Nancy’s Theory of Style Page 4
Nancy ordered a writing table and chair (cabriole legs and a simple leaf motif) and now all she needed was someone who complemented her décor as perfectly as the Gino Sarfatti steel tube and chromium chandelier complemented her furniture. She was pleasantly surprised when a new laptop and phone were delivered.
Nancy called Todd that evening to thank him, but he didn’t answer, so she left a message. Now he could stay at the office as late as he liked and hang out with his buddies to his heart’s content.
Nancy contacted her closest friends, those in her bridal party, to announce that she was back in the city and had a window of opportunity for spa days, lunches, shows and shopping. They seemed happy to hear from her, but explained that they were so incredibly busy. They left her with vague promises that they would call soon.
Well, Nancy had important things to do, too, including orchestrating the party for her social godmother, Gigi Barton. Gigi, heiress to the Barton’s tissue paper fortune, had hosted Nancy and Todd’s wedding. Gigi hadn’t seemed to like Todd, but she did like parties, and now Nancy had to make sure that every detail was flawless.
The event was only a week away, and Nancy quickly became so engrossed her planning that she went for 15 minutes at a time without thinking about her marriage.
She also went over her finances. She had enough cash in her personal account to live comfortably for about three months, the time she planned to stay here. By the end of that time, she’d be earning income from Froth and wouldn’t need to withdraw money from the accounts she shared with Todd.
On Monday morning, after Nancy had had her first low-fat cappuccino of the day, she dressed in a vintage ink blue Valentino silk suit with an ivory collar, bow closures, and a knee-length skirt. She wore them with new, black suede pumps.
She had positioned her own writing table so that the indirect light from the bay window was most flattering to her golden and rose coloring. She’d even practiced smiling in a way intended to be friendly, but authoritative.
The first person who came for an interview was chewing gum and wearing such hellish hippie shoes that Nancy didn’t want her to befoul the hand-knotted rug on her hardwood floor.
The second person bragged that she’d held her own wedding at a theme park. She described the event as “magical.” Nancy rushed through the interview trying not to shudder visibly.
She was feeling disheartened when it was time to interview the third applicant.
The tall, dark-haired man walked into the room wearing a windowpane suit in charcoal with a chalk line in the subtlest lavender, and a lavender shirt. She’d dreamed of meeting a man who could wear a windowpane pattern with élan. When she tore her eyes from his clothes, she noticed that he had a very interesting and attractive angular face and deep blue eyes.
“Good afternoon, I’m Derek Cathcart,” he said with an English accent.
“I’m Nancy Carrington-Chambers.”
As they shook hands, she saw that his nails were clean and buffed. He smelled subtly of something woodsy and masculine. He wore his straight, espresso-dark hair and sideburns long, but beautifully cut -– too beautifully for a straight man.
Her heart leapt with hope. “Please have a seat, Derek,” she said, indicating the chair opposite hers.
He sat down and crossed one long leg over the other at the knee. He glanced around the room and then he caught sight of the arrangement of blue carnations and Mylar balloons that she’d set on a side table.
Nancy said, “Your suit…how it suits you.”
“Thank you,” he said simply.
“Please tell me a little about yourself and your experience as an assistant.”
“I’ve been in service for over ten years. I was the assistant to a gentleman, managing staff, arranging travel, and attending to his scheduling, including those matters which required the utmost discretion.”
Nancy thought his pronunciation of scheduling, schejooling, made it sound more sophisticated. His voice was as mellifluous as a character on a British historical drama, the kind where everyone is always running to the haberdashery for new ribbons to trim a bonnet.
“While I cannot disclose my former employer’s identity…”
“Is he a royal?” Nancy asked.
Derek smiled slightly and then said, “Mr. Chambers has spoken with the gentleman and received a letter of recommendation.”
“It’s a pity that Mr. Chambers is staying in our home in the hinterlands, because he could certainly do with a man of your skills,” Nancy said. “This is a three-month assignment and your primary responsibility will be helping me plan parties, receptions, and weddings. I need someone who is detail oriented and able to get along with a variety of people.”
“I strive to treat all with respect, from the humblest chambermaid or stable boy to the most honored and titled members of society.”
Her heart, already aloft, danced like a kite in a spring breeze. “I may also need someone to assist me with a writing project.”
“This would be no hardship, Madame, as I am an experienced scrivener.”
She knew she should ask more questions and check his other references, but she was suddenly terrified that he’d be snatched away by some vulgar arriviste who’d parade him around like a prize. Still, she had to be sure that he was the real deal.
She asked, “How do you like the carnations and balloons?”
He squared his shoulders and gazed into her eyes. “Mrs. Carrington-Chambers, I do not wish to offend you, but they look like a dog’s dinner.”
“You don’t offend me in the least, Derek. In fact, I’d like to offer you the position. If you’d like the job, when can you start? Do we have to submit a request?”
“Mr. Chambers authorized the employment agency to handle the paperwork, and I can start immediately,” he said, thereby fulfilling her girlhood dream of having a gay, English assistant.
Nancy spent the rest of the afternoon in an ecstasy of efficiency. She showed Derek how to operate the espresso maker and he caught on immediately. He seemed impressed by the contents of her refrigerator.
“Such an impressive array of beverages,” he’d said while observing the neat rows of bottled waters, the glass bottle of organic low-fat milk, and the lemons and limes in her fridge.
“Thank you. You can have as much water as you like, and I’ve got it in still and sparkling from several different countries. I only buy the ones in attractive bottles because that improves the whole water drinking experience, don’t you think?”
“Unquestionably.”
“I’m doing clear bottles this month, but sometimes I like green bottles, and the frosted glass ones are fab. You’ll have to stock them for me.”
“Your palate must be extremely refined to distinguish between so many varieties.”
“Yes, but it’s not just about taste. It’s about purpose. For example, I think it’s really important to drink Russian water when recovering from a vodka hangover. I believe in committing to a theme.”
“Exceedingly admirable,” he said.
“I love placing the round little bottles by those with elongated shapes. I know everyone raves about metal canisters being more ecological, but I find that metal tastes metallic.”
Nancy showed Derek her intricate system for party planning. She was impressed when he caught on quickly to her spreadsheets.
“See, when everything balances at the end of the column, it gets highlighted in hyacinth, because the color is like a special treat. My father always says that if you take care of your pennies, your dollars will take care of themselves. Or, as you would say, if you take care of your pences, your pounds will take care of themselves.”
“Thank you for the translation, Mrs. Carrington-Chambers. You make me f
eel so welcome in your country.”
And though he looked solemn, she thought she detected some humor in his voice, so she smiled and said, “Enough hard work for now. I’ve got a stack of all the latest bridal magazines and I want you to go through them page by page and give me your overall impressions on critical trends for lace and veils.”
Derek had a look on his face that Nancy could only describe as abject gratitude. “Certainly, Madame.”
“I’ve got to work on the final details for a birth-, a party I’m organizing for Gigi Barton. It’s not a birthday party, because Gigi claims she doesn’t age. Have you heard of her?”
“Is she from the Bartons of Dalek Park in Scaro?”
Nancy wondered if she should have heard of Dalek Park. “She’s one of the tissue paper Bartons. ‘It’s not worth sneezing at if it’s not Barton’s tissue!’ Of course, their real fortune was made in toilet paper. This will be a giant, grown-up slumber party. It’s this Saturday night and I hope you’re available to help.”
“Certainly, Madame.”
She put a stack of wedding magazines in front of Derek and said, “Derek, I think it would be great if you did a collage of wedding trends, don’t you? I like to be able to see things. But don’t restrict yourself to just veils. If you see something else that looks fabulous, include it!” She gave him a poster board, scissors and a glue stick and set him to work.
He took a different approach than Nancy would have, cutting out pictures in semi-circles and laying them edge to edge. But when he was done, he’d created a mosaic of whites, ivories, creams, and blush colors.
Nancy propped the board up on the bookshelves and inspected it. “You have incredible instincts, Derek. One suggestion, though. Don’t be quite so safe. After all, good taste is not style.”
“I shall bear that in mind, Madame.”
As soon as Derek left, Nancy admired the collage again and felt a thrill. It had been a test to make sure she could trust his sense of aesthetics, and he’d passed superbly. She even sensed that he’d been holding back on his own artistic style.
Nancy called her freshman roommate, Milagro, and asked her to dinner, saying, “I have news for you, but you must promise not to get gloaty.”
“That is so unfair, because I rarely get to gloat over you. However, I promise. Tell me now.”
“Patience is the virtue of the artist formerly known as the artist formerly known as Prince.”
“I thought it was promptness.”
“Be on time then.”
Chapter 4: Matching the Outfit to the Occasion
Nancy thought it was exciting to be friends with someone completely outside her set, because she could say things she never would say to her sorority sisters. Milagro was from some godforsaken suburb called El or La or San something and had intriguingly appalling opinions, including a pathological hatred of Todd.
They met at a Japanese restaurant and jazz club in the Fillmore. Milagro, a stunning, curvaceous Latina, was wearing a snug black cotton sweater, a leopard print miniskirt, and black boots.
“Milagro, hon, que sera sera!” Nancy said and the friends exchanged kisses. “I am so loving the cat woman vibe.”
“Que sera, yourself, Nancita,” Milagro said as they followed the hostess to their table. “Are you coming to the show with me after dinner?”
“You know that jazz puts me into a parabolic trooper.”
“I suspect that it’s the sake shooters that put you in a catatonic stupor,” Milagro said.
Nancy reached into her bag and took out the book she’d bought for her friend. “This is for you, although I don’t know if I should be encouraging you.”
“Eccentric Glamour! Thank you, Nancy. I shall study it like the Dead Sea Scrolls for spiritual guidance.”
While they ordered, Nancy looked around the restaurant. She loved sushi because it was as delicious as it was attractive, but even more she liked the simple elegance of the restaurant. There were pale birch tables and bleached floors. She could see exactly what the chefs were doing, so there was no chance of anyone spitting into her food if she complained.
The waiter left and Nancy said, “The minor news is, and remember no gloating, that I’m taking a break from Le Todd.”
Milagro’s dark brown eyes widened and then she slipped her hand briefly over Nancy’s. “I won’t gloat, but it would be nice if you never go back to him.”
“Everyone hearts Todd, but you, and your dislike is based on politics, my loony lefty pal.”
“Not entirely! He repels me in myriad ways.”
Nancy held up her hand, palm outward. “Do not go into specifics. I heart Todd, and Todd hearts me.”
“You’ve been defensive about your relationship with him since frosh year, and I don’t know if you actually heart him, or merely say that.”
“Neither do I,” Nancy admitted. “My antipathy for the house is so overwhelming that I can’t tell how I feel about Todd anymore. I’m hoping the time apart will give me a little clarity.”
“I hope so, too, Nancy-fancypants,” Milagro said. “How is Miss Winkles?”
“As iridescent as ever,” Nancy said and shared a smile with her friend. “Now for my news. You will never guess what I have!”
“A venereal disease? The Holy Grail?”
“Ewh to the first, but the Holy Grail would look fab on my mantle,” she said. “I have a gay English assistant named Derek!”
“You unspeakable bitch! I yearn for a gay English assistant – but named Trevor, or maybe Clive. Is he fabulous?”
“You think anyone in possession of a penis is fabulous and, yes, he’s completely fabulous. He was wearing a shirt the same color as the wisteria on my Aunt Frilly’s arbor. He calls me Mrs. Carrington-Chambers in a way that makes me feel very Madame de Pompadour.”
“Your head has sometimes resembled a giant puffball, but I thought it was impolite to say anything.”
“Jeanne-Antoinette Poisson was the King’s mistress and the greatest fashionista of her time, including her hair, you hysterical dance.”
“Historical dunce?”
“Heretically dense. I wish there were more kings around these days.”
“There is a surfeit of queens, and it sounds as if you’ve got one of your own. How are you going to pay him? I thought your money was controlled by your father slash trustee, who is fab, but notably deficient of frivolousness.”
“Alas, the frivolous gene is recessive. Todd is gifting the assistant to me!”
“Toad?” Milagro said. “Why would he do that?”
“He’s trying to support Froth. You always think the worst of him and that’s why I’m always defensive about him with you.” Nancy sighed. “Do you think I’ve overreacted to that house?”
“How would I know since I’ve never been invited there? He cut down ancient oaks and went behind your back.”
“I can’t invite you because you and Todd and the mutual hatred thing. Back to my story about hiring my fabulous new assistant,” Nancy said. She placed her palms together and gazed toward the ceiling. “It was like a magical fairy tale.”
“Please stop looking as if you’re having a vision of the Virgin de Guadalupe because it’s seriously freaking me out.”
Nancy stuck her tongue out at Milagro and said, “Derek noticed an awful flower arrangement. It was as if he was trying to sleep on one hundred Swedish mattresses, but couldn’t because he was so exquisitely sensitive to the vulgarity of blue carnations.”
“I couldn’t sleep in a room with blue carnations and I’m not exquisitely sensitive. Is Derek diminutive with little rimless glasses? That would be divine.”
“Sadly, no. He’s tall and lanky, which are generally fatal flaws in an assistant, but he is, as the French would say, beau laid, ugly beautiful, because he’s still fabulous despite the non-spectacle quality. His eyes are stunning. He has black lashes that make them intensely azure, like, uhm…”
“Like azures?”
“I was thinking o
f something less semi-precious. But sapphires are the wrong shade.”
“Peculiar that Toad would fulfill one of your fantasies, i.e., said gay English assistant, when he’s always been fixated on his own crude wishes, i.e., offering you implants when you have always been madly in love with your perky pair.”
“They are marvelously perky, but Todd actually thought I would want implants. He’s only aware of obvious trends and knows I like to be fashionable,” Nancy said.
“Nonetheless, I took umbrage on their behalf,” Milagro said. “Does Derek have a sense of humor?”
“He may. He thanked me for translating American English into British English, and I’m hoping he was being dryly or wryly sarcastic, but it’s too early to tell.”
“Continue to hope. I always thought you should be with someone who got your humor and realized that when you seem to be joking, you’re serious and when you seem to be serious, you’re joking.”
“You’re speaking of yourself, not me. Derek can help me with my Theory of Style.”
“How’s that going?”
“Sometimes I worry that I’m like that deluded prune in that novel you like, Middle Earth.”
“Middlemarch. You mean Casaubon, who spends his life writing the Key to All Mythologies, which is discovered to be errant nitwittery only after his death.”
“You know how I adore errant nitwittery,” Nancy said, “but only when it’s intentional. That’s one of the problems with reading fiction; it preys upon impressionable minds and implies that life has subtext, when life is wont to ramble plotlessly along.”
“I’ve been letting that idea percolate lately,” Milagro said. “What if life isn’t actually utterly aimless?”
“If it wasn’t, wouldn’t we eventually see a pattern, like a pointillist painting? We would. We’d see connections and structure and themes would resonate,” Nancy said. “What are you wearing to Gigi’s not-a-birthday party? And are you bringing one of your lovers?”
“A g-string and pasties, but I still haven’t mastered twirling them in different directions. I already told you I’m not going. Gigi’s friends have too much attitude. They look down their surgically-altered noses at me.”