"No, Morgan's right. You have to go," Grace said. "But we're short one invitation. Do you think they'll keep that close track?"
"I'm not dressed properly," Cybil said. "I'm never dressed properly. Anna, you go."
"I don't think I could stand to see…" Anna said.
"I also have an invitation," Diana said. "I work there, part-time. We all go."
"I thought you said this was exclusive," Cybil laughed.
"Waiter, the bill, please," Morgan said, smoothing her skirt, tugging at her jacket, and with a certain air of resolution, pulling the straps of her bag over her shoulder. "My treat, girls. The evening might even be bearable if you all come along."
"You look as if you're girding yourself for battle, Morgan," Cybil said.
Morgan looked at her for a moment before she replied. "Maybe I am," she said.
CHAPTERTWO
September 5
GIVEN HOW THE EVENING WAS TO END, ITS STRANGE HOW clear some of it is. I recall it not so much as a sequence of events, one flowing into the next, but rather as a series of quite distinct vignettes, each a still photograph that I can study time and time again. And that I have done, feeling perhaps that if I stare at them long enough and carefully enough I will see what I missed, I will understand what was to come.
But perhaps a photograph is not quite the right analogy. A play, I think, might do it, the players frozen for a moment as the curtain rises before they begin to say their lines. I am both actor and spectator. Act one, scene one, then, takes place outside the Cottingham Museum. Perched on a prime piece of real estate at the corner of a busy intersection it reminds one of nothing so much as a big bird. Both the museum and the building it is housed in are, it is clear, monuments to self-indulgence.
The product of an international design competition, won by one of those architects noted for buildings that make a statement but do not necessarily work very well, the building is not large, four stories, on a relatively small lot, but it dominates the corner. Clad in undulating sheet metal with various protrusions that resemble beaks and wings, in a neighborhood heretofore noted for its gracious Edwardian elegance, the Cottingham has set itself apart.
But it is not the building that is important in this scene, it is the figure in the foreground: Woodward Watson looking impatiently at his watch as the wind ruffles his beautiful gray hair and clutches at his cashmere suit and the white silk scarf draped casually, but of course elegantly, around his neck.
"Hello, darling," Morgan says, taking his arm. "Sorry I'm a bit late. You should have gone in without me. I met some old school chums. Is there something you want me to do here tonight? Someone in particular you would like me to meet?"
Woodward draws her aside for a moment, leaving the rest of us to look awkwardly about, not sure whether to wait or go on.
"Of course, darling," she says, and we all move inside. It is clear now we are not to be introduced.
ACT ONE, SCENE two: the atrium of the museum, all glass and marble, and at this moment packed with people. Jackets are whipped away as soon as one enters, and a glass of champagne is immediately to hand.
A receiving line of sorts has been set up. In it are Major Cottingham himself, looking much older than I recall, and his wife of five years, the spectacular Courtney, former actress and party girl, now the partner of an exceptionally wealthy man thirty years her senior. Of Courtney it is often said rather unkindly, quoting Dorothy Parker, that you can take a whore to culture but you can't make her think. It is clear from her every utterance that she left school long before she should, that she knows nothing about the art that is such an important part of her husband's life. Despite all the money her marriage to Major has brought, she still dresses in short skirts, high boots, and low-cut tops, usually in either a fuzzy or a metallic fabric. Tonight she is decked out in way too much jewelry, and a gold sparkly suit. Still, she is a very attractive woman, and one who knows very well the power she has over men.
The Cottinghams are Old Money. Major Cottingham— for the longest time I thought this was his rank when in fact it's his name—has collected art for many years, as did his father before him, and when for some reason he found the need for a significant tax receipt, and was unable to negotiate a big enough one from any of the existing art museums in the country to which he tried to donate his collection, he first built, then opened, his own.
While critics of the museum's architecture are many, few dare to sneer at the collection. Cottingham has a passion for art, and the wherewithal to support it. He also has strong opinions on it, and went through a string of curators in the first few years, most of whom only stayed as long as they could stand Cottingham's bullying. The museum has been set up as a not-for-profit corporation with a board of directors as legally required, and indeed, Woodward Watson, Morgan's philandering husband, is on that board, but there is no question who runs the show. It was an interesting boondoggle, really. Cottingham gets to treat the collection as if it is still his own, has the benefit of the tax receipt, estimated to be in the many millions, and now has a staff of flunkies to do his bidding. According to the rumors, curatorial responsibilities include taking care of Major's dry cleaning, providing several parking spaces day and night, and covering most of his entertainment expenses. Over the few years they've been together, Major and Courtney have held many lavish dinner parties at the museum with some of the finest caterers in the city, or they have until recently. The society pages have not seen much of the Cottinghams of late.
Still all cannot be entirely rosy. The cost of running the museum is considerable, and without regular infusions of cash from Cottingham it would probably have closed. While the collection is first-rate, it hasn't quite captured the public's imagination. It is perhaps not a sufficiently large collection to make it a destination for travelers, and it does not really have a focus. There are all kinds of art, from all time periods, but it just isn't very exciting to any but the most enthusiastic student. A year before the action in this scene begins, in an effort to develop the collection in a way that would have more appeal, Cottingham hired what might very well be the last curator he will ever be able to harass, a man I have yet to meet, but have heard much about, one Karoly Molnar.
The Hungarian-born Molnar has worked in England, at a small but prestigious institution called the Bramley Museum, and apparently it was something of a coup for Cottingham to have snagged him. Molnar is known for his innovative exhibit design and for having a real sense of what the public wants to see. There has been much speculation about how long the new fellow will last, but a few months after Molnar's arrival, Cottingham surprised everyone by announcing he would step down, and Molnar consequently was offered the position of executive director as well as curator. Tonight, we are told, Molnar will unveil an extraordinary discovery, an artifact that will set the Cottingham firmly on the list of top cultural attractions anywhere in the world. It is called the Magyar Venus, and we are all there, breathless in anticipation, to see it for ourselves.
Morgan and Courtney air-kiss, and then Morgan is off to chat up someone, a bank president by the look of him, on behalf of her husband. Courtney smiles enthusiastically at everyone who speaks to her, but Major is uncharacteristically quiet. Up close he is thinner than I remember, and pale. I see a number of people I know, including Clive and Moira, who wave at me. I can tell from their smiles that they're glad their rather morose friend Lara is making an effort.
I turn at the sound of a voice behind me. "Frank?" I exclaim to the tall, handsome man who has tapped my shoulder. "After all these years. You look terrific."