Never Too Rich by Judith Gould

having to look at the
despised building.
    The two-story white-marble-floored lobby was no
better, so bare it looked positively naked. Anouk, walking
confidently, as always with a clear destination in mind, skirted
the single piece of furniture, the reception desk, and headed
straight for the Samuel I. and Mitzi Newhouse Gallery, located
directly behind it.
    Her step slowed and she stiffened with displeasure;
Liz Schreck was already waiting outside the gallery entrance,
pointedly gazing at her wristwatch and frowning.
    No matter how many times Anouk had seen Liz over the
years, she still felt amusement—and was always more than slightly
taken aback— when she found herself face-to-face with the woman’s
startling reality. For Liz Schreck was, if anything, bad taste at
its epitome. The unkind bright lights bathed her in a surreal glare
and accentuated the hideousness of her bluish fake-fur coat,
causing the acrylic hairs to glitter with a chemical sheen while
making her towering orange coiffure, tented with a sheer pink
scarf, look like something manufactured. As if it would squeak when
you squeezed it.
    Anouk sailed toward her with regal dignity. “My dear
Liz!” she said warmly. “I do so appreciate your coming early.”
    “ Mrs. de Riscal.” Liz’s raspy
smoker’s voice was polite enough, but the eyes in her tilted-back
head were hard and accusing. Anouk could see at once that Liz would
not be as easy as Doris Bucklin. Liz could be quite unforgiving.
And mercilessly virtuous. Righteousness, wounded pride, defiance,
and a puritanical moral code anchored Liz Schreck firmly in
life.
    “ Everyone will be arriving for the
memorial service in a few minutes,” Anouk said. “Why don’t we go to
the downstairs gallery so we can talk without being interrupted?”
Without waiting for Liz to respond, she took the woman gently but
firmly by the arm and steered her to the stairs down to the gallery
on the lower level.
    It was like going from a huge bare box into an
exotic fashion jungle. The exhibit on display, “Surrealism in
Fashion,” was mounted in a confusing maze of hushed rooms and
corridors. The dark walls and carpeting gave the galleries a
tomblike feeling, and the bizarre fashions were set off splendidly
against this neutral backdrop. Every display was bathed in its own
pool of light.
    Anouk was so mesmerized by the exhibit that she
nearly forgot her reason for being there. She made a mental note to
return in a few days. Only a true connoisseur of fashion—and if
ever there was one, it was she—could fully appreciate the show.
Every item transcended mere fashion. Each was a work of art.
Wearable sculpture.
    And exotic! There was a bizarre metal bustier with
corkscrew “nipples,” a studded leather jacket-and-tights combo with
a chrome-plated codpiece, a startling gown of overlapping silk
chiffon leaves, a feather dress that would transform its wearer
into an exotic bird, and another that, with arms outstretched, made
its wearer into a walking, breathing curtain, complete with swagged
valance and rod.
    Liz following, Anouk peeked into the various rooms
until she found one empty of people. “At last,” she said in
relieved tones, “privacy.”
    Liz looked around the room disapprovingly. It had a
table set for dinner—with hats made to resemble various foods at
each place setting. “Well?” she prompted with her usual ruthless
let’s-get-down-to-business manner. “I’m all ears.”
    Anouk nodded. “I wanted to speak to you about my
husband,” she said smoothly.
    “ What about him?” Liz was eyeing
her cautiously.
    Tugging her long black gloves off her fingers, Anouk
said slowly, “He told me what . . . transpired this morning.” She
looked and sounded splendidly in control, her every gesture and
syllable of such cool grace and assurance that no one could have
guessed how ill-at-ease she really felt. For even if it killed her,
Anouk de Riscal was never one to show her vulnerable