here, quite suddenly, and quite unaccountably, Barton grins with apparent delight. “Yes,” says Barton. “That’ll do. She’ll find that amusing. Do you have the number?” He gets to his feet.
Marian, thrilled at this development, gets to her feet, too.
“No,” she lies.
“Perhaps Olivia does. I’d like to say good-bye to her, anyway.”
“Good-bye?” Valerie stands, too, but she is not ready to depart just yet. “You mean someone else is here?”
“Just my assistant,” Marian says. “Working back in the office. We were working”— when you interrupted us, she had been about to say—“earlier this afternoon. Marshall is in Nova Scotia this weekend on one of his board retreats. I try to keep the decks clear when he’s away. I usually get a great deal accomplished.”
“Well, I’m sorry we’ve interrupted,” Valerie offers, apparently speaking for Barton as well and not sounding sorry at all.
“No, it’s fine.” It’s fine now, Marian is thinking. Now it’s almost over.
“Where is Olivia?” Barton insists. “I want to say good-bye.” He looks knowingly at Valerie. “Absolutely charming girl. Well,” he says with a smirk, “not actually a girl, you know.”
Valerie, who cannot bear not knowing anything that might precede the phrase “you know,” perks right up. “What do you mean?”
“My lips,” he says gravely, “are sealed.” But he looks at Marian with a pleading expression.
My God, thinks Marian. This man must never be allowed in public.
Valerie looks at Marian. “Well? What is it? You’ve got a hermaphrodite assistant?”
“No, no,” says Marian. “Nothing like that. Just, you know, a cross-dresser. She’s one of my students, actually.”
Oddly, this comment seems to make all the difference. “Academia!” declares Valerie, giving Barton a conspiratorial glance. “Where would all the oddballs go if we didn’t have universities to put them in?”
Marian resists responding. This comment may be the broadest of unbased slanders, but she would rather take it than prolong the visit.
“I’ll look up the phone number for you,” Marian says. “No need to trouble Olivia.”
“But I insist,” says Barton. “I must say good-bye. I will not leave without doing that.”
“Yes, let’s have a look at her,” Valerie says, looking around. “Is she a pretty girl at least or one of those bad jokes with a beard?”
“Adorable,” Barton says.
“Oh please,” Marian says, pleading. “Please don’t say anything in front of her. She’s very sensitive. She doesn’t want people paying attention to her. Just,” she looks at Valerie, “try to pretend you don’t notice. Promise me, Valerie.”
Valerie puts up her hands. “Sweetheart! Of course! You know how good I am at pretending not to know things.”
Marian looks from one to the other. Her nerves are shot, she realizes, and there is no fortitude she can summon for another round of Olivia the transvestite assistant, not with Valerie Annis figured into the equation. The Celebrant is no Barton Ochstein, tenant and restorer of The Retreat and prime oaf. The Celebrant wields a scalpel in New York society and holds allegiance to herself, alone. She will take one look at beautiful Oliver in his cashmere turtleneck and pumps, his skirt and wig, and understand that Marian is in love with her oldest friend’s twenty-six-year-old son, who is the proprietor of the aforementioned White Rose, and who happens to be in drag. Tasteful drag. Understated drag. But drag.
But what can she do? She wants them out, and then she wants a brandy.
Marian goes to the living room phone and dials her office. It rings in the distance, once, twice.
“Yes?” says Oliver softly.
“Oh… Olivia, Mr. Ochstein needs to leave and wants to say good-bye to you. He’s also asked me to recommend a good place for flowers to send to his fiancée. Can you find the number of that place I like in the Village?”
There is a pause.
Marian, thrilled at this development, gets to her feet, too.
“No,” she lies.
“Perhaps Olivia does. I’d like to say good-bye to her, anyway.”
“Good-bye?” Valerie stands, too, but she is not ready to depart just yet. “You mean someone else is here?”
“Just my assistant,” Marian says. “Working back in the office. We were working”— when you interrupted us, she had been about to say—“earlier this afternoon. Marshall is in Nova Scotia this weekend on one of his board retreats. I try to keep the decks clear when he’s away. I usually get a great deal accomplished.”
“Well, I’m sorry we’ve interrupted,” Valerie offers, apparently speaking for Barton as well and not sounding sorry at all.
“No, it’s fine.” It’s fine now, Marian is thinking. Now it’s almost over.
“Where is Olivia?” Barton insists. “I want to say good-bye.” He looks knowingly at Valerie. “Absolutely charming girl. Well,” he says with a smirk, “not actually a girl, you know.”
Valerie, who cannot bear not knowing anything that might precede the phrase “you know,” perks right up. “What do you mean?”
“My lips,” he says gravely, “are sealed.” But he looks at Marian with a pleading expression.
My God, thinks Marian. This man must never be allowed in public.
Valerie looks at Marian. “Well? What is it? You’ve got a hermaphrodite assistant?”
“No, no,” says Marian. “Nothing like that. Just, you know, a cross-dresser. She’s one of my students, actually.”
Oddly, this comment seems to make all the difference. “Academia!” declares Valerie, giving Barton a conspiratorial glance. “Where would all the oddballs go if we didn’t have universities to put them in?”
Marian resists responding. This comment may be the broadest of unbased slanders, but she would rather take it than prolong the visit.
“I’ll look up the phone number for you,” Marian says. “No need to trouble Olivia.”
“But I insist,” says Barton. “I must say good-bye. I will not leave without doing that.”
“Yes, let’s have a look at her,” Valerie says, looking around. “Is she a pretty girl at least or one of those bad jokes with a beard?”
“Adorable,” Barton says.
“Oh please,” Marian says, pleading. “Please don’t say anything in front of her. She’s very sensitive. She doesn’t want people paying attention to her. Just,” she looks at Valerie, “try to pretend you don’t notice. Promise me, Valerie.”
Valerie puts up her hands. “Sweetheart! Of course! You know how good I am at pretending not to know things.”
Marian looks from one to the other. Her nerves are shot, she realizes, and there is no fortitude she can summon for another round of Olivia the transvestite assistant, not with Valerie Annis figured into the equation. The Celebrant is no Barton Ochstein, tenant and restorer of The Retreat and prime oaf. The Celebrant wields a scalpel in New York society and holds allegiance to herself, alone. She will take one look at beautiful Oliver in his cashmere turtleneck and pumps, his skirt and wig, and understand that Marian is in love with her oldest friend’s twenty-six-year-old son, who is the proprietor of the aforementioned White Rose, and who happens to be in drag. Tasteful drag. Understated drag. But drag.
But what can she do? She wants them out, and then she wants a brandy.
Marian goes to the living room phone and dials her office. It rings in the distance, once, twice.
“Yes?” says Oliver softly.
“Oh… Olivia, Mr. Ochstein needs to leave and wants to say good-bye to you. He’s also asked me to recommend a good place for flowers to send to his fiancée. Can you find the number of that place I like in the Village?”
There is a pause.
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