Chapter Three
The next morning, I was startled awake by the telephone ringing in the downstairs hallway. It was exactly nine o’clock, which was the very earliest time considered civilized. I clutched the covers to my chin, paralyzed, as Pemberton, the butler, summoned my mother-in-law. I heard her determined footsteps, then her muffled voice, rising and falling in surprised waves.
I was entirely wretched—my head pounded, my stomach was sour, and it was quite possible that I was still drunk. While I remembered much of the night before, there were moments I couldn’t recall, like getting home. The realization that I’d passed the point of being tipsy had come over me quite suddenly—I remembered being acutely aware that it was time to call it a night, but I did not remember leaving, much less the ride home. I had no idea how many—or few—hours I’d been in bed.
My ruined dress lay in a limp heap in the middle of the carpet, looking for all the world like a length of intestine. My shoes were nearby, one of them missing a heel. The white stole was flung over the edge of my polished mahogany dressing table, the fur spiked and dirty. I’d dropped my strand of pearls in front of my jewelry box, and both earrings, cushion-cut rubies surrounded by diamonds, were nearby but not together. A very large champagne cork was planted squarely between them. I checked my finger for my ring and then, with a sickening feeling of vertigo, remembered the hair comb. I burrowed my face into my pillow and pulled its edges over my ears.
At noon, the housemaid knocked gently on the door, then opened it a crack.
“I’m sorry, Emily. I’m not feeling up to breakfast,” I said, my voice muffled by the pillow.
“I’ve brought Alka-Seltzer and gingersnaps,” she replied, which made my stomach twist again. It meant that not only had we wakened the entire house when we returned, but also that our condition had been obvious.
“Put it on the table,” I said, rolling to face the opposite wall. I didn’t want her to see me. I’d fallen into bed without even removing my makeup, as evidenced by the streaks of mascara on my pillowcase. “Thank you, Emily.”
“Of course, Mrs. Hyde.”
She stayed longer than I expected, and when she left, I saw that she’d taken the dress, shoes, and mink with her.
The telephone rang sporadically throughout the day. With each call, my mother-in-law’s voice became a little more resolute until finally it was brittle and hard. I shrank further under the covers with every conversation.
At nearly six thirty, Ellis staggered into my room. He was still in his pajamas. His robe was open, its sash dragging on the floor behind him.
“Dear God, what a night,” he said, scrubbing his eyes with his fists. “I’m a bit green about the gills. I could use an eye-opener. How about you?”
I suppressed a retch.
“Are you all right?” he asked, coming closer. His face was drawn, and there were dark semicircles beneath his eyes. I didn’t even want to know how I looked—Ellis had at least made it into his pajamas; I was still in my slip.
“Not really,” I said. “Look what Emily brought on my breakfast tray.”
He glanced over and guffawed.
“It’s not funny,” I said. “It means they’re all gossiping about us in the kitchen. And I lost your mother’s hair comb.”
“Oh,” he said vaguely.
“Ellis, I lost the hair comb.”
When the gravity of this sank in, he sat on the edge of the bed and the last of his color drained.
“What am I going to do?” I said, curling into a ball.
He took a deep breath and thought. After a few seconds, he slapped his thighs with resolve and said, “Well. You’ll have to telephone the Pews and tell them to be on the lookout, that’s all.”
“I was going to. But I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, I can’t get near the telephone. Your mother’s been on it all day. God only knows what she’s heard. And anyway, I can’t call Mrs. Pew. I can’t face her, not even over the telephone.”
“Why?”
“Because we were tight! We rolled around in the street!”
“Everyone was tight.”
“Yes, but not like us,” I said miserably. I sat up and cradled my head in my hands. “I don’t even remember leaving. Do you?”
“Not really.” He got up and walked to my dressing table. “When did you get this?” he asked, picking up the cork.
“I haven’t a clue,” I replied.
On the main floor, the telephone rang yet again, and I cowered. Ellis came back to the bed and took my hand. This time, when Pemberton fetched my mother-in-law, her footsteps were brisk and she spoke in punctuated bursts. After a few minutes, she went silent again, and the silence was ominous, rolling through the house like waves of poisonous gas.
Ellis looked at my clock. “She’ll come up to dress for dinner in a few minutes. You can call then.”
“Come with me?” I whispered, clutching his hand.
“Of course,” he said. “Do you want one of your heart pills?”
“No, I’ll be all right,” I said.
“Do you mind if I…?” He let the question trail off.
“Of course not. Help yourself.”
At ten to seven, forty minutes before we were expected in the drawing room for cocktails, we crept downstairs, both of us in our robes, glancing nervously at each other and hiding behind corners until we ascertained that nobody was around. I felt like a child sneaking down to eavesdrop on a party for grown-ups.
I telephoned Mrs. Pew and sheepishly asked if she would please keep an eye out for my hair comb. After a slight pause, she said curtly that yes, she would. As she had told me last night.
When I hung up, I turned wordlessly to Ellis, who pulled me into his arms.
“Hush, my darling,” he said, pressing my head to his chest. “This too shall pass.”
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