Eliza, who had decided that evening once and for all that she was not Julian’s type either, was trying very hard to enjoy the party. And failing. Miserably. Everything had gone wrong from the moment she arrived, when the ghastly Camilla North had said in her earnest way, ‘What a lovely dress, Mrs Morell. I always loved Chanel,’ in tones that most clearly implied Chanel was best left in the past; Eliza, not easily demoralized in matters of dress, had felt an almost overwhelming urge to rush back to the apartment and change. From there it had been downhill all the way; everyone seemed to be friends, colleagues, to have worked on the project, to know a million times more about it than she did. She had tried very hard to keep abreast of Circe’s development; had pestered Julian to talk to her about it, had visited it whenever she came to New York in the process of doing up their new apartment in Sutton Place (‘You’d love it,’ she had said to Letitia, ‘it’s exactly like London there right on the river’) but it had been difficult, humiliating even, to have to keep asking people about it, to question them and betray her own ignorance.
But looking at the store that evening, in the company of Paul Baud who had taken it upon himself to look after her, she was still amazed, dazzled by Julian’s achievement: by the design of each department, the way each was so different, yet blended so perfectly into the whole; at the selection of merchandise, the range of exclusive designers on offer, the wit and style of the accessories, the imaginativeness and scope of the beauty floor, the grace and charm of the entire building. ‘It’s truly beautiful, Paul,’ she said, ‘you must be very very proud.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘not proud perhaps, but pleased of course. It was a wonderful opportunity for me. Your husband is a very good person to work with. So – let me think, what am I trying to say – so easy to talk to, to explain things to, so understanding, such an – an inspiration. It is very unusual, I
think, for a business person to be so in tune with the creative side of things.’
‘I’m sure,’ said Eliza, trying to reconcile this patron saint of communication with the man she had been endeavouring to talk to for nearly five years.
‘Camilla says the same thing, very very often,’ said Paul. ‘She says it is quite extraordinary to work with a man who so appreciates so quickly what you are trying to do. She has adored working with him, I know.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Eliza sweetly, ‘I’m so glad. Shall we go and find some food, Paul? I’m hungry.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, keeping you up here away from the party,’ said Paul, looking stricken. ‘Come, we’ll find some food and some more champagne, and then perhaps you will dance with me. I do admire your dress. Chanel is my favourite designer of all time. And it is nice to see a woman not in black this evening.’
‘Thank you,’ said Eliza, feeling just slightly soothed.
‘Come, then. And perhaps you will tell me about the people in the company in London, while we go down, particularly the
grandmère.
She is beautiful, that one. She has style.’
‘Don’t let her hear you referring to her as the
grandmère
,’ said Eliza, laughing. ‘But yes, she is beautiful. And clever, too.’
‘So I believe. And the other lady? The one with the glorious legs. She looks as if she might be a dark mare – is that the expression?’
‘Nearly,’ said Eliza, laughing, ‘that’s Susan Johns. I’d never honestly noticed her legs. But she is terribly clever too. And maybe a bit of a dark mare. She virtually runs the company in London while Julian is away.’
‘She has chic, that one,’ said Paul. ‘I admire her look.’
It had never occurred to Eliza that Susan had a look. She resolved to study her more closely in future. The world suddenly seemed full of beautiful, clever women, all of whom appeared to know her husband a great deal better than she did. She sighed.
‘What is it, Mrs Morell? Did I say something wrong?’ asked Paul anxiously. He hoped he was not upsetting his patron’s wife on such an occasion; that would never do. Only that evening Julian had said he would like to think about opening a Circe in Paris. It would be terrible not to get the contract because of a
little tactlessness or indiscretion. Besides, he had a kind heart; and he found Eliza charming. She was beautiful, he thought (only there was a sadness in her huge green eyes that puzzled him); and she looked ravishing in her white beaded shift dress, so elegant, so discreetly noticeable. Most of the Englishwomen he had met were loud and badly dressed; not chic or
sympatique.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘let us find the champagne. And we can study the celebrities on the way. So many, we have done well.’
They had; moving so gracefully up the stairs she appeared to float, they passed Audrey Hepburn, stunning in a black Givenchy sheath dress, a drifting mass of black ostrich feathers on her head; Zsa Zsa Gabor rippled through the crowd, in a cloud of red ruffles; Cary Grant smiled his way round the room.
‘Camilla invited Jackie Kennedy. She knows her, it seems. She might come. But I fear not now. They are out of town. They say he has a very good chance of becoming president. I hope so,’ he added fervently. ‘It would be nice to have some chic in the White House. I would certainly vote for him, if I were allowed.’
Eliza liked the idea of a president elected in the cause of chic. ‘Then I hope for your sake he gets in,’ she said. ‘Come on, Paul. Let’s dance.’
When the party finally ended, with a rain of golden fireworks over the city from the roof garden, they had gone out in a huge party to Sardi’s, with the Emersons, Paul, Camilla North, Letitia, Susan, and the Silks and the diMaggios.
Eliza, who had drunk a great deal of champagne by now, in sheer nervousness and desperation, and was sitting in between Scott and Mick, talked and giggled loudly a great deal, flirted with them both outrageously at first and then, as she became increasingly drunk, more and more recklessly garrulous, suggested to Scott that she should have a place on the board, that Mick might like to give her a job in his studio, and even that she might open up her own department at Circe, selling children’s clothes. Everyone humoured her, fielded her suggestions gracefully, laughed at her jokes, but that could not hide the fact that she was, of all the people present, with the possible exception of Madeleine Emerson, a total outsider, and
an awkwardness in the party. And despite the champagne, she knew it very well herself.
While they were waiting for their dessert she got up and walked round to Julian; he had been engrossed in conversation with Camilla for some time, and she felt an overpowering urge to disrupt them.
‘Darling, move over,’ she said, ‘I want to share your chair.’
‘Don’t be silly, Eliza,’ said Julian coldly, ‘there isn’t room.’
‘Then let me sit on your knee. Just for a minute. I’ve hardly been near you all evening.’
‘Eliza, please.’
‘Oh, Julian, don’t be so stuffy. All those celebrities must have gone to your head.’ She picked up his glass and drained it. ‘But we’re with friends now. Aren’t we? Or aren’t we?’ She looked round the table. ‘We’re all friends aren’t we?’
Nobody spoke. ‘Of course we are. Great friends. So come on, Julian, be friendly. I’m your wife. Remember? Move up.’
Camilla stood up and smiled at her graciously. ‘Here, Eliza, do take my chair. I’m going to the ladies’ room anyway.’
‘Thank you,’ said Eliza, ‘thank you very much. How kind of you. How very very kind. Julian, Miss North is very very kind. And beautiful, don’t you think? Yes, of course you do. You always notice beauty, don’t you, my darling. Lots of beauty here, isn’t there, among our friends. Well, just your friends, really, until tonight. You’ve been keeping them to yourself. I hope they’re my friends too, now.’
The table had fallen into a ghastly silence. Julian stared at his plate, white faced, pushing back his hair compulsively. Eliza picked up Camilla’s glass and raised it. ‘A toast,’ she said. ‘To Circe. I named it, you know, in a way. It was my idea to give it a classical name. Julian’s forgotten, of course, but we’re all friends, so I can tell you. To Circe, then. Raise your glasses.’
Mick diMaggio, who had been watching Eliza intently, half admiring, half fearful for her, suddenly raised his glass. ‘I echo the toast,’ he said, ‘to Circe. And to Eliza, who named it – her. And to all of us – friends – who sail in her,’ he added quickly. It was a charming and graceful gesture; it eased the situation totally. ‘To Circe,’ they all said, even Julian managed a shadow of a gesture, mouthed the words.
Susan, who had been watching the scene with particular
horror, her heart constricted with panic and sympathy for Eliza, spoke suddenly. ‘It is such a good name,’ she said. ‘Who
was
Circe, anyway?’
‘She was a magician,’ said Nigel Silk, in his impeccable Boston tones. ‘She turned Ulysses’ companions into swine.’
‘A sorceress,’ corrected Camilla.
‘Same thing,’ said Nigel.
‘Not quite.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Letitia under her breath to Madeleine, ‘Vassar versus Yale. Who would you put your money on?’
‘Vassar, I think. More staying power.’
The conversation had become mercifully more general. Camilla and Nigel were engrossed in a dazzling display of mythological knowledge and had moved on to the influence of Sappho on modern poetry; Letitia was making Mick diMaggio laugh as she described how no fewer than three of her would-be suitors that evening had asked her if she could introduce them to the Queen; Madeleine Emerson had managed to engage Eliza in conversation about interior designers in London, and the possible career she was planning for herself among their ranks. Susan looked at Julian, silent and withdrawn, and felt suddenly and inexplicably sorry for him. She went and sat down next to him.
‘It’s been a lovely evening. A very special occasion. You must be really happy.’
She had chosen her words carefully.
‘I was,’ he said shortly, as she had known he would.
‘Oh, Julian, don’t be silly. It didn’t matter. She’d had a bit too much to drink, that’s all.’
‘She looked stupid. Ridiculous.’
‘And your wife is not allowed to look stupid?’
‘No. She isn’t.’
‘Never?’
‘Never. And certainly not on an occasion like this.’
‘Well,’ said Susan, ‘I’m glad I’m not your wife.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Julian, ‘I wish you were. As you very well know.’
‘Maybe. But I can assure you if I was I’d look stupid a great
deal more often than Eliza does. She’s a great asset to you, Julian, and she’d be more of one if you’d let her be.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean you shut her out.’
‘How do you know? Has she been talking to you?’
‘Of course not. She hardly ever talks to me, about anything. I wish she would. I like her. But anyway, she’s very very loyal. More so than you deserve.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I know you shut her out because I have eyes in my head. It’s extremely obvious, Julian. You never talk to her. You don’t tell her anything. It’s ridiculous. She could be such an asset to you. You
should
talk to her and you should listen to her. Then this sort of thing wouldn’t happen. It was very sad, seeing her tonight, pretending she knew more about everything than she did, talking away, covering up for herself.’
‘Stop lecturing me, Susan.’ But he looked less angry, more relaxed.
‘It’s a bloody sight more interesting lecture than the one that’s going on on my left.’
‘Oh, Lord.’
Camilla and Nigel had left mythology for primitive American art; Letitia, who was now nearly as drunk as Eliza, was regaling Mick diMaggio with her stories of the Prince of Wales; Scott Emerson was nodding gently over his bourbon.
‘I think,’ said Julian sotto voce to Susan, ‘that it’s time to go home.’
‘I agree. Now promise me you won’t be angry with Eliza.’
Julian sighed and raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘All right. I promise. Why is everyone on her side? You, Madeleine, Mick.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Susan with some asperity, ‘because we’re sorry for her.’
Eliza, waking in the morning to a hideous hangover and an empty apartment, knew they had been sorry for her, and decided it would never ever happen again. If she could not persuade Julian to share his life with her, then she would have one of her own, and make sure she didn’t share that one with him.
She had apologized to him on the way home for behaving badly, and he had said shortly that it hadn’t mattered so very much as they had after all been with close friends, and clearly wished to end the discussion. But he had slept in his dressing room, after giving her the briefest good night kiss, as increasingly often now he did.
She booked her flight home immediately, instead of waiting another week; she phoned Madeleine to tell her.
‘Eliza, I hope this isn’t because of last night,’ said Madeleine, ‘because that would be very silly.’
‘Well,’ said Eliza in a rather tight voice, ‘it is and it isn’t.’
‘But darling, it just didn’t matter, and nobody minded if that’s what you mean. Nobody.’
‘Yes, they did,’ said Eliza, ‘I minded. I made a fool of myself. And in front of a lot of people who matter to Julian. People I hardly know. People like the Silks and – and Camilla North.’
‘I see,’ said Madeleine quietly.
‘But thank you for being on my side. You were wonderful. And when you come over next month, you will come and stay, won’t you?’
‘Of course we will. Now Eliza, promise me you’re not going to rush off back to London and do anything silly.’
‘Oh, Madeleine,’ said Eliza with a sigh, ‘I’ve spent the last five years trying to be sensible. It doesn’t seem to have worked. I feel a bit disillusioned with it all. I just want to get home.’
‘Eliza, you sound so sad,’ said Madeleine. ‘Please, please believe me, I know Julian cares about you very much.’
‘Maybe he does,’ said Eliza with a sigh, ‘but he has a very strange way of showing it.’
‘Well, I know so,’ said Madeleine. ‘He talks about you so much. And if – if you’re worried about – well – Camilla North, you shouldn’t be. They just work together. I’m quite sure there’s no more to it than that.’