Mai Ling thought differently. Their afternoon post-performance discussion in the lobby was quickly interrupted by a half dozen fans walking up to congratulate and shake hands with her. An older man, his white frizzy hair slicked over his bald head in a side comb, cornered her to discuss his theory of interpreting classical works until Mai Ling waved to Ritchie, who got the signal and interrupted him, pulling her away.
“You saved me,” Mai Ling sighed. “His breath was terrible.”
“Does that always happen?” Ritchie asked.
“No, fortunately. Usually I just look like some student. But once one of them starts pointing ...”
“You should hire a bodyguard.”
“Well, you’re doing a pretty good job today.”
“Thanks.”
They stepped outside. The afternoon was cool. A few people stopped outside the doors of the theatre to light cigarettes. Ritchie led Mai Ling down the street. Once away from the crowd, she continued her critique of the concert.
“The cellist was sluggish. I’ve worked with him before. The viola soloist, however, was rather sharp, in a good way.” They walked a few blocks before hailing a cab, since they were both unsure where they were going.
“Oh, yes,” Ritchie agreed, although he was unsure with what he was agreeing.
“Do you listen to music when you work?” she asked.
“Oh yeah, mostly jazz. Philip Glass for steady, circular inspiration. You know, the repetition is good.”
“Mmmm,” she nodded. “Minimalism has its place.”
Ritchie chuckled. “Of course, I do listen to your music a lot more now.”
“Oh, and what kind of work comes out of that?”
He took her hand. She flinched a moment, then relaxed as they walked.
“Um, usually I get very distracted and have to stop and really listen.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.”
“No, it’s good. Gives me a break.”
“Thanks.”
“I don’t know many people who are on sale at Tower Records.”
“Oh, that. Just try to think of me as a person, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
They walked on a bit before Ritchie suggested stopping someplace for coffee. Mai Ling declined. “Hearing others makes me want to work harder. I should go practice. But we could share a cab. Where are you headed?” Ritchie hesitated, then agreed.
As they sat in the taxi, Jamaican reggae rolled softly from the driver’s radio. Mai Ling nodded her head to the beat. “Do you have any new gallery showings coming up?” she asked. Unfortunately, Ritchie had lied about the number of previous exhibits. In fact, he’d lied by about a dozen.
“Uh no, in fact. But I’m working on a lot of new stuff.”
She then said to Ritchie quite earnestly, “You know, I know a few people who love to invest in new artists. One of my patrons has a terrific collection of Warhol floral prints at her summer home.”
Ritchie didn’t respond until he realized that she meant him. “Oh, you don’t have to do any favors for me.” Ritchie grinned sheepishly.
“No, really. They love to pay good money just to know they got an early work by someone who might be the next Jeff Koons.”
“Stop,” he blushed.
“I’m serious.”
“Don’t. Stop. Don’t stop,” he smiled.
“If you meet the right people, you’d be surprised how easy it is.”
Ritchie took her hand in his. “I don’t think I’d be surprised at all. Just do me a favor?”
“I thought you said you didn’t want favors.”
“Just one.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t compare me to Jeff Koons.”
After letting Mai Ling off at her apartment (Ritchie had politely refused her money despite her protests), he told the driver to hook around the corner. After paying the fare and making sure to get the receipt, he walked the seven blocks to the nearest subway station.
23
“That’s Iman!”
“Is it?”
“I swear!”
“That Montana looks like a rag that ran into a glitter truck!”
“Stop!”
Marcos leaned in close with Brian as they gazed at the gowns on the stage at Avery Fisher Hall.
The fashion show benefit for the American Cancer Society, co-chaired by Trish Fuller and Evelyn Carlson, the second wife of an advertising CFO whose largest client was a cigarette company, had been scheduled to take place under a grand tent in Damrosch Park. But the event had been quickly rescheduled indoors when the $15,000 rented tent and lighting poles collapsed under their own weight. Fortunately, it occurred early in the day while only a few technicians were under it. No one was severely injured. The show was postponed until after dinner in the lobby had been served.
On the stage that usually showcased the world’s great orchestras and musical artists, the same bevy of seated attendants who regularly supported the orchestra had gathered to see equally elite clothing displayed with as much flair.
Marcos and Brian, having escaped the table-clearing duties in the second level lobby, hid in a small enclosed room with a view of stage left, the glass-windowed private viewing booth of the reclusive Ernest Harbacher. Following his death at eighty-three, it became the Ernest Harbacher Memorial Viewing Booth, with a brass plate on the door.
“They had to rework the whole show in three hours,” Marcos said.
“How do you know?” Brian asked, leaning closer to the window for a better view.
“My friend Raymond is a dresser for these girls tonight. Told me all about it.” He put his arm gently over Brian’s shoulder.
Another flush of applause swept through the audience as the lights rose on a line of Geoffrey Beene apparel, worn by a half dozen gaunt models. They sauntered about on the stage, grinning knowingly to the seats filled with women, some as thin as they were, albeit through sometimes unnatural means.
“Can you believe those old gals are all gonna buy these things?” Marcos said.
“Their husbands buy them. They wear them.”
“Right.”
“To lunches at Le Cirque.”
“Where they plan more benefits!”
“How very special.” Marcos rubbed his hand up the freshly shaved nape of Brian’s neck. They grinned in the dark room.
“A benefit for innocent children with AIDS,” Marcos cooed.
“To help the poor crack babies in the Bronx,” Brian said.
“Project Outreach.” They giggled.
“Project Minority.”
“The Untalented Actor’s Fund.”
“The Stupid Slum Kid Fund.” Marcos wrapped his arm around Brian.
“Anything for a party.” Brian reached down, pressing the stiff bulge against Marcos’ equally bulging black pants. The two fell against the wall. Marcos pushed his tongue into Brian’s mouth. They kissed furiously. Marcos reached over and locked the door.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“We should go.”
“C’mon, baby. It’s been years.”
“But I’m married. I’m monogamous.”
“And I am the Duchess of York.” He pressed close to Brian again, crowding away any shred of guilt, pushing aside the ensuing denial for a few pleasant moments, but not the thrill of possibly getting caught.
As the music for the Goeffrey Beene collection faded and the applause dimmed, the evening’s announcer,
New York Times
fashion columnist Yvan Dimetricos, stepped back to the microphone.
“Now I’d like to take the opportunity to thank our major donators, the Andrew Bellman Foundation.” A burst of applause. “And our co-chairs for this evening’s benefit, Evelyn Carlson and Trish Fuller.” He gestured to the front row.
A spotlight shifted to the standing women. Evelyn and Trish shared glances, then persuaded their husbands to stand as well. Applause rose to a polite roar as Winston Fuller stood with Evelyn’s husband. A young man in a tuxedo handed a bouquet of roses to Trish Fuller, who beamed with a wide grin to the equally bouqueted Evelyn Carlson.
Winston Fuller gave a small wave and mumbled some joke to the man seated beside him, Richard Kirben, the Chairman of the Board for Lincoln Center, who was instrumental in arranging the entire benefit. Kirben, an old Harvard chum of Fuller, had been his fraternity roommate in college.
“Do me a favor, dear,” Trish Fuller whispered to her husband as they returned to their seats and the fashion show continued.
“Yes, love?” Winston said, his eyes on the stage and the young women on it.
Trish clutched her bouquet of flowers, the plastic making crinkling noises under the music. “Don’t get too drunk tonight, please?”
Winston gave his wife a small glare, unnoticeable to their friends seated around them, but noticeable enough to further the gap between what was thought to be one of the happiest society couples in Manhattan.
“Certainly, dear,” he said, her request only leaving him even more thirsty for a Tom Collins.
There had been a time when they were the toast of Manhattan. Winston’s editorials were quoted in all the daily newspapers and syndicated in dozens more. His regularity on the political talk show circuit ensured even higher book sales and popularity, and a constant feast of cocktail conversation.
Of course, that wasn’t his goal, but merely part of the perks of being an official opinion of current events on New York’s various crises and the nation’s well-being. Trish’s stature as a socially conscious society woman had been secured through her years of charity work. They’d become trusted sources and valuable allies.
But despite their support of the conquering Republican era, and the endless invitations and parties, Winston had begun to tire of it all. He’d wanted to spend more time traveling, getting away from the society crowd that helped him and Trish rise. He’d too often heard his own voice, tiresomely quoting himself over a table for eight in a posh Park Avenue dining room, once again postulating on what to do with “them;” the homeless, the poor, the unfortunate, and the homosexuals, now besieged by a plague which he believed was entirely self-imposed.
But his opinions had become unpopular in some circles. For the rest of his friends and associates, it was better to blather in patronizing platitudes, throw money, and ignore them. Yet he repeatedly took hit after hit from leftist columnists and gay rights bureaucrats who practically cringed at his comments as if he had assaulted them with his own hand.
It wasn’t that he didn’t have sympathy, or that Trish hadn’t opened him up to a better understanding, what with all her contacts with gay florists and caterers. His outward contempt had a particular bias that rose from very personal experience.
Certainly, they maintained a sense of romance from time to time. That was only natural, after all they’d been through together. But the children were grown, with children, careers, and families of their own. Thank God they’d been spared any hint of scandal, unlike the Clays, whose son had died so tragically, or the Marsdens, whose daughter’s drinking problem and three divorces were juicy fodder for the tabloids. No, at least they’d been spared such pain.
What drew Trish and Winston apart to the point of being close friends and emotional sparring partners haunted Winston daily. He’d been able to put it aside for most of his life, with only a few minor indiscretions down the years. Trish was understanding, and the two maintained a code of silence in the matter.