PART IMy husband and I are friends with a neighboring couple, a famous couple, and lately we have been seeing more of them than usual. What I mean is that everywhere you turn, there they are. In decorating and fashion magazines, in people profiles, at gallery openings, in bookstores, cafes and lately she has been seen around the gourmet world having just published a book on organic gardening and vegan cooking. Their names are Edward and Patricia. Occasionally they invite us to dinner, nothing too grand and we invite them and try to be somewhat grand knowing they are used to more lavish attention than we might offer.
They are your typical boomers, as are my husband, Lanning and myself. I own a bookshop that specializes in art and military history. I have many discussions on the incompatibility of the two subjects but I have long decided there is nothing I can do about it. I started what was a bookstore dedicated to the visual arts. Over time, my husband kept musing that a store specializing in military history would do well. According to his theory and that of a few military buffs he has coffee with on Tuesdays, since the 1950s, anything related to the military has gone out of fashion. That the types who buy books--elites, academics, intellectuals, hippies and spinsters are decidedly anti-war and there is a dearth of books on this topic in most bookstores; true for both Europe and America. I began to take note and there was definitely something to be said for this observation. I gave in and together we started buying books on all aspects of military history and the store more than doubled its business and its size. Then my husband talked me into selling war memorabilia as a side because we uncover a lot of that stuff in our book search. You wouldn’t believe what old helmets, badges, ribbons sell for. Maybe you would.
I’m somewhat eclectic with my sections. At times art history and military history coincide but not often. I place ads in the printed media or online--one for military history, one for art. I never try to combine them in an ad; it’s too confusing. I pretend I am two different stores and in fact my husband handles the military history section. At first I thought we would not work well together in the store but things have been stable since he got the hang of the money. He tended to think of the store as a library and was adverse to the cash part of the exchange. Now he has developed an interest in business and is especially proud that his part of the store competes easily with mine, often surpassing it in cold hard cash flow.
I don’t know why I’m going on about my bookstore when this story is about the famous couple, our neighbors. Edward is a mega star, a singer-songwriter. He’s had many albums, many hits, a few movies and I suspect is very, very rich. I know his is a household name because it shows up in crossword puzzles. His wife is famous through him though she is a talented person herself. They are both glamorous, extremely well-dressed and well-preserved, part of the international set of the rich and famous with that extra cachet creative members of that milieu enjoy. They have three children, one still at home, one grandchild, numerous homes and have been married since in their twenties and by some miracle, pushing sixty and still married. Everyone admires them for this and many women envy Patricia the same way Linda McCartney was admired while still envied. Marrying a rock star is not supposed to turn out so well. But it is no different than any marriage if drugs and alcohol do not take over and this is the case with Edward and Patricia; a clean, elegant couple who practice yoga, Karma Sutra sexual positions and concern themselves with environmental issues. When they are pictured in magazines, which as I mentioned they frequently are, they look besotted with each other, unable to keep apart and you suspect they are having sex in the loo or in the guest bedroom amongst the coats immediately after the photo-op.
I’m thinking of Edward and Patricia today because I am lolling around the house drinking numerous cups of coffee looking at a spread in a house and garden magazine of their villa in the south of France, the Languedoc region, where they have a small vineyard and a terrific old house that has been painstakingly restored. There they are posed in the garden, a lovely pond behind them, she is barefoot, so earthy, wearing a Louis Vuitton sundress while he is in casual Buddhist-type wear. She has her arms draped around him from behind and he looks like the solemn landowner, put out having had to stop his planting for such puffery. She is posing for the cameras with that cheeky grin she’s known for that says, I’m playful, sexy and rich, don’t you just love me and hate me all at once? He feigns a more stolid look that says, Yes, I’m filthy rich but I am a musician, an artist and if it should all blow away tomorrow I would still be cool--I practice detachment.
If I sound envious, possibly I am. I am a fan of Edward’s music and find him more attractive than a married woman should and yes, I sometimes envy their lifestyle. We live in Hampstead; I inherited our first-floor garden flat from my aunt who was a playwright or we would still be living in the outskirts of London in a poky little house. Edward and Patricia live in the elegant ten-bedroom Georgian mansion next door. Though they are often traveling, one or the other is always popping in on their way to the next project, a recording session or celebrity fete. For some reason they have been in residence more than usual this winter and I see them in the café on the corner or buying flowers in the stall next to it. Sometimes they come into my shop--she buys expensive art books for gifts and collects books on fashion illustration. They told me they like to gad about the neighborhood because they are left alone in a way they very rarely are in America. He told me that though they have a spacious apartment in New York, it does not have the homey English charm of their house in Hampstead, something they both miss while away. Their youngest daughter is still in school in the U.K. and that too keeps them in the neighborhood. They spend Christmas here in town and decorate their house beautifully, inside and out. During this time they invite us to a cocktail party or sometimes brunch. They spend summers in France.
My husband is also a musician though without the success of Edward. He mostly plays small jazz venues or hotel lounges. He knew when he became a jazz musician this is the way it would be--small change. He is a drummer and has played on the albums of well-known artists and writes a bi-weekly column for a music magazine. He could have just as easily chose to be a rock musician with a better shot at fame and fortune but he loves jazz and maintains an obdurate purity in regards the form.
As I began this story of our neighbors, Edward and Patricia, I did so because they are more in our lives than before. My husband is playing on Edward’s next album of standard jazz compositions. This is a great opportunity for Lanning and he and Edward spend hours discussing such things as melodic minor harmony, eight-to-the-bar, moving inner voice, bebop, hard-bop and the positives and negatives of fusion. Both men are in agreement that “Time Out,“ by The Dave Brubeck Quartet is the most flawless recording ever made.
They are in the recording studio all day and often have dinner afterward. This has brought Patricia and myself together more than usual. We discuss Victorian furniture, Edwardian interiors, designer clothing, art and theatre. She says I am a fount of wisdom on these topics and she never tires of hearing me talk. She wishes she had a better education but married young--albeit, no misgivings there.
She also likes to talk about men, sex and the who’s who of the tabloid spectacle. I suspect I bore her a little with my tales of eccentric customers and try to make them amusing for her though they are of little use in her world of superstars. She politely laughs at my little bits of neighborhood gossip and then regales me with much finer dirt. She is really up on all the misbehavior in her set and seems to get a particular charge from measuring who has fallen from grace, how far and who is about to. She is quite proud of her ability to keep the image of herself and her husband intact and says she works at it more than you might think. “Oh yes, my dear, they are just waiting for our fall. Our marriage has gone on too long for the tabloids and they are always looking for the muck. Well, they can wait forever, they’ll never get anything on us, we’re too clever.”
I notice she used the word clever instead of something like faithful, solid, in love, everlasting. It’s a small thing but coupled with the strange furtive look in her eye, I had an intuition of something I could not name nor impart here, but something that spoke of hidden implication.
As I spent more time with her, I noticed she flirted excessively with men everywhere we went; in restaurants, bars, on the street and even in my store. She seemed intent on building up a portfolio of admirers, spellbound by her sex appeal, her allure. She would tell me of this or that man at a party who tried to get her in an out-of-the-way spot, put his hands on her ass or pretend to touch her cheek and abstractly let his hand brush her breasts. If all the things she said were true, she must have quite a collection at this time. She also told me that sometimes she tries to make Edward jealous and purposely starts things herself. “I just have to keep him on his toes,” she says. “I don’t want him for a minute to take me for granted. He has so many women after him, he has only to blink at women and they’re on him like flies. I have to make sure he knows I’m still just as desirable because I am”
I had no doubt. Her figure is fantastic, she knows it and dresses accordingly. No, she isn’t at all trashy looking--her wardrobe is much too expensive for that. But she is provocative, I’ll say that. Her skin is luminous. Last week she even put a subtle move on Lanning who was quite taken aback. She noted it and quickly retreated. Edward apparently also noted it. I saw nothing but heard about it later from my poor confused husband. He said, “If looks could kill, Edward’s toward her would.” Interesting, I thought. What could be up with these two indissoluble stars?
Patricia asked me to attend a luncheon with her on a Friday and I reluctantly agreed. Friday was my busiest day and I never leave the shop in the hands of my assistant, Jerome on that day. Jerome is more for the middle part of the week when things are slower; he’s better at shelving and cataloging online than customer service. The luncheon was a fundraiser for marshland preservation and I’m not sure why she wanted me along. She seemed aggravated at something and drove a little recklessly on the way there. The luncheon was what you would expect--rich donors and swells coughing up whatever sums of money could be extracted through tax deductions and guilt, with various speakers using whatever means necessary toward this end, Patricia being the star of the show. She made an ideological plea, heartfelt, with a dash of sex appeal thrown in for good measure. She was stunning in a vintage ivory Dior sheath with all of her assets subtly arrayed. I noticed the men swarmed about her after the speeches. I sat on the sidelines contemplating her public persona, wondering why I was there. I kept hoping Jerome would call and I could make an escape but he didn’t. Normally my husband would mind the store but as I said, he and Edward were recording and spent every day and sometimes the night in a studio in Soho.
After the luncheon, Patricia was in better spirits, having not only raised a tidy sum for her project but having added a few more admirers to her collection. “Did you see that telecommunications tycoon fawning over me?” she asked. “God, I thought he would take a bite out of my neck. And the mayor! What a leach although he is not bad looking for his age. I did think Mr. Sullivan, the magistrate was a dish. I took his number to placate him. Of course I’ll never call him. I’ll tell Edward the man has wandering hands giving my dear husband something to think about.”
I was getting a little testy by this time. I don’t usually drink during the day, I was wondering about my store and the shipment I was expecting and could not imagine why I was invited to the luncheon. I told her I could manage a small donation but was only a bookseller, not a member of the aristocracy or the media. My uncle is an Earl but I’m not sure what that makes me. Lanning is American.
Once in the car I didn't hold back. “Why do you feel the need to entice so many men?” I asked her. “I mean, forgive me dear, but it seems to me you can raise money without all the subtext. After all, you are married, a mother…” I was about to say grandmother but thought better of it. “I don’t understand your motives if you are not looking for any sort of…” I couldn’t quite think of the word I was looking for, my head was beginning to ache and the sun was beating down through the sunroof of the car, unusual for a January day. Her perfume was also a little strong for afternoon, a designer brand I had tried once myself and gave away. I have a variety of disturbances from perfume.
Patricia turned into a small side street, shut off the engine of the car and sat there for a moment, waiting, no doubt, to form her answer. We sat in silence until I broke it by asking, “Patricia, is something bothering you? I really don’t mean to judge you. Would you like me to drive? Are you ill?”
She dropped her head onto the steering wheel and blurted out, “Edward has someone else.” Then she sobbed for a bit and I was dumbstruck, not sure I was ready for a full-on confession of this sort. “Oh, Patricia, are you sure? He’s so devoted to you, I can’t believe…” She stopped me by raising her head, looking me straight in the eye and said, “Believe it! It’s not new. It’s old, it’s ongoing and he refuses to talk about it though he does not insult me by denying it.”
I sat mute in the leather bucket seat of her Italian sports car and dimly pondered this information, but the fact is, I had little desire to receive this sort of declaration and regretted coming out with her. I was very satisfied with our marginal status in the lives of our neighbors. They were too rich for my blood; more than just monetarily. Their lives were too expansive, too worldly, and yes, too indulgent. Lanning and I are not poor, but we are still solidly middle-class. We only live in Hampstead in a highly desirable block because my aunt’s flat had been willed to me. She had no children and my parents are dead. If I was said to have family, it was my aunt. We had only each other. Now Lanning and I have quite a nice three-bedroom flat, rather spacious though outdated. We often talk of redoing the kitchen but never get around to it. We did add a second bathroom.
But back to Patricia and her unwelcome confession. As I didn’t have much to say and had a full-grown headache at this point, she seemed befuddled and started crying again. “I only told you Marianne, because I have no one else I can tell. The tabloids will skewer us if they know. I’ve been carrying this around for almost a year now, sucking up to the media…oh, you see me in those photos, hanging on my husband, the loving wife. Well, it’s a farce. He loves someone else and has for some time. I’ve never met her and he won’t tell me anything about her. I found out in a completely unoriginal way; I saw an American Express bill for a bracelet that I did not receive, engraved. Once I began to suspect, was on my guard, sure enough, more evidence shows up. I haven’t even had to have him followed so blithely does he go about his business. You wondered why we are in town so much, now you know. I even know where she lives. Notting fucking Hill, but have not yet staked her home, hoping to catch a glimpse. I’m not that desperate. Truthfully Marianne, I’m afraid of her. Imagine me, afraid of some nobody. I just wish he would end it. I confronted him, to be sure, right away. Do you know what his reaction was?”
“No, I don’t,” I replied. Tears were falling onto her lovely dress and I offered tissue hoping she would gain some control and not ruin such a costly dress in the meantime. But crying was probably good for her. I understood that she had been bottled up; unable to seek advice or comfort. I didn’t feel I was up to it but understood why she chose me: I wouldn’t be likely to run to the gossip mongers.
“He said, Leave it Pat, just bloody leave it alone. It is not about you and I do not want to discuss it with you. You have whatever you want, leave me this one thing, I beg you or there will be trouble. Trouble! What the hell am I supposed to do with something like that? Oh, I fumed and fussed for days but he all but ignored me. I threatened him, said he would be the one with trouble but he just left the room. Marianne, what can I do?”
I had absolutely no idea. “What do you want to do, dear? What are your options. Perhaps if you talked things out with a counselor you might find some peace. Have you considered that?”
“I don’t dare go to anyone. It would be in the press before the week was out and I can’t bear that. I couldn't bear it if everyone knows our marriage is in trouble. But it’s more than that. My ego is deflated. That’s why all the men. It’s just a game to keep my self-esteem up. I don’t want anyone but my husband. Who is even half so good-looking, sexy? I could never replace him? He’s so fucking perfect, I almost hate him. Looks, intelligence, money, art, he’s supportive, caring…he’s the father of my children, goddamn it!” She slammed the steering wheel and seemed to find his good points a joke all of a sudden and almost choked. “But he’s in love with someone else,” she said in a lowered voice, matter-of-factly.
“Are you sure, my dear. Maybe it’s just something he’s going through, something that will pass. Maybe you should just let it play itself out. He hasn’t said he wants a separation, has he?” I was speaking unforgivable banalities. I heard myself saying things you would hear in a soap opera. I was at a loss. “Why not let me drive us home. We’ll have tea and you can change into something comfortable and we’ll have a good old chat. We’ll try to figure this out. You need to clear your head. I really recommend seeing someone. Psychologists are bound to confidentiality. Maybe Edward will go with you.”
She just shook her head, started the car and merged into the traffic. She let me out in front of my store, a welcoming sight, I can tell you, and said she would be in touch. She thanked me for coming with her, for listening to her “blubbering” and off she sped in her racy car. I felt very sorry for her but did not know how I could help her except to hear her secrets and keep them. Perhaps she wouldn’t want to talk any more, maybe she already regretted it.
PART III received yellow roses the next day from Patricia with a note saying, Thanks for everything. You’re a welcome relief, a friend. A week later she e-mailed me and said she would be out of town for a few weeks, she was going to New York. She didn’t say Edward was going with her but I knew he was not because he was still recording. One night Lanning said in the off-hand way men do, “Something is up with Edward. He’s preoccupied and always checking his cell phone, stopping to make calls, whispering in private, I don’t know, something is going on with him. I can’t pry; we’re after all only professional mates but he seems edgy. Said he might take the tapes to New York and finish up there. First we heard of this plan. Nothing to me really, my part is finished, I just hang around as a advisor at this point. He wants an authentic jazz sound, not some jazz-like crossover claptrap. He knows I won’t let anything cheesy slide in. The other guys don’t fully appreciate the genuine sound we’re after. They’re young, pop musicians for the most part.”
I had my own thoughts but kept mum. I would not reveal anything Patricia told me, not even to my husband. Later in the week he told me while in a pub Edward confessed to him that he was in love. Lanning said exactly what I would expect him to say with this pronouncement: “Yeah, well, man, your wife is one fine lady,” or some Americanism like that. Edward hung his head and didn’t say anymore. A few fans came up to him and he had to autograph napkins and coasters and the like and the conversation stopped. Just as they were getting ready to leave, Edward said, “It’s not my wife.”
Well, to tell Lanning something of this nature was to cause confusion. He is not equipped to handle this sort of emotional admission but he tried. “Oh man, that shit happens. You just have to wait until it passes. It will. Don’t be too hasty, someone in your position can’t let this kind of thing veer out of control. The press will be all over you, man. Be very cool.”
Not bad. Typical man advice but I suspected Edward was miles above my husband in sensibility. Edward was a man of deep feelings, strong passions. That comes across in his songs, it corresponds with his public image, but knowing him personally, I think I may be right in my assessment. I also sensed he may really be smitten, that it wasn't just an affair to blow over. I felt terrible for them both but it wasn’t our business. They would have to work it out, I hoped they would.
Patricia stayed in New York for longer than anticipated; I’d get a message from her every other week saying she was having a ball, going to parties, promoting her book, her causes and being treated like visiting royalty. “You know the way Americans love celebrity,” she wrote. “They seem to like me even without Edward.” She said she would be back in London at least by Easter when the kids come home. Edward was still hanging out in the studio though the recording was finished.
On a warm day in late March, the first overt signs of winter’s demise, I was walking our new dog, Nellie, in Hampstead Heath, Lanning was back to minding the store on Mondays and Wednesdays and I was enjoying the air, the longed for sunshine, the greenery, when I spotted Edward with someone on a bench in a little clearing, out of the way, but not entirely invisible. I realized immediately who he was with. You can spot a love affair from miles away. His arm was around her, he spoke close to her ear, they both had an air of other-worldliness. Her hand was in his. I jumped off the path I was treading, hoping he hadn’t seen me but Nellie pulled on her leash and I ended up clomping toward them, embarrassed and ungainly. I wanted to pretend his disguise, a knit hat pulled over his head, cheap shades and ratty clothing worked. I might not have recognized him but he was my neighbor, I’d seen him around a lot in those particular duds. They were having a very private moment and my untrained mutt had spoiled it. I could do nothing but wave, comment on the overdue sunshine and race off.
Later that afternoon, as I was at home having a cup of tea, answering emails and looking for deals online, my doorbell rang. I was surprised to see it was Edward. He was not in the habit of visiting me when Lanning wasn’t at home but maybe he thought he was at home. “Oh, Edward, Lanny is at the shop, I’m afraid. He has to earn his keep you know.” A lame joke. Edward took off his hat and shades and asked if he could come in. “Well, sure, I said, I just put the kettle on for tea. Would you like some?” I didn’t really think this superstar was going to sit in my drab parlor and drink tea but he said, “Thank you, Marianne, I could use a cup of tea. I understand from your husband your tea surpasses all others. He frequently brings it up in the studio while disparaging our use of tea bags and I say, ‘What, you’re a bleeding American, what do you know?’ Then he’d tell us about your excellent tea.”
Edward was making small talk, a little self-consciousness, ill-at-ease. I was glad I had the tea to fuss with and could cover my own awkwardness. When it was served, and Edward had played with the dog for a bit, he sat in a chair opposite me and smiled the smile that would melt the reserve of any woman, of any age or distinction. I said nothing, but offered him a slice of lemon pound cake, glad I had shopped earlier. He complimented me on my tea, said it lived up to all the hype as few things do and that yes, maybe he would take a very small slice of cake, was actually off sugar, his wife’s idea.
“Speaking of your lovely wife,” I said, “when is she due back?” I knew but had to come up with small talk too. He replied that she would be back within the week. Then he said, halting at first, “Marianne, I know you saw me in the park with Gaye. I want to explain so you don’t think I’m a complete horse’s ass.
“Please Edward, it’s not necessary. I’m sorry I interrupted your meeting. I would never presume…”
“Marianne, it’s okay. I happen to know my wife confided in you. She broke down before she left and said she had to talk to someone and you were the only one who would keep a secret. At least she thought you would but said that if word got out, it would be entirely my fault, she would not be to blame. You probably know I tried to talk to Lanny but men aren’t much good with that sort of thing. I embarrassed him. But his genuine concern touched me. He’s a good man, I don’t have to tell you. This new album is my best in years and it’s because of him. He’s a fantastic musician. He should be a multimillionaire if talent were the measure of such things but you know it rarely is these days. I plan to see he gets his fair share this time. You know, drummers are really the band. They’re always in the background in service to the guitars or horns but every musician will tell you, without a good drummer, nothing happens. I had a great one on this album.”
"Thank you Edward. I appreciate it, for Lanny. Jazz musicians aren’t exactly household names nor top the pay scale. We’ve long accepted that. We do okay with the shop and a small inheritance I received. We get to live on this grand block with the swells. But yes, Patricia did confide in me, I didn’t ask to be her confessor but she really needed someone to talk to, she was about to come apart. I advised she see a marriage counselor, you both should if it comes to that but it is really not my business. Please don’t think I’m a mediator. I know very little about your life. When I tried talking to Patricia, it was one platitude after another. She should talk to her sister or someone close to her.”
“She can’t. She has too much pride. And she’s just horrified that the press learn anything. I tell her, it’s just the press, they aren’t important. So what if they report something? This crap happens to everyone in the public eye day after day. Look at Prince Charles. He survived excruciating public exposure. We will too. But she has a point: and I can't let Gaye suffer the kind of mess that would follow.”
“Edward, I can’t talk about the press, it isn’t my world but what about this this woman? It may not be a big deal in media terms but in terms of your marriage, it’s very big. Have you thought of that? “
“I’ve thought of nothing else for months. I’m exhausted with the bloody topic.”
“Well, do you have a plan? You can’t do nothing, you know. You will have to act or react some day. You don’t seem to be rushing to divorce court but what I saw in the park today was not nothing. You are in trouble.”
“You don’t have to tell me, Marianne. I don’t know where to turn. You know what I thought in the beginning? I thought I could have her to myself. Her name is Gaye Reynolds by the way, she is a member of the choir at St. Martin-in-the Fields. A little tiny non-pressurized warm escape from my life. Just mine. No one else need bother themselves about it. Something set aside from all the crap, and I do mean crap, Marianne, you’ve no idea. It’s said fame is not all it’s cracked up to be but I can deal with it, I’d be a fool to shun it. But it’s separate from the music--playing is everything to me and fame helps. I don’t have to play dives. I’m on the greatest stages with the best musicians in the world regularly. I can make albums whenever and with whomever I choose. What I am having a problem with lately is the affluence factor. Don’t laugh, it gets more complicated each day. You don’t know how many hours are spent maintaining four homes, a vineyard, private school…maintaining a fucking fleet of cars. The constant keeping up appearances, people after you for donations, help with this bullshit cause, that benefit. Then there’s Patricia: decorators, designers, plastic surgery, don’t say I said anything, retreats, endless clothes shopping, diets, last year she had us both on some half-assed diet where you only eat plants…shit like that all the time. Then there is the fitness crusade followed by a fitness fucking guru living in our home, then yoga and a couple of yoga instructors on hand, computers, gadgets, I don’t even have time to learn them before they’re obsolete or lost. All I want is to make music like it was made in the 1940s and ‘50s. I could give a rap about Google except I’m supposed to be investing in it. Oh, that’s another thing--investing: Stockbrokers, accountants, lawyers, financial planners, tax bastards. You’ve no idea how time-consuming it all becomes after awhile. Oh, I’m going on to you about bullshit…forgive me Marianne, and pardon my language. I’m overwrought. Patricia says she’s not coming back until I do something about “that woman” but the kids will be home next week, she has to be here.”
“Edward, your tea is cold. Should I fix us more? I don’t have any answers for you, I don’t have your problems although running a business can be drudgery when it comes to finances and investing. But let’s concentrate on your personal life for now.” I got up to heat the water again and heard myself speaking these quasi-psychological lines that sounded ridiculous to my ears but he seemed to relax for the first time since arriving and even delicately ate his cake. I poured more tea into his cup. That is what we English do when in doubt.
“Marianne, I don’t want to give up Gaye. I don’t think I should have to. Patricia lives a full life. We have children, money, more than enough projects to focus on. The world is our home, she is provided with everything she wants. Is it so much to ask that I have someone who helps keep me grounded? Someone who is not at all rich or worldly or interested in my fame, or my usefulness. She asks nothing of me, could care less about my little pop albums. Can you understand how refreshing that is when everyone else wants something? She’s a small thing in her little corner, satisfied with her life, living contentedly in two rooms and finds pleasure in things my wife does not even notice. I don’t mean to knock Patricia, Marianne. She’s great, always has been. She colors my life. But she’s so focused on image, worldly crap, what people think, what we can buy all the time. She’s never satisfied. Five years ago she said she would be happy if she just had a retreat in Italy or the south of France, where she could garden, live an earthy existence away from the glitz. I agreed with her, that would be nice. So we buy a vineyard, I look forward to spending time in a rustic retreat, no pressure, no appearances to keep up and how do you think that has ended? The most fucking famous decorator in Europe arrives with an entourage to do up the place en residence, when that’s finished, a team of landscapers show up with the most well-known garden designer in tow. Okay, now that’s finished. Do we get to enjoy the place yet? Not yet, sorry old chap. Now the magazines have to come and photograph it so Patricia can gloat to the world. Oh look, see how swell Edward and Patricia live. Don’t they have exquisite taste, such a glorious marriage?”
He drank his tea, gazed out the window and we were both silent for a bit. He put down his cup and said so softly, “Gaye is teaching me how to sing Schubert lieder and I’m teaching her Billie Holiday. Can you believe she, a singer, has never listened to her? I can’t give her up yet! Not until she gets tired of me hanging around her door like a lost dog,” he added wearily.
So my little hunch was right. There was something awfully disingenuous in those magazine spreads. I’m not rejoicing, mind you. But I get it. Oh, I could chastise him, take Patricia’s side, tell him what an ungrateful bloke he is, unappreciative, ridiculous actually. But I don’t. I find I want him to have his little sanctuary in Notting Hill. I don’t know who this Miss Reynolds is but I’m for her. But I’m also for Patricia. I’ve grown to like her immensely. I’ve always wondered if fame and fortune would somehow disrupt the flow of living. Lanning never envied the rich and famous. He said, You would sell out, you could do nothing else. If your lifestyle didn’t demand it, your obligations would. And you’re fair game: No abuse is too much to heap on someone rich.”
I planned to tell him of this visit; it was too portent to hide. I could not be having secret meetings with Edward. Edward understood this. He made no mention of protecting secrets. When he left, he held my hand for a moment in the foyer. "Say hello to Lanny and don't worry about me or Patricia, we'll get on." He looked sad, but less wired up.
Patricia returned on schedule, the kids arrived, their eldest with a darling grandchild and I could see them all playing in their backyard. Their youngest offered to walk Nellie while home; she said her dog was in France at the villa. Edward’s record was released to great fanfare and decent sales though not his usual triple platinum status. “What do you expect?” said Lanning. “No one cares about jazz any more.” He was given a generous bonus and we were invited to France this summer to stay with Edward, Patricia and family. Nellie is to come too, the kids insisted.
I don’t know what became of Miss Reynolds but I did see her once on the street and was surprised she had a limp. Patricia never confided in me again and I saw little of her. She seems to like America more these days. Edward is in and out and last week showed up at a gig of Lanning’s, a Charles Mingus tribute, and the crowd went wild.
He waves to me whenever he sees me and stops in my store now and again. He teases me and calls me a war monger. They are still seemingly the happy couple everyone admires. They sold the Malibu beach house and have a new farmhouse in Tuscany that she says will be only moderately renovated, that they want to keep the rustic feel. “Yes, we’ve adopted the simple life and couldn’t be happier,” she told a talk-show host. “I guard our privacy, life can get so chaotic when you’re in the public eye.” When asked if the rumor is true that she is having an affair with a prominent American businessman, her eyes roll, her grin widens and she says, “Please, I am married to the most adorable man in the world. Why would I?”
THE ENDEdward and Lanny are entirely fictional characters but The Dave Brubeck Quartet, in all of its perfection, is not.
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