Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [48]
—I haven’t seen them in months.
This was a white lie, of course, since Fran and I had flapped around a bit. But there was no reason to tell that to Evey. She never liked Fran that much anyhow.
—That’s right! she said. I’m so glad you’ve gotten your own place. How is it?
—It’s pricier than the boardinghouse. But now I can burn my own oatmeal and plunge my own commode.
—There’s no curfew. . . .
—Not that you’d know it by my bedtime.
—Oh, she said with mock concern. That sounded sad and lonely.
I picked up my empty glass and waved it at her.
—How are things at the Beresford?
—A little hectic, she said as she poured. We’re about to have the bedroom remodeled.
—That sounds fancy.
—Not really. We’re just sprucing things up a bit.
—Will you stay there during the renovation?
—As it happens, Tinker will be visiting clients in London. So I’ll just take a room at the Plaza and push them to get the work done before he’s back.
A birthday without presents . . . a business trip to London . . . a bedroom renovation . . . liberal use of the nominative plural . . . The whole picture was coming into focus. Here was a young girl drinking champagne in a brand-new dress headed for the Rainbow Room. Under the circumstances, you’d think she’d be giddy. But there was nothing giddy about Eve. Giddiness implies a certain element of surprise. A giddy girl can’t tell what’s happening next. She senses that it might be something marvelous, that it might happen at any moment, and this mix of mystery and anticipation lightens her head. But there weren’t going to be any surprises for Eve. No unfamiliar gambits or sly combinations. She had drawn the squares and carved the pieces. The only thing she was leaving to chance was how big the stateroom on the boat was going to be.
Back at the 21 Club, when asked If you could be any one person for the day, then who would you be? Eve had answered Darryl Zanuck, the studio chief. Her answer had seemed so funny at the time. But sure enough, here she was floating over us on the arm of a crane, double-checking the set, the costumes, the choreography before cueing the sun to rise. And upon reflection, who could fault her for it?
A few tables away, two good-looking boors were getting loud. They were reminiscing about their misdeeds in the Ivy League and one of them unmistakably made use of the word whore. Even a few of the men had begun to stare.
Eve didn’t look over her shoulder once. She couldn’t be bothered. She had started talking about the renovation and just kept on talking—the way a colonel ignores the sound of mortar shells as the infantry ducks for cover.
The two drunkards suddenly stood. They reeled past us with bursts of laughter.
—Well, well, Eve said dryly. Terry Trumbull. Was that you making all that racket?
Terry came about like one of those little boats that children learn to sail in.
—Eve. What a great surprise. . . .
If it weren’t for twenty years of private schooling he would have stammered it.
He gave Eve an awkward kiss and then looked inquiringly at me.
—This is my old friend, Kate, Eve said.
—Pleasure to meet you, Kate. Are you from Indianapolis?
—No, I said. I’m from New York.
—Really! Which part of town?
—She’s not your type either, Terry.
He turned to Eve looking like he was about to parry, but then thought better of it. He was sobering up.
—Give my best to Tinker, he said.
As he retreated, Eve watched him go.
—What’s his story, I asked.
—He’s a friend of Tinker’s from the Union Club. A few weekends ago, we all went to a party at their house in Westport. After dinner, while his wife was playing Mozart on the piano (God help me), Terry told one of the serving girls he needed to show her something in the pantry. By the time I showed up, he had her cornered by the bread box and was trying to take a bite out of her neck. I had to fend him off with a potato masher.
—He’s lucky it wasn’t a knife.
—A stabbing would have done him good.
I smiled at the thought of it.
—Well, the serving girl sure lucked out that