Tales of the City 01 - Tales of the City

“My wife. Sometimes I think God put women on this earth to remind men of cocktail parties.”
    D’orothea merely grunted.
    “Ah,” Beauchamp grinned. “That makes me sound like a chauvinist pig, I guess.”
    “No,” she said coldly. “Do you want it to?”
    The Hoover Gallery was jammed with patrons, a canvas of kelly green and pink. The women were decked out in understated Lilly Pulitzers, while their blue-blazered husbands expressed their individuality in madras patchwork trousers.
    Beauchamp and DeDe headed directly to the bar, wearing identical smiles and flaunting their new-found bliss like Tahitian tans.
    DeDe was still clinging to Beauchamp’s arm when Binky Gruen intercepted them.
    “Oh, thank God you two showed up! Beauchamp, quick, gimme a kiss! I have to look occupied!”
    Beauchamp pecked her on the cheek. “I’ve heard better excuses, Ms. Gruen.”
    “Keep talking, goddammit! He’s looking this way!”
    “Who?”
    “Carson Callas. He’s been blowing pipe breath at me for the past fifteen minutes, telling me how sexy he is! Yecchh!”
    Beauchamp recoiled in mock surprise. “You don’t think Carson Callas is sexy?”
    “Sure. If you get off on midgets in puka shells.”
    “Naughty, naughty. He won’t put you in his column, Binky.”
    “Or vice versa, if I can help it. Look, be an angel and fill this up with scotch. I feel an attack of ennui coming on. Your skinny wife looks thirsty too.”
    Beauchamp took Binky’s glass, then turned to DeDe. “Champagne, Skinny Wife?”
    “Please.” Her tone was deliberately chilly. She hated it when Binky and Beauchamp did their Lombard and Gable routine.
    By the time Beauchamp had disappeared into the crowd, Binky was ready to pounce.
    “Well?”
    “Well, what?”
    “Did you see Dr. Fielding?”
    “Binky … this is hardly the place.”
    “Yes or no?”
    “Yes.”
    Binky whistled. “I’ve got a good abortion man, if you need one.”
    “Binky … will you just shut up, please!”
    “Well, pardonnez-moi! I thought you could use a friend about now. I guess I was mistaken.”
    “Binky, I … Look, I’m sorry … it’s just that you make it sound so … A good abortion man, for heaven’s sake! Does he cater parties too?”
    Binky giggled. “No, but he’s marvelous with windows and floors!”
    “That’s not funny.”
    “Well, I think you’re getting much too heavy about this whole business.” She patted DeDe’s stomach. “No pun intended, darling. Look … if all that nasty Catholic guilt is gonna be too much for you, why don’t you just go ahead and have the little bastard?”
    “I thought you had that one figured out already.”
    “What the hell? Beauchamp can play along. He needs an heir, doesn’t he? Who’s gonna know the difference?”
    “Binky … you don’t know what you’re talking about….”
    “Don’t tell me it would show?”
    DeDe glared at her for several seconds, then nodded.
    “Hair?” asked Binky, her eyes fairly dancing with excitement. “A different color hair?”
    “No.”
    “Not skin?”
    Another nod.
    “Oh, you poor baby! Oh, DeDe, I didn’t mean to be so … What color?”
    DeDe pointed to her daffodil Diane von Furstenberg and burst into tears.
    After repairing her mascara in the bathroom, she merged with the mob again. Beauchamp was waiting with lukewarm champagne.
    “I’m with Peter and Shugie,” he said. “Wanna join us?”
    She shook her head with a watery smile. “Not right now, Beauchamp. Binky and I are catching up.”
    Alone again, she plastered a smile on her face and headed toward the corner where Binky was holding court. A hand stopped her, clamping onto her forearm.
    “Well, doesn’t Mrs. Day look good enough to eat?”
    If her arm had been free, she might have crossed herself. It was the society editor of Western Gentry magazine.
    Carson Callas.

Mrs. Madrigal and the Mouse
    M ICHAEL WAS SHIFTING HALF OF HIS CLOTHES INTO Mona’s closet when Mrs. Madrigal phoned.
    “Michael, dear. Could you come down for a moment?”
    “Sure. Three minutes, O.K.?”
    “Take your time, dear.”
    Well, he thought, hanging up the phone, here it comes. Eviction time. She’s been more than lenient about the rent so far, but enough is enough.
    He slipped into corduroy trousers and a white shirt, brushed his teeth, Pro-Maxed his hair into place, and ran a wet towel across his Weejuns.
    There was no point in looking like a deadbeat.
    The landlady’s angular face, usually so mobile, was