vacuity, she would have walked out had she not been so enjoying watching Constance squirm and had she not had recourse to plenty of champagne, which, judging by her exaggerated vivacity, Traci had been indulging in for some time before their arrival. ‘Kristal, of course,’ said Traci. ‘I wouldn’t drink anything but the best. And, of course,’ she added, with a metallic laugh, ‘I wouldn’t serve it in anything but the best crystal.’
Constance managed a weak smile; the baroness remained stony-faced. She refused to accompany them outside to view Traci’s newest car. ‘But you gotta see it. It was my birthday present. It’s a BMW and I made Henry get it resprayed in fuchsia.’ She waved her nails at them. ‘To match these.’
‘Sorry, Traci. It would be wasted on me. Cars bore me. I think they exist to get us from A to B with the minimum fuss.’
‘You gotta see it. You gotta.’ Traci began to cry. As the sobs grew louder and louder, Constance looked pleadingly at the baroness, who grumbled, ‘Oh, all right, if you insist.’ Traci calmed down, but the examination of the car was perfunctory, since she had little to say about it except to invite them to exclaim at the quality of the upholstery and to tell them it was worth every penny of the $150,000 Henry had spent on it. ‘Now we’ll go back inside, unless you want to see the SUV.’
The baroness said nothing, but walked back through the French windows. ‘Right, ladies,’ said Traci, ‘now it’s time for the house-tour. Just gimme me a minute. I have to go to the bathroom.’
She was back soon, in even better form. ‘OK, off we go. We’ll take our glasses with us. You can’t have too much Kristal when you’re having fun.’ Constance refused more champagne. The baroness did not.
They began with the kitchen, which was big enough and sufficiently elaborately equipped to service a modest but expensive hotel. Two Mexican maids—whom Traci ignored—were working at two of the four sinks. ‘I don’t come here much,’ explained Traci. ‘Why keep a maid and work yourself, is what I always say. Over here now to the elevator and we’ll go to the top.’
They emerged into an enormous room dominated by a pseudo-French, gold-embossed, white four-poster bed, piled high with perhaps twenty pink silk cushions and a huge teddy bear. ‘It’s an Antoinette canopy bed,’ said Traci. ‘I just love the loops at the top and the real stylish carvings. Henry didn’t want it, he said it was fussy, but men have no taste. And he complained it was expensive—like he’s always complaining—but I tell him I’m worth it.’
The baroness averted her eyes as Traci pointed out other pieces of furniture not appreciated by her husband, and followed sullenly as they were led into an enormous room with about sixty feet of fitted wardrobes. ‘Henry has his stuff in the bedroom,’ explained Traci. ‘All this here is mine. Look, here are my shoes.’
‘Your collection is of positively Imelda Marcos proportions,’ said the baroness.
‘I don’t know who she is,’ said Traci, truculently, ‘but I bet she don’t have anything like as many Manolos as I’ve got. Or Jimmy Choos.’ She closed the doors and flung open some more. ‘Look, these are my Donna Karans and here are the gowns from Oscar de la Renta, and….’ After about two minutes of this, the baroness walked off and went downstairs to the living room, averting her eyes from the elaborately draped gold satin curtains. She poured herself more champagne, pushed aside a mound of gold satin scatter cushions, made herself comfortable on the larger of the shiny purple leather sofas and—for lack of anything else to read—settled down with a coffee-table book on Indiana artifacts. Bored with the Paleoindian period, she had skipped forward to a contemplation of banners of the civil war when her phone rang. ‘It’s Mike.’
‘Have you news?’
‘Enough to think this asshole’s really some asshole.
Constance managed a weak smile; the baroness remained stony-faced. She refused to accompany them outside to view Traci’s newest car. ‘But you gotta see it. It was my birthday present. It’s a BMW and I made Henry get it resprayed in fuchsia.’ She waved her nails at them. ‘To match these.’
‘Sorry, Traci. It would be wasted on me. Cars bore me. I think they exist to get us from A to B with the minimum fuss.’
‘You gotta see it. You gotta.’ Traci began to cry. As the sobs grew louder and louder, Constance looked pleadingly at the baroness, who grumbled, ‘Oh, all right, if you insist.’ Traci calmed down, but the examination of the car was perfunctory, since she had little to say about it except to invite them to exclaim at the quality of the upholstery and to tell them it was worth every penny of the $150,000 Henry had spent on it. ‘Now we’ll go back inside, unless you want to see the SUV.’
The baroness said nothing, but walked back through the French windows. ‘Right, ladies,’ said Traci, ‘now it’s time for the house-tour. Just gimme me a minute. I have to go to the bathroom.’
She was back soon, in even better form. ‘OK, off we go. We’ll take our glasses with us. You can’t have too much Kristal when you’re having fun.’ Constance refused more champagne. The baroness did not.
They began with the kitchen, which was big enough and sufficiently elaborately equipped to service a modest but expensive hotel. Two Mexican maids—whom Traci ignored—were working at two of the four sinks. ‘I don’t come here much,’ explained Traci. ‘Why keep a maid and work yourself, is what I always say. Over here now to the elevator and we’ll go to the top.’
They emerged into an enormous room dominated by a pseudo-French, gold-embossed, white four-poster bed, piled high with perhaps twenty pink silk cushions and a huge teddy bear. ‘It’s an Antoinette canopy bed,’ said Traci. ‘I just love the loops at the top and the real stylish carvings. Henry didn’t want it, he said it was fussy, but men have no taste. And he complained it was expensive—like he’s always complaining—but I tell him I’m worth it.’
The baroness averted her eyes as Traci pointed out other pieces of furniture not appreciated by her husband, and followed sullenly as they were led into an enormous room with about sixty feet of fitted wardrobes. ‘Henry has his stuff in the bedroom,’ explained Traci. ‘All this here is mine. Look, here are my shoes.’
‘Your collection is of positively Imelda Marcos proportions,’ said the baroness.
‘I don’t know who she is,’ said Traci, truculently, ‘but I bet she don’t have anything like as many Manolos as I’ve got. Or Jimmy Choos.’ She closed the doors and flung open some more. ‘Look, these are my Donna Karans and here are the gowns from Oscar de la Renta, and….’ After about two minutes of this, the baroness walked off and went downstairs to the living room, averting her eyes from the elaborately draped gold satin curtains. She poured herself more champagne, pushed aside a mound of gold satin scatter cushions, made herself comfortable on the larger of the shiny purple leather sofas and—for lack of anything else to read—settled down with a coffee-table book on Indiana artifacts. Bored with the Paleoindian period, she had skipped forward to a contemplation of banners of the civil war when her phone rang. ‘It’s Mike.’
‘Have you news?’
‘Enough to think this asshole’s really some asshole.
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