Blue Heaven (25 page)

Well, that finished me, right there, right then. The thought that Gilbert's love for me could be so intense as to overcome even his dread of composition left me intoxicated with pride, gratitude and happiness.

Of course, at the time I didn't know that he had written only three of the pages since the onset of our romance, the other twenty-seven having been composed over the previous four years. That little detail he confessed much later. By pointing it out to you now I don't mean to suggest that Gilbert's vow of love for me was a calculated lie; it wasn't. Gilbert's passions are always as sincere as they are ephemeral. I'm sure he considered the three pages he actually did write "for me" a considerable tribute, coming, as they did, from a boy who'd rather tangle with a dragon than an Olivetti. But if he could beef it up with another twenty-seven prewritten pages, was there any reason not to do so? None, certainly, that would ever cross Gilbert's mind.

But as far as I knew that day every page, every paragraph, every imaginatively spelled word was testimony to a pure and deeply felt love, a love I had been too blind to see and too cowardly to reciprocate. Shame and joy in equal measures coursed through me as I clasped Gilbert in my arms and kissed him passionately ... in full view, as it turned out, of Gunther Von Steigle, who was wandering through the Ramble for reasons of his own. He was standing about ten yards away, staring down at us from a little hill, his face aglow with evil satisfaction.

"Christ! Does he
live
in the park?" "Let him stare!" "I'd rather not." "I love you, Philip!" "I love you, too, Gilbert. Walk faster."

Unsettling as the incident was, we didn't give it a great deal of thought. There wasn't time to. All our energies that week were focused on the duchess's premiere, and all other concerns, even our blossoming romance, took a back seat to the complex battery of physical and psychological preparations.

Mother and daughter sat for hours, going over their imaginary history; how Mummy's first husband had died, how she'd met the duke, when they were married, and, of course, all the amusing things Prince Charles had said when Moira and Mummy attended the royal wedding.

As opening night drew closer, Winslow's conflicting attitudes toward the charade both intensified. His portrayal of the duchess grew sharper, more nuanced and assured, even as his attacks of panic became more frequent and acute. By the eve of the party, these schizophrenic mood swings had the rest of us on the verge of nervous collapse, completely unable to guess whether he would carry it all off majestically or melt into puddles of hysteria the moment the first guest arrived.

The Monday of the party dawned cold and gray. I spent the day at GC stuffing mushrooms while Claire pulled Winslow duty at his apartment.

The plan of attack called for Claire and the duchess to arrive an hour late. They would say they'd spent the day sightseeing and just as they were about to return home, Her Grace had met a dear old friend and lost track of the time. This way, when they arrived there'd already be a crowd and Winnie would be spared having to chat endlessly with solitary early-comers.

Half an hour before the party, Claire called.

"Listen, I have a crisis on my hands!"

"I knew it! What now?" wailed Gilbert.

"He's in bed under the covers, clutching a stuffed giraffe. He refuses to move. He won't go. He won't even get dressed."

The phone was on speaker and Moira said, "Well, MAKE him get dressed."

"Moira, I have been
making
him get dressed for an hour and he hasn't got so much as an eyelash on!"

"Amateurs!"
hissed Moira. "Look, just don't let him leave. I'll be right over."

Moira left and twenty minutes later Claire returned. A few minutes after that, as we were all pacing apoplectically about the kitchen, guests began to arrive. First Maddie and Tony, then Marlowe Hep-penstall and his wife, Nancy (Marie Curie) Malone and her boyfriend, Aggie, Lunch and Sammy, Holly Batterman and a redheaded man, Ugo and Betty Sartucci, Tony's sister Marie, Jimmy Loftus and a female friend, Chick and his wife Rosa, Father Eddie Fabrizio, Sister Deena Sartucci, dear cousin Steffie and her hubby, more Sartuccis, Fabrizios and Cellinis, other friends of Gilbert and Moira, Freddy Bombelli and the ever-vigilant Serge.

We greeted everyone with frozen smiles then ran to Gilbert's bedroom and called Winslow's for a progress report.

"I'M WORKING ON IT!" yelled Moira, without asking who it was, and hung up. Thereafter all calls met with a busy signal.

Gilbert, Claire and I passed food, made drinks, poured champagne and fended off questions about when the guest of honor would arrive with a cheerful insouciance that belied our panic.

By nine-thirty the questions concerning the duchess's arrival were so frequent, the suspense so unendurable, that I felt at any minute I would bolt out of the apartment, change my name, and learn to farm. Then, just after ten o'clock, Moira and the duchess arrived.

Twenty-two

A
ggie and Maddie were nearest the door when I answered the bell, though it wasn't long before Claire, Gilbert and Holly Batterman stampeded over for a first look at Her Grace. Moira was standing there in her trenchcoat, smiling sweetly, and next to her the duchess stood resplendent in mink. Beneath this she wore a scarlet dinner suit that Claire had taken in a little too far for comfort. A matching pillbox hat completed the ensemble. She was smoking a Dunhill in a holder and dripping with jewels, mostly costume, though Freddy's brooch was the real goods. The cane, not to mention the infirmity that demanded it, was nowhere in evidence.

"Gilbert,
darlingl
Can you ever forgive me! One hour late for my own party!
Dreadfully
uncivilized, I know, but Moira and I were just leaving the Oak Room when who should I meet but Mrs. Everett Carlyle Pemberton! Hadn't laid eyes on her since Pittsburgh when she was Sophie Bukowski. Dreadful snob she's become! Would not
stop
talking!"

"Ever so dull," smiled Moira.

"She doesn't make comments, dear, she
extrooodes
them like a pasta machine. Went on about her new husband for an hour before she even thought to ask me if
I'd
acquired one. 'Oh, how
nice
for you, Gwen,' she said, rather condescendingly. 'And what does he
do?'
I told her.
Most
satisfying. Be a lamb, Gilbert, and take my coat. Moira, dear, Mummy wants champagne!"

"In a minute, Mummy. First I want you to meet Gilbert's mother. Maddie, this is my mother!"

Maddie took Winslow's pudgy hand and pumped it energetically.

"Pleased to meet you Your-oh, gosh, what is it, Highness or Grace or what?"

"Please! You must call me Gwen. I can't stand to be called Your Grace, except when it's by someone I dislike, then I rather enjoy it." "And this is Maddie's cousin, Aggie. She owns the restaurant where Gilbert hosts."

"Do you
really?
Would you be an angel and give him a raise? I don't know what he makes, but the way my daughter spends money it can't possibly be enough."
"Hah!"
"Mummy!"

"Moira, did I say something about champagne? I'm not sure-it was so
long
ago."

"I'm getting it, Mummy. Now you behave!"

Gilbert and I followed Moira to the bar and whispered through tense smiles.

"What the fuck happened to the cane?"

"She didn't want it. Said she felt too good."

"Obviously! What is she on?"

"Not much! A bottle of wine, a few lines of coke."

"That's all?" Moira sighed heavily.

"Well, just the teensiest bit of Ecstasy. Don't gawk that way, please. It's improved her mood enormously. Trust me, she'll be fine!"

"Mr.
Bombelli
!"
shrieked Winnie from across the room. "I knew it had to be you, you dear,
generous
man! So nice to meet you at last! Come sit by me and turn my head!"

From that point on all bets were off, all ground rules abandoned. Our fate was now in Winslow's hands and he played with it as exuberantly and recklessly as a toddler wielding a pistol. All the stories so carefully concocted by Moira were either discarded or else embroidered beyond recognition.

A number of these embellishments were designed specifically to cast Moira in an absurd and unflattering light. I suppose it was Winnie seeking revenge for all Moira's lies and threats. Whatever the reason, he seldom missed an opportunity to paint Moira as a foolish, vain, thoroughly incompetent girl whom Mummy couldn't help but adore despite her countless inadequacies.

The rest of us might have been more amused by Moira's come-uppance had it not been for the fear that gripped us every time Mummy opened her mouth. There was simply no guessing what she would say next.

"So," said Maddie as she sat on the sofa with the duchess in a group that included Tony, myself, Claire, Holly, Aggie, Moira and Freddy, "pardon me for coming right out and asking, but I figure someone's got to, right? What is it like being a real duchess?"

"Maddie, dear, I should be lying through my teeth if I didn't admit to you that it is the most fun a woman my age can have with her eyes open. You get to swank around at charity bazaars, cut ceremonial ribbons and have people fawn all over you for doing nothing at all! I suppose a better sort of person would despise the endless flattery of social-climbing snots but, thank God, the Lord made me no better than I am and
I
lap it
up!"

"Hah!
You're my kind of duchess, Gwen," said Aggie.

"Why, thank you, Aggie, dear. How sweet of you to say so. Gilbert! Come sit next to your mother-in-law. Isn't he too charming? I was so relieved to see Moira had finally found someone with a little
breeding.
You should have seen the specimens she dragged home back in Pittsburgh. Darling, do you ever hear from that motorcyclist you rode with for a year?"

"No, Mummy," said Moira through clenched teeth.

"Thank heavens! Hideous thing!" clucked the duchess to Maddie. "Even the least finicky of grave robbers would have taken one look, slammed the lid, and refilled the hole."

"Mummy, you're terrible! Oh! Look at the time! Remember what the doctor said about getting to bed by eleven."

"Eleven?" moaned Maddie. "Oh, come on, hon. That's much too early!"

The others quickly agreed that it was the shank of the evening.

"But she tires so easily. We don't want a relapse, now, do we, Mummy?"

"No, dear, what
we
want is another glass of champagne.
We've
never felt better in
our
life!"

"Hah!"

"But Mum-"

"I think I'm old enough to determine my own bedtime. Besides, I saw the doctor just hours before my flight here and he said I was fit as a fiddle."

"How wunnnderful!" wheezed Freddy.

"Yes. Said it was the most astonishingly swift recovery from a riding accident he'd ever seen!"

"I'll say!" said Maddie. "You'd never know you'd bitten your lip off!"

"Lovely work, isn't it? I may be written up in a medical journal. So!" she said, turning her attention to Freddy, "you fascinating man! One hears the
strangest
things about you-!"

"Who wants champagne?"
I asked.

"Moira tells me you've rescued her from a life of bonbon eating by actually giving her a job. Most brave of you!"

"But, Your Grace-"

"Gwen!"

"Gwen-she is a delightful girl! Such warmth and high spirits!" He proceeded, as usual, to convey his esteem for Moira and her skill as an interpreter of great literature.

"She can
act?"
said the duchess with frank astonishment. "Well, if that's the case, she's certainly come a long distance. The only time
I
ever saw Moira act was when she was in high school and she played the role of Wendy in
Peter Pan.
Forgot all her words and wet herself right there onstage. Ruined the entire-"

"Mummeee!"

"Onstage?" asked Holly.

"Gwen, honey, do you like Polynesian food?"

"Only if it's accompanied by Polynesian drinks."

"Count on it! What say you let me take you to Trader Vic's for lunch this Tuesday?"

"I'd be delighted! We have
so
much to talk about!"

It wasn't till twenty minutes later when Maddie and Winslow were discussing the childhoods of Gilbert and Moira, debating which of the two had been the more difficult birth, that Claire, Gilbert, Moira and self managed to slip away to the kitchen for a crisis conference. By that point the duchess had accepted invitations to Paradiso, dinner at Casa Cellini and Holly's Valentine's Day bash.

"Good
Lord,
Moira," hissed Claire as she pulled a tray of artichoke bottoms wrapped in bacon from the oven, "what did you
give
the man?"

"It's called Ecstasy, Claire! It's just a harmless euphoric!"

"I'd hardly call it harmless! He's completely out of control. Isn't there some antidote for euphoria?"

"Just
you,
Claire," said Moira as she stalked away with a bowl of dip.

The rest of us conferred and decided that if we couldn't control Mummy, we could at least distract attention from her. We would ask Nancy Malone to sing. Nancy has a great voice, and the admiration she'd garner would take the spotlight off the duchess while we plotted our next diversionary tactic.

Things did not work out quite as planned. Nancy, after a bit of cajoling, agreed to sing a few numbers, but before Claire could ask her what standards she knew by, say, Porter or Gershwin, Marlowe Heppenstall had seized the keyboard and launched into the opening chords of a terrible ballad from
Eureka, Baby!
called "Why Am I Me?" Nancy had no choice but to gamely dredge up her Marie and by the time she'd reached the lines . . .