Tales of the City 06 - Sure of You

Mary Ann. Prue Giroux.”
    She winced. “Oh, yes.”
    “They wouldn’t put me through until I told them we were friends.” Prue giggled. “You have marvelous watchdogs!”
    Not marvelous enough, obviously. She’d done her damnedest for years to stay clear of this notorious climber. Prue’s appetite for celebrities was such that she regarded Mary Ann as nothing less than a vital link in the food chain. Mary Ann, after all, got first crack at the biggies.
    “What’s up, Prue?”
    “Well, I know it’s late notice, but I’m having a little impromptu session of the Forum this afternoon, and I’d love for you to come.”
    The Forum was Prue’s pretentious name for the celebrity brunches she’d been throwing at her house for the past decade or so. They were almost always tedious affairs, populated by dubious local “personalities” and people who hoped to meet them.
    “Oh, gosh,” she said, unintentionally mimicking Prue’s gushy, little-girlish delivery. “That’s so sweet of you, but I’m up to my neck in work right now. We’ve got sweeps month coming up, you know.”
    “You have to eat, don’t you?”
    How typical of this star-fucker not to take no for an answer. “Prue,” she said evenly, “I’d love to, but I’m afraid it’s impossible.”
    “That’s such a shame. I just know you’d adore the Rands.” What Rands? Certainly not those Rands.
    “Russell just called up out of the blue last night and said that he and Chloe were in town.”
    The very ones. How in the world…?
    Prue giggled. “I told Russell he was naughty not to give me more warning, but…what can you do with creative people?”
    “You’re so right,” she replied. “How long are they here for?” She had wanted to interview the designer for ages. The Forum might not be the ideal auspices under which to meet Russell Rand and his new bride, but …
    “Just till Thursday.” said Prue. “They’re on their way to an AIDS benefit in L.A.”
    “Ah,” she replied, wondering why the hell none of her producers had heard about this. She might have been spared the indignity of dealing with Prue Giroux. “Maybe, if I jiggle my schedule a little…”
    “We aren’t convening until two,” said Prue. “You’ll still have time to change.” There was a note of sly triumph in her voice; Mary Ann wanted to kill her. “I’ve decided to wear the oldest Rand in my closet. Just to give him a giggle.”
    “Well…sounds like lots of fun.”
    “Doesn’t it?” said Prue, thoroughly pleased with herself.

    Mary Ann made a point of arriving late at Prue’s Nob Hill town house. The usual crowd was assembled in the fussy Diana Phipps living room, converging on the famous couple like flies on carrion. Keeping her distance from this sorry spectacle, she headed for the canapés and waited for her hostess to track her down.
    “Well,” came a voice from behind. “Look who’s here.”
    It was Father Paddy Starr—red-faced, beaming, and resplendent in a raspberry shirt with a clerical collar. “Hi, Father.”
    “I saw you yesterday at D‘orothea’s, but I don’t think you saw me.”
    “No. I guess not.”
    “Prue and I were in the front room. You were in the back with a gentleman.”
    She fussed over the canapés, feigning disinterest. Father Paddy was too much of a fixture at the station to be entrusted with even the sketchiest information about Burke. The situation was ticklish enough as it was.
    “Have you met them yet?” he asked.
    She selected the palest cube of cheese she could find and popped it into her mouth. “Who?”
    He rolled his eyes impatiently. “Dwight and Mamie Eisenhower.”
    “If you mean them,” said Mary Ann, nodding toward the corner where the Rands were being eaten alive, “I think they could use a little breather, don’t you?”
    Father Paddy selected an almond from a bowl of mixed nuts. “They’re used to it.”
    “Maybe so, but it makes us look like hicks. So desperate and overeager.”
    “Not me,” said the priest. “I’m waiting my turn like a gentleman.”
    “I didn’t mean you.” She gave him a conciliatory look. “It just makes me embarrassed for the city, that’s all.”
    This produced a sleepy, avuncular smile. “Don’t you worry about the city, darling.”
    She recoiled privately at the “darling” part, since it presumed the sort of cloying chumminess Father Paddy shared with Prue Giroux. Mary Ann simply didn’t trust him enough to get campy with him.
    The