Princess Daisy (42 page)

Together they made a traditional, infinitely secure home for each other, in which Robin was free to indulge his talent for creating resplendently baroque surroundings and ever more sumptuous flower arrangements. It was he who found and trained perfect servants, and Vanessa who planned the exquisitely thought-out parties she had used so effectively to promote Robin’s career. Finally, since they had no jealousy of each other, as lovers might have, each was free to indulge his sexual tastes with the added pleasure of knowing that the other was eagerly waiting to hear about it, to advise, to assist, to smooth the path, even to entrap, and if necessary, to comfort and console.

Their marriage gave them an entrée into the mainstream of the establishment of society and wealth which would not have been possible on the same level had they remained single. As “the Valarians” they dined at the White House, sailed on the largest yachts, stayed in the most historic English and Irish country houses, an impeccable couple, above scandal, if not entirely above rumor—but who paid attention to rumors in these days?

As “the Valarians” they were forever free of the taint of the homosexual; as a married couple they moved with impunity in the widest world of celebrity, while, in their own inner circle, they were not only recognized as brilliantly successful deceivers, but applauded for their cleverness in finding each other and using each other so well. They had understood the secret, so rarely brought out in its raw and naked state; the fact that among the successful of the world, there is
no gender
—there is only success or lack of success. The only important question is:
are you or are you not one of us?

Homosexual married couples come in a variety of combinations: the bisexual husband, the kind Robin always called “a Jazz-Tango,” who in the first years of marriage
occasionally enjoyed his wife and almost always produced astonishingly beautiful children; the true homosexual man and the wife who is terrified of sex of any kind; and the lesbian with the passive, almost neuter husband. The Valarians were of the variety that most certainly has the best stories to tell each other, since Robin was as active sexually as his wife.

Robin Valarian truly loved Vanessa and she truly loved him, both with anxious tenderness. If he had a cold she brought him vitamin C every hour and watched while he swallowed it. If she had a tiring day, he would rub her back for an hour until she purred with relaxation and then he’d go into the kitchen, tell the cook exactly what to put on a tray and bring it in himself, settling her among the cushions on the bed and insisting that she eat The life they had made together was a living, growing, deeply rooted thing, totally dependent on their joint contributions. Vanessa often quoted Rilke: “The love that consists in this, that two solitudes protect, and border and salute each other.”

Beyond love, they were each other’s best friends. Robin admired her nerve, her savage pursuit of what she wanted and he was particularly grateful for her role in his career. She had so much style, which leapt out directly from her personality, that she imparted it to his merely fashionable clothes. His abilities as a designer were limited: he knew how to make women look pretty and feminine—he specialized in cocktail and dinner dresses, leaning heavily on the allure of ruffles and the rustle of taffeta, but never in his life had he had an original design idea. Yet, year after year, rich women all over the country bought Robin Valarian’s expensive couture clothes. This came about only partly because of the exceptionally friendly way in which he was treated by the fashion press, whose members enjoyed being included in the parties given by this most exclusive of couples. Essentially his clothes sold because Vanessa was so frequently photographed wearing his dresses with her swaggering, devil-be-damned flair, surrounded by people of taste and status, that “a Valarian” had come to mean a safely pretty dress in which an upper-class woman could feel almost as if she were Vanessa Valarian herself, rising to the challenge of being dashingly, ruthlessly, clashingly chic.

Their duplex reflected the strength of their bond. It was not cupidity that made them load every table with precious
bibelots, but the nesting instinct gone wild, castle building on a domestic scale. Every object they chose and bought together reaffirmed their commitment, a set of Pyrex mixing bowls as strongly as a costly silver mermaid fashioned by Tony Duquette. There was to them a sacredness about their table linen, their silver and china such as only newlyweds know. Long before it became fashionable for a man to be interested in domestic detail, Robin Valarian prided himself on his abilities as a homemaker. Unlike the goddess of interior design, Sister Parish, whose two watchwords were luxury and discipline, the Valarians believed in luxury
and
luxury. Every one of their down pillows was piped, or tasseled, every lampshade lined in pink silk, every curtain double-lined, looped and caparisoned, every wall rich with at least twelve costly coats of lacquer, when it wasn’t covered with rare fabric, every sofa overstuffed and oversized and totally comfortable, so that their guests felt as comforted and cocooned as if they were babies in their cribs, an illusion which caused them to gossip more freely than they ever did in less cushioned settings. The Valarians never gave a party at which at least one reputation was not made and another reputation ruined.

This couple, who defended the fortress of their marriage with the rigorous loyalty of blood brothers, was spared the ambiguous changeable moods of lovers, escaped the predictable limits imposed by monogamy and enjoyed all of the privileges granted to matrimony.

Vanessa Valarian was a subtle and devoted practitioner of the art of doing favors. She had long nourished a private theory that a favor done for the right person at the right time, done without planned motive or direct expectation of reciprocity, would eventually prove to be a useful, even an essential piece of the superb mosaic of her life … caviar flung on the waters. The right time was, in her experience, when the person for whom she did the favor had no reason to expect anything of her, when the favor seemed to come straight from good-hearted open-handedness and appreciation of that person’s rare qualities. She almost never did favors for anyone who came to her for one; her favors had to appear as unhoped-for and unforgettable. The person for whom she did a favor needed no recommendation aside from Vanessa’s keen intuition that told her who was coming up and who was going down, who would make it, who had potential that
hadn’t been detected, and who wasn’t worth bothering with. Like an expert surfer, she was able to detect the big waves before they gathered momentum, able to hop on board before the other women in her world had spotted the swelling and the power.

When Topsy Short had mentioned that Daisy Valensky was sketching Cindy as a sort of trial before Topsy made up her mind about commissioning an oil of all three girls on their ponies, Vanessa felt the tingle of opportunity. She had observed Daisy the evening before at dinner. She had known instantly, as no one else did, that the green Schiaparelli suit was almost forty years old and that the emeralds were false and that the girl was, in some way or another,
vulnerable
. How she could possibly be vulnerable in light of her title, her share of her father’s presumably fabulous fortune and her beauty was inexplicable, but Vanessa
knew
.

“Why don’t we look at her sketches before she goes back to New York,” she suggested.

“Oh, I don’t think she’d like it,” Topsy answered. “She told me when I asked her to come that they’d just be rough studies, like shorthand notes. She’ll send me the finished sketch in a few weeks.”

“What does it matter what she likes, young Topsy? Let’s have a peek—it might be amusing.”

Reluctantly Daisy allowed the two women to see her sketch pad. There were dozens of rapid, bold line drawings but none of them could convey to a nonprofessional what the finished sketch would be like.

Topsy was silent, her disappointment visible on her face, but Vanessa instantly grasped the extent of Daisy’s talent

“You’re good—but of course you know that,” she said to Daisy. “Topsy, you’d be making the mistake of the year if you don’t have Princess Daisy paint all three of your girls. In a few years you’ll have to pay twice the price for anything she does—if she even has the time for you.”

“Well … I’m just not sure—what if Ham doesn’t like it?” Topsy looked at Vanessa adoringly. How could she be interested in making decisions about paintings when, under her skirt, she could feel her naked thighs rubbing softly together, aching, trembling for the touch of Vanessa’s marvelous hands?

“I can’t imagine anything he’d like more, and if you don’t do it now—Topsy, pay attention!—you won’t have a
record of the girls before they start to grow up—they’re just at that perfect age. If I were you I wouldn’t hesitate for a second. I’d have a really big oil, an heirloom … that is,” she said, looking at Daisy, “if you have time to take on such a job?”

“I could make time,” Daisy said, thinking that she’d paint all night for a month if necessary to get it done before the next bill came from England.

“Well, then, that’s settled. I’ve done you a great favor, Topsy, and I don’t want you to forget it. You’ll bless me someday.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Valarian,” Daisy said hastily.

Vanessa spied the hidden relief on Daisy’s face. So, she needed money after all.
Curious
.

“Thank me? Topsy’s the one who should thank me—she’s damn-lucky to get you,” Vanessa answered with the guileless, great, open smile that accompanied the execution of a promising favor that every instinct told her to grant. Daisy Valensky was now in her debt. “The next time we’re in England, I’m going to tell Ram just how talented I think you are. He’s a great friend of ours—we’re devoted to your brother.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Valarian,” Daisy said again, automatically. She felt a chill like a stain spreading over her heart.

“What you need, Luke Hammerstein,” Kiki announced sweetly, “is someone to wreak havoc with your life.”

“That last exhibition just about did it for me,” Luke answered as they found a table in The Ballroom.

“I thought you’d like it—how many people have ever seen Quebec manhole-cover rubbings?”

“It was a definite first. I’ve been curious about them as far back as grade school. And I like the fact that the group who did them is making rubbings from the manhole covers in SoHo to show in Quebec. It’s that kind of cultural exchange that may do something to help the uncertain relationship we’ve always had with Canada.”

“Yeah—I worry about Canada a lot.”

“Do you?”

“Naturally. There’s a tunnel in the heart of downtown Detroit which takes you right into Canada. When my brothers and I were kids we used to pester our father to take us. It sounded so romantic.”

“Was it?”

“Of course not—that just proves that you know nothing about Detroit … or Canada.”

“We can’t all get lucky.”

“You’re making fun of me again,” said Kiki, her eyebrows, with their jubilant angles, rising toward her ruffle of hair which was temporarily its natural brown.

“I’m sorry but I can’t help it. You’re like Beatrice in
Much Ado About Nothing
—remember, she was ‘born in a merry hour’?”

“Well, did she get the guy in the end?”

“You never stop, do you?” Luke Hammerstein had been pursued by females since he was twelve, but never had he met one as frank about her intentions as Kiki Kavanaugh. Was she a compendium of every craft and guile known to women, or was she what she presented herself to be, an innocent sensualist out to have a thoroughly good time—with him as a partner? Luke was used to the new breed of women, but Kiki was a Green Beret in the battle of the sexes. It put him off balance, he admitted to himself. He was actually playing hard to get, like a woman was supposed to do—this role-reversal stuff was kind of fun.

“Get me a drink, for God’s sake—I’m beat,” he said. They were both carrying baskets loaded with the afternoon’s purchases.

“Have you ever had hard cider?” Kiki asked. It was her favorite next to the iced Irish Coffee.

“Not yet, but why don’t you order it since you’re obviously going to anyway.”

He looked in mild exasperation at the baskets they’d deposited on the white tiled floor. Kiki had bought, if he remembered correctly, an appliqued apricot satin cover for a hot-water bottle at a store called Harriet Love, a sculpture of a green frog, done entirely in neon tubing at a gallery called Let There Be Neon, two black satin garments, ambiguously called “guest kimonos,” two bottles of Soave Bolla and one of Wild Turkey bourbon at a liquor store which had, in its window, a sign announcing
WE DO NOT HAVE PINT BOTTLES OF WINE
, and a piece of jewelry which made him nervous, an ivory heart with a red stone hanging from it like a drop of blood. Even the jewelry in SoHo had names, he thought—this one was called “They’ve Been Kicking My Heart Around.” And that wasn’t counting what she’d bought at Dean and Deluca, the great gourmet grocery store, where overflowing
baskets of garlic buds, apples, lemons, black radishes, walnuts and plummy dried yuccas stood decoratively in the doorway and expensive pots and pans hung from the skylight two stories above. There she’d gone wild. Slabs of pâté en croute and duck gallantine, both at over twelve dollars a pound, from a counter on which two dozen different pâtés were displayed; a jar of heather honey from Holland; whipped cream cheese and a Petit St. Marcellin, the small cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves; three different kinds of salami, one from Spain, one from Italy and one from France; a pound of smoked Scotch salmon; a jar of hot okra pickles; a pound of Black Forest Ham; a dozen freshly baked croissants; half of a perfect brie; and, from the baskets of bread which hung all over the store, she’d picked one twisted challah, four bagels and one loaf of dark pumpernickel. Then she’d added a box of Dovedale Butter-Shortbread from an English company which had been established in 1707, and several bars of bittersweet chocolate from the Ghirardelli Chocolate Company in San Leandro, California. There was something about the combination of foods she’d bought which struck him as highly suggestive.