Going Home Part 10

"Mr. Templeton, please. This is Gillian Forrester."

"I'm sorry, Miss Forrester. Mr. Templeton is in a meeting. . . . No, I'm afraid he'll be tied up this afternoon, and tomorrow he's going to Chicago for the day. Is there something I can help you with?" There it was. I knew it!

"No, I'm afraid I wanted to speak to Mr. Templeton directly. . . . That is . . . I just got in from California, and I used to free-lance for Woman's Life and . . ." Oh s.h.i.t, why do secretaries do that to me?

"Perhaps you'd like to speak to our personnel office?" Ice in the voice, and comfortable condescension that says, "I have a job. Don't you?"

"No, I really wanted an appointment with Mr. Templeton." Now watch her tell me she can't commit him just now because his schedule is very heavy this week, and next week they're closing the book (i.e., finishing the issue, before it goes to print), and the week after that he'll be in Detroit all week . . . just watch!

"Very well. How is Friday at nine-fifteen? I'm afraid that's all he has open . . . Miss Forrester? . . . Miss Forrester?"

"Sorry, I uh . . . nine-fifteen? I . . . uh . . . ahh . . . yes, yes, nine-fifteen is fine, I mean . . . this Friday? . . . No . . . no . . . that's fine . . . the number where I can be reached? Oh, yes, of course. The Hotel Regency, Room 2709 . . . I mean 6 . . . no. Sorry. Room 2709. . . . That's it. . . . That'll be fine. See you on Friday." Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned.

So I was off to a start. And if nothing worked out with either Decor or Woman's Life, I could look elsewhere. At least I had a momentum going.

"Sam? How about a trip to the zoo?"

Sam and I walked out to Park Avenue and then west toward Central Park. She had two pony rides while I stared at the skyline, and it was a h.e.l.l of a sight. Fifth Avenue stretched as far as I could see in either direction, and I could imagine people living in grand style in penthouses to my left, and business tyc.o.o.ns making million-dollar decisions in offices to my right. The General Motors building had sprung up, dwarfing all on its periphery. Everything seemed new to me again, and enormous.

"Hey, Sam, how about a special lunch?"

"I'm not hungry yet."

"Come on, don't be a drag, love. Do you want to see some more of the zoo?" But she only shook her head, and I stooped to kiss her. She was still desperately hanging onto the world we had just left, the world I was trying so hard not to think about. Chris. "Let's go, Sam."

"Where are we going?" She was beginning to look intrigued.

"Just across the street. You'll see. Right over there." I pointed. "That's the Plaza." We stopped to look at the horses and the hansom cabs and then mounted the steps into the fairyland magic of the Plaza Hotel. Once inside, it was like another city in itself, and it had the same independent elegance as an ocean-going liner, totally self-sufficient and reeking of luxury. The carpets felt like mattresses beneath our feet, palm trees hovered above us in great profusion, and crowds of determined looking people came and went, some staying at the hotel, others just stopping in for lunch. It had a worldliness about it which pleased me. It was New York.

"Who's she?" Sam had stopped beneath an enormous portrait of a chubby little girl, posing next to a pug dog, wearing drooping knee socks, and a navy pleated skirt. Her expression was one of outrageous devilry, and just by looking at her you could tell that her parents were divorced and that she had a nurse. Miss Park Avenue herself. The painting was somewhat caricatured and I knew who she was meant to be.

"That's Eloise, sweetheart. She's a little girl in a story, and she supposedly lived here, with her nanny and her dog and her turtle."

"Where was her Mommy?"

"I'm not sure. I think she was on a trip."

"Was she real?" Sam's eyes were growing larger. She liked the looks of the girl in the painting that loomed above her.

"No, she was make-believe." And as I mentioned it, a small sign on the table beneath the painting caught my eye. "See Eloise's room. Just ask the elevator man." "Hey, want to see something?"

"What?"

"A surprise. Come on." We found the elevators easily, I asked the elevator man to deliver us to our destination in veiled terms, and we rose slowly toward the floor in question. The elevator was full of overdressed women and overstuffed men, and behind me I heard Spanish, French, and what sounded like Swedish.

"Here we are, young lady. The second door to your right." I thanked him and he winked. And I gently opened the door. Eloise's room was a little girl's dream, and I smiled when I heard Sam gasp.

"This is Eloise's room, Sam."

"Wow! . . . Oh boy!" It was a veritable showcase of pink chintz and gingham, full of every toy imaginable, and cluttered with the kind of mess and disorder that most children dream of leaving in their rooms but can't get away with. A tall spare woman with an English accent was playing "Nanny," and she showed Sam the key points of the shrine with utter seriousness. The visit was an enormous success.

"Can we go back and visit again sometime?" Sam had torn herself away with difficulty.

"Sure. We'll come back. Now, how about some lunch?" She nodded, still dazed from the ecstasy of the visit, and she floated alongside me into the Palm Court, where piano and violins combined their sounds beneath the trees as a myriad of ladies indulged themselves at small tables covered with pink linen tablecloths. It still had the Victorian elegance it had had when I was a child and had been occasionally treated to tea there by my grandmother.

Sam had a hamburger and an enormous strawberry soda, while I dabbled with six dollars worth of spinach salad, and then we started home, satisfied with our morning.

We stopped at the school for Sam on the way and, being pleased with what I saw, I enrolled her starting the next morning. And as we arrived back at our hotel, I was amazed at what we had accomplished. There is so much happening in New York at any given moment, that one seems to do a week's worth of anything in half a day. I had made two appointments to inquire about jobs, had enrolled Sam at school, had had lunch at the Plaza, and had seen to Sam's entertainment as well. Not bad at all.

And now I had a few hours off. The babysitter had arrived and I turned Sam over to her. I wanted to call Peg Richards. I had been itching to all morning and could hardly wait.

Peg Richards and I grew up and went to school together; she is the closest thing I have to a sister. We are totally different, yet we understand each other. Perfectly. And we care about each other. Always. Like some sisters, and some friends.

Peg Richards is rough and tough, uses incredible language, is a no-nonsense sort of girl, stocky and direct, with freckles and immense lively brown eyes. Always the first one to raise h.e.l.l in school, yet to get things organized too, to tell off the girl who'd done her dirt, and to look out for the girl n.o.body liked or paid attention to. She'd grown up with a dutchboy haircut, oxfords, and a total lack of interest in clothes and makeup and all the things that most of us were intrigued with. She liked boys less and later than some of us. She was just Peg. Peg. Tomboy. The head of the field hockey team who changed completely while I spent two years in Europe, pretending to study art. When I came back, Peg was at Briarclifif, taking life very seriously. Her language was a little worse, but I thought I could see the glimmer of mascara on her lashes. Three years later, she was a buyer of children's wear at a poshy department store, her language was incredible, and she was definitely wearing mascara, and false eyelashes. She was living with a journalist, playing a lot of tennis, and spending a lot of time knocking the Establishment. She was then twenty-three. And five years later, when I had just come back from California, she was still single, not living with anyone for the moment, and still had the same job.

Peg had done everything for me, mothered me in school, kept me company after I had Samantha and was feeling helpless at home, she'd been around to hold my hand through the divorce, and had seen me through every sort of sc.r.a.pe over the years. Peg is my staunchest friend, strongest ally, and most vehement critic. There is no shame, there are no deceptions with someone you know that well, and who knows you.

The switchboard answered at the department store where she worked, I asked for her office, and she was on the line in half a minute.

"Peg? It's me." Just as I had reverted to ultra-New Yorker when speaking to Angus, I felt like a schoolgirl again when talking to Peg.

"Holy s.h.i.t! Gillian! What the h.e.l.l are you doing in town? How long are you here for?"

"A while. I got in last night."

"Where are you staying?"

"Would you believe at the Regency?" She chuckled and I laughed back.

"Well, la-dee-da to you. What happened? Did you get rich out West? I thought the Gold Rush was all over." Leave it to Peg.

"It is. In more ways than one." She had made me think of Chris and I sobered quickly.

"Oh? Are you okay, Gill?"

"Yeah. Sure, I'm fine. What about you?"

"I'm still alive. When do I get to see you, and my friend Sam? Is she with you?"

"Of course she is. And you can see us whenever you want. I feel like a stranger in this G.o.ddam town, and I don't know where to start first. But I'm having a ball."

"At the Regency, who wouldn't? But just a sec, let me get this straight. Are you moving back, or are you here on a visit?"

"Mentally, the latter, but practically. . . we're back."

"Your romance busted up?"

"I don't know, Peg. I think so, but I don't really know. It's a long story, and I had to come back."

"You're confusing the h.e.l.l out of me. But I wouldn't have been surprised if the love story had ended. That business you told me about the girl in his bed at the beach house didn't sound good." I had forgotten that I had written that to her in my misery.

"We got over that."

"Something else happened? Christ! That would have been enough for me. Good old Gill, you never learn, do you? Anyway, you can tell me whatever you want to tell me when I see you. How about tonight?"

"Tonight? Sure . . . why not?"

"Such enthusiasm. To h.e.l.l with you. I'll come to the hotel for a drink after work. I want to see your monster daughter. I'm so glad you're back, Gill!"

"Thanks, Peg. See you later."

"Yeah, and by the way, be dressed when I get there. I'm taking you to dinner at Twenty-One.

"You're what?"

"You heard me. We're celebrating your return."

"Why don't we celebrate with room service?"

"Nuts to you." And with that she hung up and I grinned to myself. It was nice to be back. The whole time span with Chris was beginning to seem as though it had never happened. I was in New York where I had begun, hopefully I'd soon be jobbed, and that night I was having dinner at Twenty-One. It was as though New York was putting on its best face and everything was beginning to go my way.

15.

Peg had reserved a table downstairs near the bar at the ill.u.s.trious Twenty-One Club, and we were ushered to our seats by the maitre d' who seemed to know Peg quite well.

"Well, well, at least you've been hanging out in the right places since I left. Not bad."

"Expense account." She grinned with her pixie look and ordered a double martini straight up. That was new too.

The reunion between Peg and Samantha at the hotel had been boisterous and joyful and ours had been scarcely less so. She looked better than ever, and her tongue was even sharper than before. She squeezed Sam in a vast hug, and then called me names while we pushed and shoved and giggled. It was so good to see her again.

I glanced around the restaurant as she sipped her drink, and marveled at the clientele. The cream of the cream. Moneyed New York was out for dinner. And so was I.

In terms of dress, San Francisco alternates between acute hippiedom and 1950s stock brokerage, with almost no middle ground. The women are conservative and still wear pastel wools, sleeveless and knee-length, hats, gloves, the whole scene. But New York offers a rainbow of looks that overwhelm the eye. Intense funky, quietly elegant, outlandish chic, a myriad of looks and colors and styles. Just as I had noticed as the taxi stopped at Yellowfingers on the way in from the airport, in New York people dare. And how.

The table next to us consisted of heavily bejeweled "Nyew Yawwwk," successful garment center wearing chic Paris, rich silks and creamy satins, hair fresh out of the hairdresser, and manicures that made me want to amputate my arms. At the bar were a slew of fifty-year-old men with astounding-looking models, statuesque-looking young women with elaborate eye makeup and closely cropped hair. It surprised me to see that short hair was "in" again. In California they were still wearing it long and straight, but in New York the natural look was dead, it had no charm at all, and proved only that you weren't trying.

The room itself was dark, and the tablecloths were so starched they looked as though they could have stood up on their own. Overhead hung a vast array of toy cars and airplanes. All you had to do was look at the ceiling and you knew you were at Twenty-One. The discreet sounds of good silver, fine china, and paper-thin crystal mingled with the soft buzzing of conversations, and the entire room seemed to come to life.

"Whatcha looking at, you hick?" Peg looked amused as she watched me.

"That's about the size of it. I'd almost forgotten how New York looks. It's so weird to be back. I feel as though I have to learn the language all over again, and get myself together."

"You look like you're doing okay to me. You haven't lost your touch yet." I was wearing a white wool dress, the pearls my ex-mother-in-law had given me, and had pulled my hair into a tight knot at my neck. "That guy on your right looks as though he's got the worst case of the hots for you I've ever seen. You're looking good."

"Thanks, but you're full of s.h.i.t."

"Mrs. Forrester! Such language at Twenty-One. Gawwd! I can't take you anywhere."

"Oh shut up!" I giggled at her over my Dubonnet. "Not until I hear what brought you back to New York. I smell a rat."

"Come on, Peg." I averted my eyes and looked around the room. I didn't want to talk about Chris. I just wanted to enjoy the evening.

"That confirms it. Okay, close-mouth, you want to tell me now or later?"

"There's nothing to tell."

"Oh yeah? Didn't your mother ever tell you the story of Pinocchio, Gill? You should see your nose . . . it's growing longer, and longer, and. . . ."

"Peg Richards, you're a pain in the a.s.s. I just came back, that's all."

"I'm insulted. I thought we were friends."

"We are." My voice got small, and I started on my second Dubonnet.

"Okay, I'll let it go. What do you want to eat?"

"Something light."

"You sick?" Peg eyed me seriously then, and I reached quickly into a mental grab bag of possible excuses, and then gave up.

"Nope. Pregnant."

"What? Holy s.h.i.t! So you came back for an abortion?"

"No. I moved back."

"What about Chris? Does he know?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"I moved back."

"Did he walk out on you, Gill?" Fire kindled in Peg's eyes; she really was the most loyal friend I had.

"No, we just decided it was best this way."

"We? Or he? It doesn't sound like your style."