Клео Коул - On What Grounds

I might have gotten away if the woman hadn’t dug her French manicure into my forearm.

“Did they send a PHOTOGRAPHER, do you know? THE TIMES ?”

Curious. No mumbles there. Every single syllable perfectly pronounced.

I gave her a wide-eyed I-just-don’t-know shrug, un-hooked myself from the white-tipped claws, and with Black Russian firmly in hand, made a beeline for Madame.

Really, since the stock market’s turn-of-the-century plunge this sort of scene felt a lot more desperate. More like verbal hockey than a mumble game. Maybe I should take my inspiration from the Pittsburgh Penguins smacking it around on the Civic Arena ice of my youth—or as my prodigal father might put it— What I wouldn’t give to high-stick some of these people.

Don’t get me wrong. Conversations at these things weren’t always so vacuous. Ask a Cooper Union professor to name his top ten favorite buildings in the world, and you’ve got an entire course in architecture appreciation in one thirty-minute conversation.

Or ask a dignified older couple how they met and before your eyes they’ve melted into twenty-year-olds reliving a chance meeting in postwar Paris or a nervous blind date in Central Park.

Ask a heart surgeon from Cedar Sinai to name the most important medical breakthroughs over the last five years; a Chase banker which types of small businesses are applying for loans this year; or a Berk and Lee publishing executive what books are on his or her nightstand, and presto! you have a fascinating quarter hour.

All I’m after is a person who is a lively participant in this world. The PAP is what I can’t abide. Park Avenue Princess. (And Prince, of course; the male version is just as bad.)

This type is either (1) new money and therefore filled with a missionary’s zeal to prove they have lots of it along with the high connections and refined tastes that go with it, or (2) old money and so content with their pedigree and trust fund they feel no need to make any effort on their end of the conversation.

The number twos are pretty much self-evident: They don’t speak. They just nod.

As for the number ones, Madame advised me to watch for name dropping and carping. According to her: “These people are operating on the theory that simply criticizing is criticism. That the more books, plays, artists, clothing designers, and restaurants they simply abhor (for no thoughtfully articulated reason), the more you will see them as being hard to please and therefore having the best of taste.”

Among the PAPs, there are also those who secretly realize they’ve failed at any real-world accomplishment beyond stockpiling loot and drawing down annuities, so they’ve solved their problem of having nothing to talk about by making conspicuous consumption their profession.

The following topics tend to dominate their conversations: pursuit of the perfect fill-in-the-blank (spa, tan, resort, hotel, golf course, restaurant, clothing designer, plastic surgeon, therapist, prescription drug); the care and feeding of your fur; and who’s purchased what house in the Hamptons.

Given that set of slap-happy topics, I for one didn’t have the bank account to play anything but the mumble game!

As I made my way over to Madame, black Russian in hand, I admired how regal she looked tonight. Her energy level was as amazing as ever, too. Despite her condition, she had decked herself out in a floor-length Oscar de la Renta with the loveliest lacework at the neck and sleeves. The mourning black wasn’t out of place here. Most of the women had worn it tonight, including me.

I hadn’t been to a function like this in years, of course, and tried to squeeze into an old cocktail dress—as embarrassing as that was. Madame took one look at me on her doorstep and snapped her fingers. Before I knew it, her personal maid was helping me don an off-the-shoulder Valentino of gauzy silk, twisting up my hair into a neat chignon, and adorning my exposed neck with a delicate antique necklace of emeralds, diamonds, and rubies crafted to appear as tiny linked rosebuds.

Now, at least, I looked as if I fit into a thousand-a-plate charity gig. This was crucial, considering what Matt and I had planned.

After we’d met Madame at her Fifth Avenue penthouse—and she’d dressed me with the glee of a vintage Barbie collector—we’d rode up here together in her private car and helped her check in.

“It will be a late night,” Madame had told us. “And I’d much rather take an elevator to my room at the end of the evening than a car downtown. Besides which, brunch is always a delight in Peacock Alley.” (One of the Waldorf’s classy-as-they-come restaurants. Really, their chestnut soup is to die for.)

Madame’s decision to check in for the night was actually very good luck for Matt and me. With access to a Waldorf-Astoria room key card, our plan was now foolproof. Or so we’d hoped.

“Clare, we’re at table five,” said Madame as I approached her.

Five out of one hundred, not bad, I thought. But it made perfect sense, given Madame’s high place on the ten-member organizing committee for this benefit.

“Which zip code?” I asked. There were one thousand attendees here. I feared I’d need a road map.

She gestured toward the front of the vast room, near the high stage, on which the silent auction items were being displayed next to individual boxes where bidders would deposit their written offers by the end of the evening. All the items had been donated by patrons. The bulk of them were antiques, objets d’art, or promised services (including a famous Food Channel chef who’d agreed to cater your next dinner party, and a celebrity singer who stood ready to serenade you tonight in a carriage ride around Central Park).

The funds raised would benefit various special programs at St. Vincent’s Hospital, a charity for which Madame’s earnest efforts now made more sense to me than ever since she was being treated for cancer there. In fact, as she and I approached table five, I was surprised to see her oncologist rising to greet us.

“Clare,” said Madame. “I’d like you to meet Dr. Gary McTavish.”

It was Doctor Gray-Temples all right. I had caught only a glimpse of the sixtyish man the other day, talking with Madame in the hospital corridor, as I rode the elevator up to see Anabelle in the ICU. He still had distinguished gray temples in a head of salt-and-peppered hair, boldly chiseled facial features, and a sturdy build, but tonight he’d exchanged his white coat for a black tie, red plaid vest, and black dinner jacket.

“Charmed, my dear,” he said, the slight Scottish brogue sealing the Sean Connery impression. “I’ve heard many good things about you.”

“Nice,” I blurted as he bent over my hand. “I mean, uh…nice to meet you.”

Gray-Temples gave me a polite smile, then quickly focused his warm brown eyes back on Madame’s now-glowing face. “She’s charming, Blanche.”

Blanche, I thought. Hmmmm. Doctor and patient certainly have gotten chummy.

Gray-Temples then moved to the chair next to his, gallantly pulled it out, and gave Madame a flirty wink. “May I?”

Madame practically giggled. “You certainly may, Gary.”

Gary! Not even Doctor Gary. Another Hmmmmm on my part.

The good doctor pulled out my chair next, but his eyes never left Madame’s.

I nervously glanced about, making sure Matt hadn’t arrived yet. He had a short fuse and a terribly protective streak with every woman in his life. Who knew what he’d do if he suspected his mother’s oncologist was trying to make time with her.

“Greetings, all,” said Matt about ten seconds later. He plopped into the empty seat between me and his mother. “Ready?” he whispered to me.