“Isn’t this the most divine party you’ve ever seen?” Tiffany was weaving slightly and watching her friends. Marina and Kezia exchanged a rapid glance, and Kezia nodded. She and Tiffany had gone to school together. She was a nice girl too, when she wasn’t drunk. It was something Kezia would not put in the column. Everyone knew she drank, and it hurt to see her like that. It wasn’t something amusing to read at breakfast, like Marina’s boob lift. This was different, painful. Suicide by champagne.

“What’s next on your agenda, Kezia?” Marina lit a cigarette, and Tiffany faded back into her glass.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll give a party.” After I write that article I landed today….

“Christ, you’ve got courage. I look at something like this and I cringe. Meg spent eight months planning it. Are you on the Arthritis Committee again this year?”

Kezia nodded. “They asked me about doing the Crippled Children’s Ball too.” Tiffany awoke at the mention of that.

“Crippled children? How dreadful!” At least she hadn’t said it was divine.

“What’s dreadful about it? It’s as good a ball as any of the others.” Marina was quick to the fiesta’s defense.

“But crippled children? I mean really, who could stand to look at them?” Marina looked at her, annoyed.

“Tiffany darling, have you ever seen an arthritic at the Arthritis Ball?”

“No … I don’t think so….”

“Then you won’t see any children at the Crippled Children’s Ball either.” Marina was matter-of-fact, and Tiffany seemed appeased, while something slimy turned over in Kezia’s stomach.

“I suppose you’re right, Marina. Are you going to do the ball, Kezia?”

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided. I’m a little tired of the benefit circuit, frankly. I’ve been doing that stuff for a hell of a long time.”

“Haven’t we all,” Marina echoed ruefully and flicked ashes into the waiter’s silent butler.

“You should get married, Kezia. It’s divine.” Tiffany smiled delightedly and lifted another glass of champagne from a passing tray. It was her third since Kezia had joined them. A waltz was beginning again at the far end of the room.

“And that, my friends, is my bad luck dance.” Kezia glanced around and inwardly groaned. Where in hell was Whit?

“Bad luck? How come?”

“That’s how come.” Kezia nodded quickly in the direction of the approaching Baron. He had requested the dance, and had looked high and low for her for half an hour.

“Lucky you.” Marina grinned evilly, and Tiffany did her best to focus.

“And that, Tiffany my love, is why I don’t get married.”

“Kezia! Our valtz!” It was useless to protest. She nodded gracefully at her friends and departed on the arm of the Baron.

“You mean she likes him?” Tiffany looked stunned. He was really very ugly. Even drunk she knew that much.

“No, you idiot. She means that with creeps like mat hounding her, who has time to find a decent guy?” Marina knew the problem only too well. She had been scouting a second husband for almost two years, and if someone halfway decent didn’t hurry along pretty damn soon, her settlement would fizzle out and her tits would fall again, and she’d get waffles on her ass. She figured she had about a year to hit it lucky before the roof fell in.

“I don’t know, Marina. Maybe she does like him. Kezia’s a little strange, you know. Sometimes I wonder if all that money coming to her so young affected her. I mean, after all, it would affect almost anyone. It’s not like you can lead a normal life when you’re one of the wealthiest …”

“Oh for chrissake, Tiffany, shut up. And why don’t you go home and sober up for a change?”

“What a rotten thing to say!” There were tears in Tiffany’s eyes.

“No, Tiffany. What a rotten thing to watch.” And with that, Marina turned on her heel and vanished in the direction of Halpern Medley. She had heard that he and Lucille had just broken up. That was the best time to get them. Frightened and bruised, scared to death to manage life on their own, missing the children, lonely at night. She had three children and would be more than happy to keep Halpern busy. He was an excellent catch.

On the dance floor, Kezia was whirling slowly in the arms of the Baron. Whitney was engaged in earnest conversation with a young broker with long, elegant hands. The clock on the wall struck three.

Tiffany went to sit dizzily on a red velvet banquette at the back of the room. Where was Bill? He had said something about calling Frankfurt. Frankfurt? Why Frankfurt? She couldn’t remember. But he had gone out to the lobby … hours ago? … and things were beginning to whirl. Bill? She couldn’t remember if he had brought her tonight, or was he out of town and had she come with Mark and Gloria? Had she … damn, why couldn’t she remember? Let’s see, she had had dinner at home with Bill and the children … alone with the children? … were the children still at the Vineyard with Mother Benjamin? … was…. Her stomach began to spin slowly with the room and she knew she was going to be sick.

“Tiffany?” It was her brother, Mark, with that look on his face, and Gloria just behind him. A wall of reproach between her and the bathroom, wherever the hell it was at whatever goddamn hotel they were in, or was this somebody’s house? She couldn’t remember a fucking thing, dammit.

“Mark … I …”

“Gloria, take Tiffany to the ladies’ room.” He didn’t waste time speaking to his sister. He simply addressed his wife. He knew the signs too well. All over the seat of the new Lincoln last time they’d driven her home. And deep within Tiffany something withered further. She knew. That was the trouble. No matter how much she drank, she always knew. She could hear the tone in their voices so clearly. That never faded.

“I … I’m sorry … Mark, Bill is out of town and if you could just drive me …” She belched loudly and Gloria rushed forward nervously while Mark shrank backwards with a look of disgust.

“Tiffany?” It was Bill, with his usual vague smile.

“I thought … you were …” Mark and Gloria faded into the background and Tiffany’s husband took her arm and escorted her as swiftly as possible from the halls where the last of the party was fading. She was too noticeable in the thinning crowd. “I thought….” They were moving through the lobby now, and she had left her bag on the banquette. Someone would take it. “My bag. Bill, my …”

“That’s right, dear. We’ll take care of it.”

“I … oh God, I feel awful. I have to sit down.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and her bag was forgotten. He was walking too fast, it made her feel worse.

“You just need some air.” He kept a firm grip on her arm and smiled at passersby, the director on the way to his office … good morning … morning … hello … nice to see you…. The smile never faded, and the eyes never warmed.

“I just … I … oh.” The cool night breeze slapped her face and she felt clearer, but her stomach rose menacingly toward her throat. “Bill….” She turned and looked at him then, but only for a moment. She wanted to ask him a terrible question. Something was forcing her to say it. To ask. How awful. Oh God, she prayed that she wouldn’t. Sometimes when she was very drunk she wanted to ask her brother the same thing. Once she had even asked her mother, and her mother had slapped her. Hard. The question always burned in her when she was this drunk. Champagne always did it to her, and sometimes gin.

“Well just get you into a nice cozy cab, and you’ll be all set, won’t you dear.” He gently squeezed her arm again, like an overly solicitous headwaiter, and signaled the doorman. A cab stood with open door before them a moment later.

“A cab? Aren’t you … Bill?” Oh God, and there was the question again, trying to fight its way out of her mouth, out of her stomach, out of her soul.

“That’s right, dear,” Bill had leaned over to speak to the driver. He wasn’t listening. Everyone spoke over her, around her, past her, never to her. She heard him give the driver their address and she grew more confused by the moment. But Bill looked so sure. “See you in the morning, darling.” He pecked her cheek and the door slammed shut, and all she could see was the doorman’s face smiling at her as the cab pulled away. She reached for the knob to open the window and frantically rolled it down … and the question … the question was fighting its way out. She couldn’t hold it back any longer. She had to ask Bill … William … Billy … they had to go back so she could ask, but the cab was lunging away from the curb and the question sailed from her mouth with a long stream of vomit as she leaned out the window. “Do you love me? …”

The driver had been paid twenty dollars to get her home, and he did, without a word. He never answered the question. Nor did Bill. Bill had gone upstairs to the room he’d reserved at the St. Regis. Both girls were still waiting. A tiny Peruvian, and a large blonde from Frankfurt. And in the morning, Tiffany wouldn’t even remember that she’d gone home alone. Bill was certain of that.

* * *

“Ready to go?”

“Yes, sir.” Kezia stifled a yawn and nodded sleepily at Whit.

“It was quite a party. Do you realize what time it is?”

She nodded and looked at the clock. “Almost four. You’re going to be dead at the office tomorrow.” But he was used to it He was out almost every night in the week. Out, or at Sutton Place.

“And I can’t lie in bed till noon like all of you indolent ladies.”

All of them? “Poor, poor Whit. What a sad story.” She patted his cheek as they swept out the door and onto the deserted street. She couldn’t lie in bed in the morning either. She had to start researching that new article, and wanted to be up by nine.

“Do we have anything like this on the agenda tomorrow, Kezia?” He hailed a passing cab and held the door open for her as she gathered up her blue satin skirt and settled onto the seat.

“God, I hope not. I’m out of training after the summer.” Actually, her summer hadn’t been so very different. But at least it had been blissfully devoid of the Baron.

“Come to think of it, I have a partners’ dinner tomorrow night. But I think Friday there’s something at the El Morocco. Are you going to be in town?” They were speeding up Park Avenue.

“As a matter of fact, I doubt it. Edward is trying to talk me into some deadly dull weekend thing with some old friends of his. They knew my father.” That was always a safe thing to say.

“Monday then. We’ll have dinner at Raffles.” She smiled easily and leaned back onto his shoulder. She had lied to Whit after all. She had no plans with Edward, who knew better than to try to rope her into a weekend like the one she had described to Whit. She was going to SoHo. After tonight, she had earned it … and what did a little lie to Whitney matter? It was all for a good cause. Her sanity.

“Raffles on Monday sounds fine.” She’d need new material for the column by then anyway. And in the meantime, she could manage to get enough information by calling a few friends for a “chat.” Marina was always an excellent source. And now she was going to be an excellent item as well. Her interest in Halpern Medley at the Maisonette had not gone unnoticed by Kezia. Nor had Halpern seemed indifferent to Marina. Kezia knew why Halpern was so interesting to her friend, and it was hard to blame her. Going broke was no fun, and Halpern was a most attractive remedy for what ailed her.

“I’ll give you a call tomorrow or the day after, Kezia. Maybe we can sneak in a quick lunch. Lutèce, ‘21,’ we’ll think of some place amusing.”

“I’m sure we will. Want to come up for a quick brandy, or coffee, or eggs or something?” It was the last thing she wanted, but she felt that she owed him something. Eggs if not sex.

“I really can’t, darling. I’ll be half blind at the office tomorrow as it is. I’d better get some sleep. And you too!” He wagged a finger at her as the cab drew to a halt at her door, and then kissed her ever so gently on the rim of her mouth, barely touching her lips.

“Good night, Whit. It was a lovely evening.” The preceding message was taped in Television City, Hollywood….

“It’s always a lovely evening with you, Kezia.” He walked her slowly to the door, and waited for the doorman to unlock it. “Keep an eye on the papers tomorrow. I’m sure it’ll be full of us. Even Martin Hallam will undoubtedly have something to say about that dress.” His eyes smiled at her appreciatively again, and he pecked her on the forehead while the doorman waited patiently. It was fascinating the way they had stopped pretending years before. A peck here and there, a grope, a feel, but she had claimed virginity long since, and he had greedily bought the story.