Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [51]
Predictably, she kept a purposeful pace. Emerging from the park at Fifty-ninth Street, she crossed against the traffic and skipped up the steps of the Plaza Hotel. I did the same. As a uniformed bellhop spun the revolving door, it occurred to me that it was probably an unwritten rule of polite society that one should never follow an acquaintance into a local hotel. Though couldn’t she be meeting friends for a drink? As the door spun, I decided to rely on scientific method.
—Eeny, meany, miney, moe . . .
Inside, I took up a position in the shade of a potted palm. The lobby was a beehive of the well dressed, some arriving with luggage, some heading for the bar, others coming up the stairs from the shoeshine or salon. Under a chandelier that could have shamed an opera house an ambassador with a grand mustache made way for an eight-year-old girl and a pair of poodles.
—Excuse me.
A page in a little red hat was peeking around my tree.
—Are you Miss Kontent?
He handed me a small cream-colored envelope—the sort that announces your table at a dance or wedding reception. Inside was a calling card. It read simply: ANNE GRANDYN. On the back in a wide, easy script she had written: Come and say hello. Suite 1801.
Whoops.
As I walked onto the elevator I wondered whether she had noticed me in the lobby or back in Central Park. The elevator boy looked at me with a take-all-the-time-you-need attentiveness.
—Eighteenth floor? I asked.
—Sure thing.
Before the doors closed a pair of honeymooners joined us. Bright, rosy and young, they looked like they were ready to spend every last penny they had on room service. When they skipped down the hallway on twelve, I offered the elevator boy a friendly smirk.
—Newlyweds, I said.
—Not exactly, ma’am.
—Not exactly?
—Not exactly newly. Not exactly wed. Watch your step.
Suite 1801 was immediately opposite the elevator bank. After I pressed the brass button on the door frame, a step heavier than Anne’s sounded within. The door opened, revealing a slim young man in a Prince of Wales suit. A little awkwardly, I held out the calling card. He took it in well-manicured fingers.
—Miss Kontent?
His pronunciation was as tailored as his suit. But it was also wrong. He pronounced it Kon-tent, as in the content of a book.
—It’s Kon-tent, I said, like the state of being.
—My apologies, Miss Kon-tent. Do come in.
He gestured precisely to a spot a few steps inside of the door.
I found myself in the foyer of a bright sunlit suite. On one side of the central living room was a closed paneled door, which presumably led to a bedroom. In the foreground a blue and yellow couch and two club chairs were gathered around a cocktail table striking an effective balance between masculine and feminine styles. Beyond the sitting area stood a banker’s desk with a vase of lilies on one corner and a black-shaded lamp on the other. I began to suspect that the perfect taste on display at Tinker’s apartment was Anne’s. She had just that combination of style and self-confidence that one needed in order to bring modern design into high society.
Anne was standing behind the desk, looking out the window over Central Park as she talked on the phone.
—Yes, yes. I understand exactly what you mean, David. I have no doubt that you had no expectation of my making use of the board seat. But as you can see, it is very much my intention to make use of it.
As Anne talked, her secretary handed back her calling card. She spun around and waved me toward the couch. When I sat down my purse tipped over beside me and Pip peeked out in wonder.
—Right. Right. That’s fine David. We’ll hash it out in Newport on the fifth.
Ringing off, she came over to the couch and sat beside me. She acted as if I had just dropped in unannounced.
—Katey! How nice to see you!
She gestured back toward the phone.
—I’m sorry about that. I inherited a bit of stock from my husband and it gives me authority that