Free Gossip by Beth Gutcheon Page B

least early in the meal. His other great passion was polo, about which I also knew a little. After that lunch I was often included when Avis entertained important clients, because I was “good with Harrison.” He and I truly liked each other, I think, though by the time I got home that first Sunday I was wishing desperately for a nap, and wondering who these people were that they could eat and drink like that for hours in the middle of the day.
    Avis had season tickets to the Met, very good ones as I’ve said, and Harrison didn’t indulge, so Avis was often looking for a companion. She was good enough to put me on her list, and she enjoyed educating my taste. Later we sat through the entire Ring together, but I was a less successful student of Wagner than of the Italians. She forgave me. It was during my first Otello when she told me shyly at intermission that she was pregnant.
    â€œHarrison wants a boy,” she said. He had twin daughters by a former marriage, girls now in their early twenties. “We’re calling the bump Cyril.”
    â€œWhat do the older sisters say?”
    She laughed. “They call him The Little Trustbuster.”
    The daughters were good-natured blonds, very much the image of their father. They also called Avis “Wicked Stepmummy” and appeared to be very fond of her. We met at the Metcalfs’ Christmas party and bonded at the eggnog bowl. Hilary was at Bank Street taking a teaching degree, and Catherine was working at Glamour magazine. Avis’s own stepmother, Belinda Binney, was at that party as well.
    Belinda had snow-white hair, like Avis’s now, beautifully coiffed. She was wearing a long evening dress in bottle-green velvet, evidently going on to a formal dinner. She looked me up and down that evening in a way I’ve seen people look over horses they might buy. I almost showed her my teeth. “I’m pleased that we meet at last,” she said.
    â€œYes, I’m so glad Avis and I have reconnected.”
    â€œThat’s not what I meant. I’m on the board at the Public Library with Gil Flood.”
    My friend. For a moment my heart seemed to stop in my chest. I thought, This is it, this is what I’ve been dreading . She’s going to call me a harlot and have me removed and thrown into a snowbank. She went on, “I must come and see you. Avis is looking so well since you’ve taken her in hand.”
    Naturally I said that would please me. “Madame Philomena says wonderful things about you too,” she added, as if I’d applied for work at the CIA and she was in charge of my background check. Then: “I don’t suppose you’ve met Althea?”
    I didn’t dare react.
    â€œI can’t bear her,” said Mrs. Binney. “Never trust a woman who is disliked by her servants.”
    More useful information from another planet. But Belinda and I were friends from that evening until her death, and I miss her still.
    C yril was a girl. She was born in March 1980 and named Graciela for her paternal grandmother, and called Grace by everyone. She was entered for Miss Pratt’s the week she was born and had more hand-smocked dresses than any child I’ve ever known. One evening, fresh from her bath, she escaped from her nanny and ran up the hall, pink and naked, clutching her yellow bath duck. She succeeded in getting all the way to the den where her parents were having cocktails, and proudly presented her trophy to her mother, saying, “Duck! Duck!” Avis was so enchanted she had little yellow ducks embroidered on Grace’s bathrobe, her sheets, her towels, and the hems of her dresses.
    I t hadn’t taken me long to understand why Avis never entertained at night. I would present myself at the Metcalfs’ in the evening when Avis and I were going on together to the theater or opera. “Will you pop up for a minute so Harrison can see you?” Avis would ask; we carried on