A Cup of Tea - Amy Ephron [33]
“My Christina?” Her mother laughed. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” Jane Howard’s mother was raised in Vienna and, as a result, freer about these things than many of the other women in New York although Jane had never felt at liberty to discuss her own preferences with her mother. Jane always imagined she suspected though since she’d never given her one of those lectures. “When are you going to get married, dear?” She never asked Jane why she didn’t seem interested in suitors.
“No,” said Jane, “I meant, what would I do if I knew that my best friend’s husband was having an affair…?”
“Your best friend,” said Malina. “But I thought Philip was—”
“Reported dead,” said Jane. “He was. But he was having an affair and the woman he was having an affair with had a baby.”
“Are you certain it was his baby?”
“Fairly certain.”
“I would do nothing. I don’t see what this has to do with you.”
“Because I intruded,” said Jane. And, after a moment, it all came rushing out, in some detail, the story of the first night Rosemary had happened on Eleanor, picked her up, so to speak, and then unceremoniously booted her into the street, how Jane had followed her after Rose had tossed her out and given her the address of Dora’s Hat Shop. She tried to explain how she felt she was complicitous when Philip started seeing Eleanor, how she had egged him on, delighted in it, unmindful of the consequences all of it might have.
“If I’d just let her continue walking down the street,” Jane said, “if I hadn’t encouraged him…”
“But you’re not responsible,” her mother said.
“I feel responsible,” said Jane. She laughed. “And slightly incompetent. When I went to tell Eleanor about Philip and saw the baby, I couldn’t tell her anything at all. And now,” she said nervously, “I feel that I ought to tell Rosemary—it’s the child that changes it—but I don’t know how to tell Rose. I’m a sorry excuse for a go-between.”
“That’s not a terrible thing,” said Jane’s mother, “a go-between is just a step up from a gigolo.”
“Then, that is what I am,” said Jane, “because I think Rosemary has a right to know.”
It was with some determination that Jane showed up, a few hours later, at Rosemary’s door. She noticed the house was strangely lit from inside, as though it were faintly glowing. She rang the bell and, after, a moment, Rosemary answered it.
“Jane!” she gushed at her, “This is a surprise! We were just—I would’ve invited you…” She looked embarrassed. “But it didn’t seem like your style. But I’m so awfully glad you’re here.” She whispered in Jane’s ear. “You’ve heard about this woman. Madame Olga? Everybody’s seeing her. We’re—having a séance.” She hustled Jane inside. “Take off your coat and gloves. We all have to touch hands.” She giggled. “Can I get you a drink?” And then she got oddly serious and this next bit she said was quite strange. “You see I want her to try to contact Philip, because if she can’t…” her voice trailed off but her meaning was clear.
She poured Jane a glass of champagne and pulled her into the drawing room which was lit, as was the rest of the house, only by candles which accounted for the strange, ethereal glow outside. Madame Olga was seated at the head of a card table that had been set up for the occasion. She was in her late forties, with the kind of skin that had seen too much sun, she had a silk scarf wrapped around her head and very large earrings, the stones of which appeared to be black opals. Her hair fell out from the scarf in curly wisps about her face. Her eyes were green and quite compelling. And it was clear she had a bit of a temper if pushed. Her accent appeared to be Rumanian.
Rosemary set her glass of champagne on the table and pulled a chair up for Jane. “Jane Howard,” she said, “I would like you to meet”—she gestured dramatically—“Madame Olga. Psychic seer extraordinaire.” Madame Olga nodded her