The First Wives Club (29 page)

“I was going to hit you for a loan today,” Larry moaned. ‘Holy shit, Asa. I owe seven hundred and forty-two dollars rent now or I’m out on my ass.” Larry took a long gulp of champagne.

“Yeah, well, I’ve only got plastic money.” Asa paused for a moment, then added, “But if you can hold off until the end of October, I’ll be able to help you out big time.”

“At the end of the month, I have some money coming in, too. No, I need it now,” Larry said swallowing his disappointment.

Turrling to look up at Asa again, Larry asked, “What’s going to happen at the end of the month? Going to win the lottery?”

“I’ve got a deal working,” Asa said, trying to deflect Larry’s curiosity. “But you’ve been writing and not taking pictures. I figured you were in the chips.”

“No,” Larry said, “just hot water.”

Gil and Mary Griffin were pounced on by Morty and Shelby as they stepped into the gallery. “Oh, am I evah happy to see you,” yellowhaired Shelby drawled. “I can’t wait to see your reactions.”

Gil looked around. A bit much. Personally, he was repelled by this sort of thing publicly displayed, but he knew enough not to show his feelings. He was a follower, not a leader, in the world of art and was wise enough to know it.

It was Mary who looked somewhat taken aback. He’d have to talk to her about that.

“I wanted to take you into the private viewing rooms,” Shelby gushed.

“I have some of Phoebe’s select works there.”

Gil wasn’t interested. Mary had all these social aspirations, such as the Fifth Avenue apartment and those ridiculous charity committees.

Gil could care less. Cynthia had done the society nonsense, which had helped him once upon a time. But no more. He was beyond it now, besides, it bored him. But if Mary wanted it, he was willing. To a point. Still, she wasn’t hanging this on their walls, no matter how fashionable it might be. It was nice to be taken into the private rooms, though, far away from the hoi polloi. Taking Mary’s arm, he followed Shelby and the detestable Morty Cushman, crass and so nouveau.

Morty was getting a little too pushy lately. Gil had made him a millionaire, but the little weasel kept sniffing around for more. Gil would unload him soon enough.

At that moment Shelby also wanted to unload Morty. She was worried.

Why was the turnout so bad? She let her eyes scan the room, but couldn’t bring herself to count heads. She knew it had to be low, since it was possible to get to the bar without pushing and shoving.

Where were the socialites? People like Gunilla Goldberg and Khymer Mallison? Was it Morty that was keeping people away? Maybe my mother was right. He is, after all, only a New York Jew, rich or not. And art was a sensitive thing, these works particularly so. She was charging a lot for a relatively unknown artist. She sighed. She just hoped Morty would keep his mouth shut.

It was Gil’s mouth that opened when Shelby led them before the smaller pictures. Sexual positions, with women as receptacles, filled each canvas. The images were disturbing, sadistic, and deeply erotic to Gil. He involuntarily squeezed Mary’s arm.

“Interesting,” was all he said, recovering quickly.

“Yes. Very,” Mary agreed, and Gil heard the breathlessness in her voice. One of these, perhaps. Yes. One of these in their bedroom.

Silently, they toured the two small private rooms, viewing each of the canvases of writhing forms.

Shelby had heard Mary’s breathlessness as well. She turned to Morty and raised her brows. He shrugged and said nothing, thank the Lord.

Shelby watched the other, mesmerized couple. She could smell her first sale. And if she sold to Gil and Mary Griffin, others would fall over each other to follow suit.

Back in the public viewing rooms, Duarto had just arrived. And he couldn’t believe his eyes. It wasn’t the show that shocked him, however. There, in the middle of all these useless pussy pictures, was the man he’d like to spend the rest of his life with. He’d never felt such a strong tug in his loins, and he’d felt plenty of tugs in his time. He’d come here, as always, to scare up a little business, and his special target was Mary Birmingham Griffin. He’d just heard from a mole in Linda Stein’s office that Linda, the nouveau society-apartment broker, had sold the Griffins the penthouse in Jackie Onassis’s building at 1040 Fifth Avenue, and Duarto badly wanted the job. But he also wanted this man who was standing beside one of these awful, offensive Phoebe paintings.

It was clear he was gay, but was he available? He was standing before a dark, tall, gangly, good-looking student type, but Duarto had never gone for the Jimmy Stewarts. He always yearned toward the sandy-colored, freckled little maricones. Who could figure these things? He even liked the guy’s receding hairline.

These days, of course, a date with a stranger was taking your life in your hands. So many of Duarto’s friends were dead, it was too painful to count anymore. After the seventeenth memorial-quilt square, Duarto gave up. He himself had always been careful, and lucky. He’d lived with Richard for eleven years, never cheated, and after Richard had been diagnosed, Duarto had tested negative. He should consider himself lucky, and he did. Duarto remembered how supportive of his work Richard had been. But even with Brenda helping out, he felt overworked without Richard’s help. And since Richard’s death, he was lonely. Now he stared at Asa Ewell, and visions of vine-covered cottages and beagle puppies flashed before his eyes.

“So instead of the old click-click, it’s been scribble-scribble?” Asa was asking Larry.

“Yeah, I’ve been writing. I’ve been inspired.” Yes, Larry thought.

And Elise Elliot is my inspiration.

Dear Elise. I sold the picture I took of her to People. Now I’ll have to give up the hope of ever seeing her again. I sold her out. She’d never understand, he thought. She’d believe that he was just using her when she saw the published picture.

He tried to shake off the dark cloud. Asa, he noticed, also seemed grim, the two of them were a pathetic pair. ‘Inspired? That’s great, Larry. But why so down? You got more than just money problems?”

Larry was grateful for the offer of an ear and a shoulder, but afraid to talk about how he was really feeling. Christ, what would Asa think of him if he knew what he had done? Well, he’d have to chance it or go crazy holding it all in. Slowly, he began to unravel the story of Elise to his old friend.

“I couldn’t believe it, Asa. Elise Elliot, right there on Madison Avenue. I kept snapping pictures of her as she walked down the street.

When she went into the bar at the Carlyle, I was beside myself. There was no decision. I just followed her in. It was dark and cool, almost empty. She was sitting by herself.” Taking another sip from the fluted glass in his hand, he said, “So I sent her over a drink.”

“And then?” Asa asked.

“And then she accepted. I joined her at her table and we talked. Then we spent the afternoon making love.” Larry lowered his head.

Asa laughed. “So what’s the problem? Seems to me you have no problem.”

“There’s a problem. I just told you how broke I’ve been?”

Asa shifted uncomfortably. He nodded.

“Well, I had to sell one of the pictures I took of her. Shit, Asa, I betrayed her. After having spent the most wonderful afternoon of my life with a woman, I betrayed her to survive.”

Larry thought his guilt must be contagious. He noticed Asa flinch when he said the word betrayed.

Asa looked up slowly. “I know something about big mistakes. Some can be forgiven just by saying I’m sorry.” Some need to be atoned for.

But Larry, I think this one’s easy. Just write her a note and tell her you’re sorry you did it, and ask her to forgive you. No explanations, no buts, just I’m sorry.”

” “But she’d never see me again.”

Asa nodded in agreement. ‘So then, what have you got to lose?” he said, biting his lip.

Even in the midst of his own problem, Larry noted his friend’s discomfort.

“Are you okay?”

“Who’s okay?” Asa asked. “Anyway, we were talking about you. Ask her forgiveness.”’ “But suppose she won’t?”

“Then you haven’t lost anything trying. Larry, just do it.”

Larry chewed on Asa’s very sound advice. He’s right, as usual. I’ll write to her. Confession is good for the soul, he thought, feeling lighter already. He began to pay closer attention to Asa. Good idea.

Good friend. But why was Asa so down? And was that a new suit? Why was frugal Asa living on plastic? What’s going on here?

“Asa, what’s with you? You got something on your mind?”’ Larry was sure Asa wasn’t only picking up his own guilty mood. Asa did have something on his mind, or on his conscience.

Larry, leaning toward him, said gently when Asa didn’t respond, “You know you can tell me, buddy. Out with it.”

Asa half-turned away from Larry, avoiding his eyes. “I sold out, too, Larry.

Big time. And like I said, some things take more than an apology to fix.”

“What are you talking about? What have you done?” Larry asked, almost in a whisper.

Asa turned back to the bar, dismissing Larry’s question. “I don’t want to talk about it right now, Larry. Wait until Halloween.” They stood in silence for a moment, looking over the sparse crowd. “Sorry I couldnt help you out right now, Larry. What are you going to do?”

Larry paused, then said as if to himself, “I’m going to do what every other failure in New York does. I’m going to call my mother.”

Then he noticed the rather exotic^looking man staring at them, or rather, at Asa. Grateful for the chance to change the subject, he said to his friend, “I think you’re being paged.”

Asa, following Larry’s glance, stared into the melting brown eyes of a tall, thinly mustached Hispanic man. Asa looked away. He never did know how to do this stuff.

Looking in the other direction, however, he was confronted by Gil Griffin.

Jesus, he didn’t want to be seen talking to him! Gil had gotten a message to him to put off the column until Halloween. He’d agreed. It was going to be tough to make it look natural. Asa wished he could back out of the deal. But it was too late. He’d already spent most of the money that was coming to him.

“Let’s go over and take a look at some of these paintings,” he suggested to Larry, taking his friend by the arm.

“Do we have to?” Larry asked.

Jon Rosen didn’t share Larry’s aversion to looking at the art. It was simple, really. Arriving late, as he always did, he had taken in the show at a glance.

Derivative, purposely provocative. But ultimately unimportant and uninspiring.

Phoebe Van Gelder, on the other hand was extremely inspiring. Jon waited until Shelby Symington, the Atlanta Barracuda, gently grabbed him, as he knew she would, and led him to Phoebe and the small crowd congregated around her. They were an interesting study—Shelby all tanned and blond and lush, Phoebe pale and raven haired and bony. Two extremes of the female of the species.

“Phoebe,” Shelby drawled, “I want you to meet Jon Rosen. The Jon Rosen.”

”Hello, the Jon. Are you related to the Donald?” Phoebe looked right into his eyes, her own dilated with excitement, or something more. Her tiny, almost boyish body was barely concealed by the chiffon draped around. She extended her hand to him. It was very small, and very hot.

Jon wasn’t sure how he wanted to play this one. He knew immediately that she was available, and he liked to divide and conquer old money.

I’m just like my sister Leslie, he thought. No sense of guilt. He only wondered whether he’d prefer to take her and write a scathing review, or whether it would amuse him more to do her and the public by praising her in print. The choice was interesting, and he felt a pleasant quickening. Shelby was watching the two of them intently, as was an older man. Before Shelby could bother with other introductions, Jon took the first step.

“Why don’t you show me what you have to show?” he asked her. Phoebe smiled.

Wordlessly they left the group.

.

Larry Cochran was shocked by this stuff. It wasn’t the subject, it was the stupid, tawdry, lifeless execution of it. “What was it?” he wondered aloud to Asa. “Self-hate, do you think? Or a political statement of some kind?” He stared over at Phoebe Van Gelder. She looked utterly stoned, incapable of any kind of statement. A rich little princess of entitlement. Though he had his camera with him, he’d never be able to sell a photo that had one of Phoebe’s pictures as a backdrop. Larry tried not to think of the beauty he could create if he had her resources. Too much resentment there.

His mother would send him a check, and he’d finish the screenplay and take pictures of these morons so he could keep eating. He sized up Phoebe for a shot. She stood beside a tall, silver-haired man. He was wearing a really ridiculous black leather blazer with gold buttons.

Chanel gone butch. Maybe worth a shot of the two of them. It was tricky, getting a photo without a labial lip intruding into the viewfinder. But she was this month’s media darling, so he could probably eat on this shot for a week. Larry had wandered the four main rooms. He’d gotten a few shots, but not many. Not much hope.

Sylvia Miles, but she was the one who Warhol said showed up at the opening of an envelope. Castelli, Harris, some other big-time art boys. A few minor Broadway types, desperate for some PR. Not worth wasting the film on. He would have to ask his mother for a loan. And he’d have to get a straight job. And he’d write an apology to Elise.

Not that it would do any good. Well, at least the food was good.

“Is that her father?”’ he asked Asa.

“Hell, no. That’s Bill Atchison, her fiance.”

“That’s Bill Atchison?” Larry couldn’t believe it. This man was leaving Elise Elliot for a kinky piece of ass like that? Larry shook his head. He looked over at Phoebe, who was now draped over Morty Cushman, the guy from the TV ads. She was arching her back, the little buds of her breasts clearly visible through the filmy blouse that covered her body stocking.

“She’s demented,” he told Asa. “I wouldn’t fuck her with your dick.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

The gay guy finally made his move, and Asa went off to talk with him.