Lace

1

It was a warm October evening in 1978 with the distance skyscraper sparkling in the desk as Maxine glass through the limousine window at the familiar New York skyline. She had chosen this route for that view. Now, in the discreet, hushed comfort of the Lincoln Continental, they stood stuck in traffic on the triborough bridge. Never mind, she told herself, there was plenty of time before the meeting. And if you was worth it- like diamonds sprinkled across the sky.
Her neatly folded stable coat lay beside the maroon crocodile jewel case. The nine maroon leather suitcases- all stamped in gold with a tiny cornet and the initials M de C- worst act beside their chauffuer or stowed in the trunk. Maxine traveled with very little fuss at enormous expense, usually someone else's. she took absolutely no notice of luggage allowances; she would say, with a shrug of the shoulders, that she liked comfort; so one suitcase contained her pink silk sheets, her special down-filled pillow, and the baby's shawl, delicate as a cream lace cobweb, the chi used instead of a bed jacket.
Although most of the suitcases held clothes (beautifully packed between crisp sheets of tissue paper), one case was fitted as a small maroon leather office; another carried a large medicine box filled with pills, creams, douches, ampoules, disposable syringes for her vitamin injections and other various suppositories that are considered normal treatment in French but frowned upon by Anglo- Saxons. Maxine had once tried to buy syringes in Detroit- mon Dieu, could they not tell the difference between a drug addict and a French countess? One had to look after one's body,it was the only one you were going to get and you had to be careful what you put on it and in it. Maxine saw no reason to force terrible food on the stomach really because it was suspended 35,000 ft above sea level; all the other first-class passengers from Paris had munched our way through six overcooked courses, but Maxine merely accepted a little caviar ( no toast) and one glass of champagne ( nonvintage, but Moët, she observe with approval before accepting it). From a burgundy suéde tote bag she had then produced a small white plastic box that contained a small silver spoon, a pot of homemade yogurt and a large, juicy peach from her own hot house.
Afterward, while the other passengers had read or dozed, Maxine had taken out her miniature tape recorder, her tiny gold pencil, and a large, cheap office duplicate book. The tape recorder was for instructions to her secretary, the office duplicate book was for notes, drafts and memos of telephone conversations; Maxine tore them off and send them on their way, always retaining a copy of what she had written; when she returned to France, her secretary filed the duplicates. Maxine was well organized in an unobtrusive way; she didn't believe in being too well organized and she couldn't stand bustle or hustle, but she could only operate when things were orderly; she likes order even more than she likes comfort.
When Madame la Comtessa booked a reservation for a business trip, the plaza automatically book a bilingual Secretary for her. She sometimes traveled with her own secretary, but it was not always convenient to have the girl hanging around one's neck like a pair of skates. Also, as the girl had been with Maxine for 25 years, she was able to keep an eye on things at home and Maxine's absence; from the condition of her sons and her grapes to the times when Monsieur let Comte returned home and with whom.
Mademoiselle Janine reported everything with devoted zeal. Since 1956, Mademoiselle Janine had worked hard for Chateau de Chazalle and she shone in reflected glory of Maxine's success. She had first worked for the de Chanzalle's 22 years ago, when Maxine was 25 and had open the Chateau as a historical hotel, museum and amusement park, before anybody ( except the locals ) had heard of de Chazalle champagne. Mademoiselle Janine had fussed around Maxine from the time her three sons were babies, and she would have found a life intolerable dull without the family. Indeed, she had been with the de Chazalles for so long she almost felt like of one of the family. But not quite. They were- and always would be- separated by the invisible, unbreakable barriers of class.
Like New York, Maxine was glamorous and efficient, which was why she liked the quick pace of the city like the way the New Yorkers worked with neat, brisk speed whether they were serving hamburgers, even garbage out the sidewalk or running $0.50 worth of fresh orange juice for you on a sunny street corner. She appreciated these fast thinking people, their tough humor, the crisp jokes, and privately thought thatbNew Yorkers had all the joie de vivre of the French, without being nearly so rude. She also felt at home with New York women. She enjoyed observing as if they were another species those cool, polite, impeccable women executives as they operated under the merciless pressure of the grab for power, the lunge for money, the lusting after someone else's job. Like theirs,  Maxine self-discipline was colossal, but- at the age of 47- her grasp of people politics was even better. Had it not been so, she would not have been traveling to meet Lily.
That gold digging slut!
But Maxine was undoubtedly intrigued by Lilly's offer and it was partly her curiosity that have brought her all the way across the Atlantic. Again she wondered whether she would accept the job. She would have thought the Lily- who must be 28 years old by now- would never have wanted to see Maxine again. Maxine remembered that long ago expression of startled pain in the flashing chestnut eyes of the troublemaker whom the press had nicknamed "Tiger-lily."
She had been amazed to receive the telephone call, to hear that low, sensual voice sound so astonishingly humble, as Lily ask Maxine to meet her in New York to decorate Lily's new duplex in Central Park South. Lily wanted her new home to be a showpiece, a conservation stopper, and she knew that Maxine could supply the correct a blend of erudite elegance in spirited style. The budget would be as large as was necessary, and of course all expenses for Maxine's trip to New York would be paid whether or not she decided to accept the commission.
There had been a pause, then Lily had added the in a penitent voice,"I would also like to feel that something no longer has such painful memories for you. For so many years I have lived unhappily with my conscience, and now I dearly wish to do whatever is necessary to be at peace with you."
After this apology there had been a thoughtful pause, then the conversation had turned to Maxine's work, "I understand you've just finished Shawborough Castle," Lily had said," and it also heard about the stunning job you did for Dominique Fresanges- it must be wonderful to have such talent as yours, to rescue historic houses from decay,  to make so many homes beautiful and comfortable while they still remain a heritage or the world...."
It had been a long time since Maxine had enjoyed a holiday in New York by herself, so eventually she had agreed to make the journey. Lily had asked Maxine to tell nobody of the meeting until after it had taken place. "You know the press won't leave me alone," she had explained. And it was true. Not since Greta Garbo had there been an international movie star who so intrigued the public.
As the limousine started to crawl forward, Maxine glanced at her diamond wrist watch- it was plenty of time before 6:30 meeting at the Pierre. Maxine was rarely impatient;  she disliked being late, but assumed that everyone else would be. That was life today- undependable. If a situation could be improved, Maxine would generally do it with a slight, one sided smile, and look the combined conspiratorial charm with hint of menace. If a situation could not be improved, then she folded her hands in her lap and imperturbably accepted la loi de Murphy.
She happened to catch sight of herself in the back mirror of the limousine and lean toward it, lifting her jaw above the cream lace jabot and poking it sideways at her reflection. It was only 5 weeks since the operation, but the tiny scars in front of her ears had already disappeared. Mr. Wilson had done an excellent job and it had only cost a thousand pounds, including the anesthetics and the London clinic bill. There was no tautness no pulling at the mouth or eyes; she's simply looked healthy, glowing and 15 years- younger certainly not 47. It was sensible to have it done when you were still young, so that nobody noticed, or if they did, they simply couldn't pin you down; today you never saw an eye bag on it actress over 30, or on an actor, come to think of it. Nobody had noticed her absence; she had been out of the clinic from in 4 days and had then spent 10 days in Tunisia where is she had lost seven pounds, a satisfying bonus. She simply could not understand why some people went all the way to Brazil and paid heaven knows what for their lifts.
Maxine was a firm believer in self-improvement, especially surgical. When owes it to oneself, with her justification; her teeth, eyes, nose, chin, breasts, all have been lifted or race until Maxine was a mass of almost invisible stitches. Even so, she was no great beauty, but when she got back to her girlhood she remembered the prominet nose, the horse like teeth and her painful self-consciousness, she was grateful that years ago she had been persistently urged to do something about it.
It had not been necessary to do anything about her legs. They were exquisite; she stuck out one long pale limb, rotated and elegant ankle, smoothed the blue silk shirt of her suit, then open the window and sniff the air of Manhattan, oblivious to the strong carbon monoxide content at street level.  She reacted to New York as she did the champagne of her estate- with happy delight. Her eyes sparkled, she felt high and ebullient. It was good to be back, despite the traffic jam, in the city they made you feel as if everyday was your birthday.