.”

He nodded. “So they put me in the big closing number of the Christmas pageant,” he continued, “which I think had far more to do with my parents' philanthropy than my budding talent. Anyway, the director, Mrs. Powell—it's always amazing that I can't remember where I put my keys this morning, but I will never in my life ever forget Mrs. Powell—she had this station below the stage, almost in the orchestra pit, where she would give us our cues and yell out instructions over the music. Things like, ‘Sharper kicks!' and ‘To the right!' If you messed up, she was merciless. I'm not kidding. She could have worked for the Gestapo.”