They are serving the foie gras with mango slices on the mezzanine level of Lincoln Center as we stand at the top of the stairs. It could be my imagination, but it seems there is a tiny, perceptible hush, and people swivel their heads to look at us as the boy takes my arm and we make our way slowly down the steps and across the floor to my table. The photographer, Patrice, is squatting next to Nevil Mouse, the Australian media wunderkind who once tried to hire me but then rejected me when I wouldn't go on a date with him. As the boy pulls out my chair, he whispers, "Your table looks as bad as mine," and winks just as Patrice whispers to Nevil, "Who's that girl?" Nevil, who is nervous and high-strung, stands up awkwardly and says, "Excuse me, but I think that seat is reserved for Princess Cecelia Luxenstein.”
“It is," I say calmly, adjusting the shoulders of my dress. "But I'm afraid Cecelia couldn't make it. She's sick. I'm her cousin, Rebecca Kelly.”
"Well, I suppose ... if s all right then," Nevil says. I put one elbow on the table and lean toward him. "Are you in charge of this event?" I ask demurely. "No. Why should you ask that? If s just that ... the committee works so hard to get the tables ... just right.”
"I see," I say. "So it wouldn't be unfair to assume that your greatest preoccupation is ... being seen at the right table with the right people.”
Nevil looks for help from Patrice, who kicks Nevil under the table and slides toward me, taking the seat that I suddenly realize is reserved for D.W.
"I didn't realize Cecelia had such a beautiful cousin. Do you mind if I take your picture?”
"Not at all," I say, smiling as Patrice leans back and fires off several shots. "You look so much like Cecelia, you know. But Cecelia hates to have her picture taken. I can't figure out what's wrong with her.”
"She's ... shy," I say.
"With me? I'm one of her oldest friends," Patrice says.
"Are you? I've never heard her mention you, but that must be because I've been in Paris for the last five years.”
"I've known her forever. I remember when she first came to New York. She had big hair. Used to hang out at Au Bar. She was wild. I can't figure out what happened to her. I mean, she got the guy that everybody wanted, right? Champagne?”
"Yes, I'd love some.”
"Ooooh, Mrs. Sneet," Patrice says to an elegant woman in her early fifties who is passing by, "Mrs. Sneet, I'd like you to meet Rebecca Kelly. She's Cecelia Luxenstein's cousin. She's been in Paris for the last five years, studying ... art. This is Arlene Sneet, the head of the ballet committee.”
I hold up my hand. "So lovely to meet you," I say. "The ballet ... I don't think I've ever seen anything so beautiful. I was so transfixed I had to remain in my seat, digesting it all, and I'm afraid that I kept my dinner partners waiting as a result.”
"My dear, I completely understand," Mrs. Sneet said. "It's so lovely to see new faces at the ballet. And I must say, you're making quite a stir. Everyone is wondering who you are. You must allow me to introduce you to some eligible young men.”
"Did I hear you say you studied art at the Louvre?" came a voice from my right.
I turn. "Why yes. Yes, that's right, Mr. Tristam.”
“I always wanted to be a painter, but then I got caught up in this acting business," Maurice Tristam says.
"Oh yes," I say. "It's so difficult, the way one often has to sacrifice art for commerce.”
"You should see some of the parts I've had to take just for the filthy lucre.”
"And you're so talented.”
"You think so? I ought to bring you in to talk to some of my producers. What did you say your name was again?”
"Rebecca Kelly.”
"Rebecca Kelly. That sounds like a movie star. Well, Rebecca Kelly, I must say I'm an admirer of yours already.”
"Oh, Mr. Tristam—”
“Call me Maurice.”
"You're too kind. And who is your lovely date? Why, you naughty man. You've brought your daughter. “
"I'm not his daughter!" says the lovely date, who, at no older than eighteen, already has obvious breast implants and a hardened expression.
"This is Willie," Maurice says with obvious embarrassment. He leans toward me and whispers in my ear. "And she's not my date. She's my, er, costar in this movie we just shot.”
Willie leans across Maurice. "Are you friends with Miles?”
"Miles?" I ask.
"Miles Hanson. That guy you're with.”
“Oh. You mean that pretty blond boy. Is his name Miles?”
Willie looks at me like I must be an idiot. "He just finished that movie. Gigantic. Everyone says he's going to be a huge star. He's the next Brad Pitt. I'm trying to get Maurice to introduce me—”
"I told you, I don't know him," Maurice says.
"But he won't. And I think he'd be a great boyfriend for me," Willie says.
"Champagne?" I ask, pouring myself another glass as the lobster quadrilles arrive.
Forty-five minutes later they're playing that song "I Just Wanna Fly," and I'm quite drunk, dancing wildly with Miles, when I look over and there is D.W., in a damp tuxedo, smoothing his wet hair and trying to look calm although I can see that he's fuming, and he spots me and marches over and shouts, "Cecelia! What are you doing? Hubert and I have been searching half of Manhattan for you.”
Miles stops and I stop and the whole room seems to stop, expanding away from me, and I can hear Patrice shouting, "I knew it! I knew it was Cecelia all along!" And suddenly a black swarm of photographers descends and I am caught, with one hand in Miles's and the other clutching a bottle of champagne, and Miles jerks my arm and we start running through the crowd.
We run down the stairs with the photographers following us and run outside where it's really pouring now, across the plaza, down more steps, dodging limousines and four traffic cops, right onto Broadway, where a Number 12 bus is just pulling up.
We run up to the bus, waving and shouting, and we get on and Miles has two tokens and we're laughing, walking to the back of the bus, where we sit down and look at each other and crack up, then we look up and everyone on the bus is staring. I hiccup and Miles takes a swig from the bottle of champagne. Then our clasped hands fall apart as we stare out opposite windows, watching the thick streaks of rain against the glass.
"Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
Hubert is sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading The Wall Street Journal.
"Is there, ah, coffee?" I ask.
"In the coffeemaker," he says, not looking up.
I wander over to the counter and bang some cabinet doors, looking for a coffee cup.
"Try the dishwasher," he says. "Thanks," I say.
I pour the coffee, sit down. "You're up early," he says.
"Mmmnmvhmmm,'' I say. He slides the Post toward me.
I take a sip of coffee. I open the paper to Page Six. The headline reads PRINCESS BRIDE LIFE OF THE PARTY.
And then the copy: "It seems ifs Prince Hubert Luxenstein who is keeping back his glamorous wife, Cecelia, and not the other way around. Cecelia Kelly, the former art dealer, has been laying low ever since her nuptials two summers ago in Lake Cuomo, Italy, at the 200-acre family castle owned by the groom's father, Prince Heinrich Luxenstein. But last night at the fiftieth anniversary of the ballet, the beautiful new princess, sporting a new gamine hairstyle and wearing a gown by Bentley, arrived solo and charmed dinner guests who included ... before making a dramatic exit with new screen heartthrob Miles Hanson.”
I fold the paper. "Cecelia ...," he says. "Do you still love me?”
“Cecelia ...”
I hold up my hand. "Don't. Just don't," I say.
V
Dear Diary: I think I'm getting better.