Fashionably Late. Olivia Goldsmith

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      Today, however, it wasn’t coming together, but then, nothing had this weekend. Jeffrey had been insistent on making her go over all the stats again and again with Robert-the-lawyer laboriously reviewing the endless financials for the NormCo meeting. It wasn’t until Saturday night, when they were expected for dinner at some friends in Weston, that she had felt even close to human. She’d put on the new brown faille tunic she was experimenting with and a pair of darker brown knit linen leggings. Very medieval. She was always conscious of what she wore on evenings out. People expected her to dress well, and even though she’d like to live in sweat pants, she had to oblige. So she strove to come up with weekend wear that looked great but felt as comfy as sweats. And she did look great. Jeffrey had – as always – looked ravishing, his gray tweed linen Armani jacket setting off his hair perfectly. And he told half a dozen funny stories over dinner. She had remembered why she loved him. They came back to the house and the warming effects of a bottle of Bordeaux had helped them begin lovemaking, though it had prevented Jeffrey from finishing.

      This morning the glow had faded and Karen was faced with the reality of more than a dozen guests and their imminent arrival. She had brought bagels from H & H and Ernesta had prepared and wrapped two trays of Nova and assorted cream cheeses from Barney Greengrass, The Sturgeon King. The stuff cost a fortune; sometimes all the money that she made and spent made Karen feel guilty. (She coped by donating a lot to charities and by rationalizing how her spending helped the economy. Jeffrey called her ‘a conscience with a Gold Card.’) The sides of the sliver-thin salmon already looked hard and darkened and Karen wondered if the twenty-nine-dollar-a-pound lox would be tough. It looked like pink leather. Oh well.

      ‘Mrs Frampton, have you sliced the bagels?’

      ‘No, Mrs Kahn.’

      The woman didn’t make a move. ‘Well, could you slice them now?’ Karen asked. She never knew if Mrs Frampton was passive-aggressive or simply stupid. And she didn’t know which was worse. Of course, it could simply be hostility: after all, Karen was a New York weekender with lots of money while Mrs Frampton had lived in this town all her life and had next to none. Mrs Frampton’s son was a local cop who lived with his parents plus his wife and two kids because he couldn’t afford to buy a house in Westport. Between her church friends, other cleaning women, and the gossip she got from her son, Mrs Frampton knew everything that happened in the whole township. And probably told everything she knew about Karen to anyone who’d listen. That was another reason why Karen hated the country. She was a native New Yorker and she looked with contempt at the out-of-towners, both the tourists and the bridge-and-tunnel crowd. They didn’t know where to buy good Nova, or the best bagels, or where they could get their down comforter refurbished. They couldn’t have played ‘the best’ game with Defina. They were interlopers. Here she was an interloper, and people like Mrs Frampton, George Hazen who cut the lawn, and Bill Mackley at the hardware store made her feel like a stranger in a strange land. She assumed they were anti-Semites and doubted their good intentions. But Jeffrey loved them. He called her paranoid and them ‘salt of the earth.’ He spent hours bullshitting with the locals: go figure.

      Karen surveyed the living room making sure all was ready. It was an enormous space with a beamed barn-like ceiling. Aside from the two groupings of sofas and chairs, there was only a big glass dining table surrounded by a dozen bleached Windsor chairs. On the wail behind the sofas and the dining table hung a triptych in soft, almost no-color colors painted by Jeffrey’s old roommate, Perry Silverman. The only other hues in the room came from the two magnificent Kerman rugs on the floor. They were all in the softest tints. Because they were silk mixed with wool, the colors changed as you walked on them and moved the nap. There was nothing in the house that Karen loved except for the Silverman painting and the rugs. The painting had been a wedding gift, but the rugs had cost her way over thirty thousand dollars each – and that was wholesale, through a decorator friend of Carl’s. But they were worth every penny to her. They made the room.

      Mrs Frampton had finished with the bagels and stood, blankly, beside the counter. ‘Could you put those on a platter?’ Karen asked. ‘I think the blue oval one would be best.’ Mrs Frampton nodded and crouched before the kitchen cabinets searching for the tray. The kitchen was a kind of haute-suburban fantasy: there were dozens of cabinets, all white wood and glass-fronted (which meant that everything inside them had to be meticulously arranged). There was a triple porcelain sink, complete with not only two porcelain faucets and a spray attachment but also an instant hot water faucet and a pump to dispense detergent. There was a dishwasher with a front that looked like the rest of the wooden cabinets and a Subzero refrigerator large enough to hold a side of beef. It was also decked out to continue the cottage look. In the few months they’d been in the house, Karen had yet to turn on the oven and had only used the halogen Corning stovetop to heat water for her tea. That reminded her.

      ‘Have you started the coffee?’ she asked Mrs Frampton.

      ‘No, Mrs Kahn.’

      ‘Well, could you start it now? Fill it to the brim. We’ll need at least twelve cups. And when you see it getting low, could you make another potful? And could you grind fresh beans? Jeffrey likes the hazelnut blend.’

      She left Mrs Frampton in the kitchen coping with the scream of the electric coffee grinder and carried the platter with the toughening lox out to the buffet. Meanwhile, the florist had delivered an absolutely impossible arrangement – it was rubrum lilies and tuberoses. She must have been showering when it came. Karen rolled her eyes. Only in the suburbs. Already the room smelled like a funeral parlor. No one would be able to eat with that perfume! Oh God. She put her hand to her forehead and rubbed both her temples.

      All she wanted was to throw a nice little party, to get through the morning and early afternoon without hurt feelings, without an argument, and with a little bit of fun. This was a kind of obligatory gathering, but weren’t they all? Belle had reminded her more than once that she hadn’t entertained her family or Jeffrey’s in months, so she was paying off all her social debts in one swell foop. Guilt, Karen figured, was definitely hereditary – you got it from your mother. The erstwhile occasion was her niece’s upcoming bat mitzvah, but this was also a way to see all the family and friends she and Jeffrey were too busy to see very often. Still, even if she had been busy, she loved both her nieces and she wanted Tiff, especially, to feel special.

      She also wanted everyone to get along. Stephanie would be meeting Tangela outside of work for the first time and she hoped the two of them might like one another. And if she wasn’t going to have or adopt children, and this was the only family she would get, she hoped that for once Belle would get along with Sylvia, Jeffrey’s mom, and that she, Karen, wouldn’t feel uncomfortable with Jeffrey’s two sisters.

      Yeah. Don’t bet the farm.

      She lifted the vase of heavily scented flowers and carried them out the back door. The grass was almost up to her calves: they’d fought the lawn and the lawn won. Jeffrey thought it looked more natural and less suburban this way, but Karen knew their neighbors did not approve. She looked around her. White lilacs grew alongside of the slate terrace, and if she denuded the garden, she could replace the offensive blooms in the flower arrangement with the milder lilacs. They wouldn’t give any color to the room but at least they wouldn’t make anyone nauseous. Karen walked to the side door of the garden shed, found secateurs, and quickly cut two dozen branches of flowers. She did the best she could in pulling out the seventy bucks’ worth of lilies and rearranging the greens and the lilacs. They looked boring – really second rate. Then she noticed a couple of dead branches on the bushes next to the forsythia. She cut them off and added them to the arrangement. They gave the flowers a kind of off-center balance, a starkness of death to contrast the rich pearly droop of the lilac bunches. She brought the vase into the dining room just in time to hear the front doorbell ring. Jeffrey had put a Mozart CD on – he always preferred classical music on the weekends, СКАЧАТЬ