"Thank you," she said. "So what are you going to do?"
"I don't know," he said fretfully, and went back to rolling balls of bread dough. "I tried to cut her off, and she went wild. Absolutely wild. She threatened me. Can you imagine that? She actually threatened me."
"Threatened you how?"
"Said she'd kill me if I didn't bring her more ice. And believe me, she wasn't kidding."
"You're scared?"
"Damned right I'm scared," he said, gulping his wine. "She's totally off the wall."
"Turner, maybe you better go to Clayton or Olivia and suggest she be put away for treatment."
"And have her tell them where she's been getting the stuff? No way! That would queer everything."
Helene finished her wine, took the bottle from the ice bucket, and refilled Turner's glass and her own. "You want to close up shop and take off?" she said quietly.
"I don't know," he said. "I don't know what to do."
His head was down as he pushed the bread pills around the tablecloth. Helene sat back and regarded him closely. He was right; he was losing it. Skin sallow, puffy circles under his eyes, twitchy fingers. And he, who had always been such a dandy, now wore a soiled shirt, tie awkwardly knotted, unpressed jacket. She could almost smell his fear.
"How long can you keep her going?" she asked.
"God knows," he said. "I've got to be there when she crashes. If I let her out of the apartment, she might go home, and then we're dead. Helene, you have no idea what that stuff has done to her. She's lost weight, she can't sleep, I've got to bathe her like an invalid. When she's smoking, her body gets so hot I'm afraid to touch her. But when she's high, she just wants to keep going. It lasts for hours, sometimes a whole day. Then she falls apart and wants to kill herself. Or me-if I don't get her out of her funk. Which means more ice."
"Where is she now?"
"At my apartment. Locked in. I fed her some downers, hoping she'd sleep it off. I better get back. If she's set fire to the whole place, I won't be a bit surprised. Maybe you're right; maybe we better split. I can't see any way out of this mess."
"Let's think about it," Helene said. "You go on home now. I'll finish my wine, maybe have an espresso, and take a cab home."
"Will you pick up the tab?"
She looked at him. "Sure," she said.
He stood up and tried a smile. "Thanks, sweetie," he said. "I can always depend on you. We'll come out of this okay; you'll see."
"Of course we will," she said.
She sipped her wine slowly, then had an espresso and a small apple tart. She paid the bill and overtipped, asking the waiter to go out onto Lexington Avenue and get her a cab. She was back in her apartment within a half-hour.
She looked up the unlisted number of Ramon Schnabl in her address book. But when she phoned, all she got was an answering machine. When it beeped, she gave her name, phone number, and asked Mr. Schnabl to call her at his convenience.
Then she phoned the Starrett apartment. Charles answered, and she asked if Clayton was there. The houseman said that Mr. Starrett was attending a business dinner that evening but was expected home shortly. Helene asked that he call her whatever time he arrived.
She made herself a cup of instant black coffee and took it to the living room desk. She went over her accounts, adding up her cash on hand and what she might expect from an emergency sale of those unset diamonds. She estimated the total, roughly, at about fifty thousand. That was hardly poverty, but it was very small peanuts indeed compared to her dreams.
She was finishing her coffee when the phone rang, and she let it shrill six times before she picked it up.
"H'lo?" she said in a sleepy voice.
"It's Clay, honey. Did I wake you up?"
"That's all right, Clay. I've only been sleeping a few minutes. It was nothing important. I just wanted to tell you how much I love you and how much I miss you."
"Hey," he said, his voice eager, "that's important! Did you really go to sleep so early?"
"There's nothing special on TV, so I thought I'd go to my lonely bed."
"Listen" he said, almost choking, "we can't have you going to a lonely bed. How's about if I pop over for a while? You can always sleep later."
"Well…" she said hesitantly, "if you really want to. I'd love to see you, Clay, but you must be tired."
"I'm never that tired," he said. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
She undressed quickly, brushed her teeth, took a quick shower. By the time he arrived, she was scented and wearing a peach-colored silk negligee.
"Oh sweetheart," she said, embracing him tightly, "I'm so happy to see you. I know how busy you are, but I was hoping you'd come over tonight. I felt so alone. I really need you."
He stayed for almost two hours. As he was dressing, he took out his wallet and gave her five hundred dollars.
"That's just walking-around money," he told her. "After the divorce comes through and we're married, I'll put you on the store payroll at a thousand a week. We'll call you a styling consultant or something like that. It'll be a no-show job, but if anyone asks we can say you check out competitors' displays and new designs."
"A thousand a week," she repeated. "Thank you, darling. You're so good to me."
After he left, she showered again, poured herself a brandy, and changed the sheets and pillowcases on her bed.
She went back to her accounts, and finished the evening by making a meticulous list of her diamonds and their carat weight. Then she went to bed. She lay awake a few minutes, thinking that Turner should have left money for their dinner. That young man was developing short arms and low pockets. Clayton Starrett was different.
Chapter 36
Mrs. Eleanor Starrett was unexpectedly gracious on the phone.
"I'm so glad you called, cherie," she said. "I've never been busier in my life, but I can always find time for you."
Dora thought that a bit much, but asked when and where they might meet. Well, Eleanor had an appointment for a massage at Georgio's Salon on East 56th Street at 11:30, and if Dora could meet her there, they'd have time for a nice chitchat.
Dora found her in a curtained back room, lying naked on a padded table and being worked on by a gigantic flaxen-haired masseuse.
"Pull up a chair, darling," Eleanor caroled. "We can talk while Hilda reduces me to a mass of quivering jelly. You really should do something with your hair."
"I know," Dora said.
"Such a gorgeous shade, but it is a mess. I'll ask Georgio to handle you personally. The man is tres chic and does absolutely marvelous things with his magic scissors."
"Maybe some other time," Dora said. "Mrs. Starrett, I want to-"
"Oh, do call me Eleanor. I don't know why, but I feel I've known you for years and years. Dora-isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Well, Dora, when- Oh my God, Hilda, you're breaking my leg! Well, Dora, I'm sure you've heard I'm getting a divorce from Clayton, and that rat has to turn over a list of all his assets, so of course it's very important for me to know when he's getting that million from his father's insurance."
Now Dora could understand her gushy friendliness. "I really can't give you a definite date, Eleanor, but I'm sure it won't be much longer."
"I hope not. I want to hit that schmuck where he lives- and that means his bank account."
"I was sorry to hear about the divorce," Dora said.
"Don't be sorry, sweetie; be glad, because I certainly am. I should have dumped that moron years ago. He is so dumb. A dumb rat. Of course Helene Pierce isn't his first playmate. He's been cheating on me since the day we were married. And the idiot thought I didn't know!"