Read Online The White Rose by Jean Hanff Korelitz - Free Book Online
Authors: Jean Hanff Korelitz
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be if somebody actually ends up paying for it, and no bad thing to send a beautiful arrangement to the Steiner mansion, where some of the wealthiest people in the city are likely to admire it, not least Mort Klein himself.
Barton turns to Marian, as if abruptly recalling her presence. “I must go. I’m late for the Kleins. Where is my coat?”
Oliver sets down the card on Marian’s coffee table. “I’ll get it,” he says cheerily, and goes.
“Oh, Barton,” Valerie says, finally breaking off the gaze she has fixated on Oliver, “you’re going to the Kleins now? I’m going that way. I’ll walk with you.”
It is an announcement, not a request.
“Fine!” says Barton. He is shrugging his broad shoulders into the coat Oliver holds open. “You can walk me as far as the door.”
Valerie flinches a mite at the put-down, but recovers admirably. “Of course. Good-bye, Miss…,” she says to Oliver, who has finished helping Barton on with his coat.
“Olivia,” he says.
“Well, very nice to meet you. Marian?”
Marian steps forward and kisses one bony cheek, then the other bony cheek. She smells some awful cucumber perfume. She pulls back and smiles with a practiced facsimile of fondness, but Valerie, she notes, is staring frankly at her, without a veneer of sociability. Marian watches as her gaze makes a clockwise sweep, from crown to waist and up again. “Who’s doing your color now, Marian?” she asks suddenly.
“My…?”
The question takes a moment to sink in. Either Valerie has forgotten that they are not alone, or she is being cruel. So cruel, Marian thinks, frantically avoiding the eyes of her cousin and her lover.
“We can do better. Whoever you’re seeing, I’m going to set you up with my person at Fekkai. He’s impossible to get, but I’m going to fix it for you. I want to,” she says. “Please, don’t say anything. It’s done.”
“Oh,” Marian says, burning.
“And I want to take you up to see Peter Davidoff on Madison. He’s the biggest whore, you can’t imagine! You tell him, ‘I don’t like this freckle,’ and he says, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll zap it. It’s gone!’ ” She laughs, a glasslike laugh. “His office, everyone you know’s in the waiting room! It’s what La Côte Basque must have been like in the sixties, only we all know what we’re doing there. Who cares! Why look older than we have to?” She looks at Barton. “Isn’t that right?”
He frowns, baffled, so Valerie tries Oliver.
“Not that you’ll need to worry about that for eons, Olivia. You have lovely skin.”
Oliver refuses to thank her aloud. He offers only a half smile.
“Well,” Valerie chirps, “must go. Barton?”
“Yes!” He steps forward, and Oliver grabs the door. “Marian,” Barton says as Valerie stabs the elevator button, “I will be in touch. I want you to meet Mort. And Sophie, of course.”
“Of course,” Marian echoes. Her voice sounds flat.
“Good to see you!” Valerie says. “I’m so glad I stopped in. I hope we didn’t interfere too badly,” she says gaily, as if she and Barton are a couple.
“Not at all,” Marian says. Oliver steps back as the elevator door opens. Carlo, the elevator man, doesn’t need to see the young man he brought up this morning dressed in women’s clothes. “Good-bye,” Marian says as they step into the elevator. “Good-bye,” as it closes. “Good-bye,” as they descend.
And then Oliver is around her, beside her, pressing her arms with his arms, and her face is hot against his face, and he is holding her so tight the strength of his arms is the only thing keeping her from flying to pieces.
“That bitch,” he says, swaying and swaying. “That bitch.”
CHAPTER THREE
About Time
T here is a time in each day that is neither afternoon nor evening but something breathless in suspension between them, when every particle of the air is briefly infused with fierce, fierce color, one instant so utterly there, then gone.
Barton turns to Marian, as if abruptly recalling her presence. “I must go. I’m late for the Kleins. Where is my coat?”
Oliver sets down the card on Marian’s coffee table. “I’ll get it,” he says cheerily, and goes.
“Oh, Barton,” Valerie says, finally breaking off the gaze she has fixated on Oliver, “you’re going to the Kleins now? I’m going that way. I’ll walk with you.”
It is an announcement, not a request.
“Fine!” says Barton. He is shrugging his broad shoulders into the coat Oliver holds open. “You can walk me as far as the door.”
Valerie flinches a mite at the put-down, but recovers admirably. “Of course. Good-bye, Miss…,” she says to Oliver, who has finished helping Barton on with his coat.
“Olivia,” he says.
“Well, very nice to meet you. Marian?”
Marian steps forward and kisses one bony cheek, then the other bony cheek. She smells some awful cucumber perfume. She pulls back and smiles with a practiced facsimile of fondness, but Valerie, she notes, is staring frankly at her, without a veneer of sociability. Marian watches as her gaze makes a clockwise sweep, from crown to waist and up again. “Who’s doing your color now, Marian?” she asks suddenly.
“My…?”
The question takes a moment to sink in. Either Valerie has forgotten that they are not alone, or she is being cruel. So cruel, Marian thinks, frantically avoiding the eyes of her cousin and her lover.
“We can do better. Whoever you’re seeing, I’m going to set you up with my person at Fekkai. He’s impossible to get, but I’m going to fix it for you. I want to,” she says. “Please, don’t say anything. It’s done.”
“Oh,” Marian says, burning.
“And I want to take you up to see Peter Davidoff on Madison. He’s the biggest whore, you can’t imagine! You tell him, ‘I don’t like this freckle,’ and he says, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll zap it. It’s gone!’ ” She laughs, a glasslike laugh. “His office, everyone you know’s in the waiting room! It’s what La Côte Basque must have been like in the sixties, only we all know what we’re doing there. Who cares! Why look older than we have to?” She looks at Barton. “Isn’t that right?”
He frowns, baffled, so Valerie tries Oliver.
“Not that you’ll need to worry about that for eons, Olivia. You have lovely skin.”
Oliver refuses to thank her aloud. He offers only a half smile.
“Well,” Valerie chirps, “must go. Barton?”
“Yes!” He steps forward, and Oliver grabs the door. “Marian,” Barton says as Valerie stabs the elevator button, “I will be in touch. I want you to meet Mort. And Sophie, of course.”
“Of course,” Marian echoes. Her voice sounds flat.
“Good to see you!” Valerie says. “I’m so glad I stopped in. I hope we didn’t interfere too badly,” she says gaily, as if she and Barton are a couple.
“Not at all,” Marian says. Oliver steps back as the elevator door opens. Carlo, the elevator man, doesn’t need to see the young man he brought up this morning dressed in women’s clothes. “Good-bye,” Marian says as they step into the elevator. “Good-bye,” as it closes. “Good-bye,” as they descend.
And then Oliver is around her, beside her, pressing her arms with his arms, and her face is hot against his face, and he is holding her so tight the strength of his arms is the only thing keeping her from flying to pieces.
“That bitch,” he says, swaying and swaying. “That bitch.”
CHAPTER THREE
About Time
T here is a time in each day that is neither afternoon nor evening but something breathless in suspension between them, when every particle of the air is briefly infused with fierce, fierce color, one instant so utterly there, then gone.
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