Fletch

7

Fletch sat on the desk of The Beauty in the Broad-Brimmed Hat, Mrs. Amelia Shurcliffe, Society Editor. He had never heard that there was a Mr. Shurcliffe. Working at her typewriter, her forearms quivered with Who was at the most recent party and Are they getting married.

She finally deigned to notice the one-hundred-sixty-pound object on her desk.

“Why, Fletch! Aren’t you beautiful! You always look just right. Faded jeans and T-shirt. Even no shoes. The Shoe Institute wouldn’t like my saying this, and of course I’d never write it, but that’s exactly what Style should be. Well, darling. Is.”

“You’re kidding, of course.”

“Darling, I’m not.”

“You should tell Clara Snow.”

“Clara Snow. What does she know? She used to write cooking, you know. And between us, darling, she was terrible at that. Did you ever try to put together one of her ‘Recommended Meals’?”

“Somehow, no.”

“Desperate, just desperate. The colors all clashed. We tried it once, just for fun, some friends and I at the cottage. We ended up with a Hollandaise sauce, and you know what kind of a yellow thai is, and carrots and beets, purple beets, all on the same plate. It was so garish, darling, we had to look away. We ate with our eyes averted. The tastes of things didn’t go together either. I believe her cooking column was successful only with blind polar bears.”

“You know, she’s my editor now.”

“Yes, I do know, you poor darling. If she weren’t going to bed with Frank we would have upchucked her years ago. Of course Frank has very poor taste, too. Pink shirts and strawberry suspenders. Have you ever seen his wife?”

“Yes.”

“A dowdy old thing. She always reminds me of an Eskimo full of baked beans. I mean, she looks as if, if she ever got unfrozen, she would evaporate in one enormous fart.”

“Have you ever told her so?”

“Oh, no, darling, I wouldn’t. I can’t go to bed with her husband, being both overage and overweight, but that doesn’t mean I can insult his wife. Somehow it all doesn’t matter to me. Frankly, darling, I find Frank as attractive as a hangover. You’re much more my type: lean, healthy, stylish.”

“I’m horrified at the thought that you think I’m stylish.”

“But I do, darling, sincerely. Your style is exactly what Beau Brummel did in his time. All Brummel did, you know, was to bring the lean, simple country style into the city.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“You should talk with Amelia Shurcliffe more. You see how simple your clothes are; how clean the lines: jeans and T-shirt. Blue and white. The lines couldn’t be cleaner. You’re not wearing shoes in the newspaper office, which is about as downtown as one can get. Here you can feel the whole city throbbing around you. And you’re dressed as if in the middle of a hayloft. Delightful style. Just right.”

“I’m amazed.”

“Who does your hair?”

“No one.”

“What do you mean, ‘no one’?”

“When it sticks out someplace, I chop it off.”

“Delightful. You’re darling.”

Amelia Shurcliffe was dressed in a tailored blue suit and white blouse. It was obvious she was liberated enough not to wear a corset. Her belly bulged from too many lunches and cocktail parties a week. The henna of her hair matched her face.

“Well, Fletch, I’m sure you didn’t come along simply to have me admire you. You could go anywhere for that. What can I do for you?”

“Alan Stanwyk.”

“Joan and Alan Stanwyk. This area’s most exciting couple. No, I shouldn’t say that. They’re beautiful, bright, healthy and rich. But come to think of it, they don’t really do anything. In fact, thinking of how exciting they could be, the Stanwyks may be this area’s dullest couple.”

“Which are they? Exciting or dull?”

“Rather dull, I think. He married her for Collins Aviation, of course.”

“You say that straight out?”

“Well, I suppose someone had to marry her, of course. And she’s attractive enough, if you like the usual American leggy blonde.”

“I do, actually.”

“I’m sure you do. I was one, once. Not all that leggy, of course. I was more petite. But Joan Collins Stanwyk is sort of boring, I think. I mean, she’s Symphony, of course; gives that bash once a year at the Racquets Club to raise money for the violinists’ rosin supply or something, and he always shows up and they stand in the receiving line and all that. Californian Gothic, if you know what I mean. They never seem to be enjoying themselves. They show up at dinners and cocktails, that sort of thing. They never seem to speak unless spoken to. They always seem to be just going through the motions.”

“They must do something for fun. I mean, for themselves.”

“No, I honestly think they are too busy being ideal. Perhaps they’re too aware of their position. I understand he sincerely likes flying. But all the rest of it, the racquet sports, the sailing, what-have-you, seems forced somehow for them. Of course all that money must be oppressive.”

“It must be.”

“Jack Collins, her father, is a nifty man. Attractive, bright. I’ve always been slightly in love with him. Of course he’s my generation. But one has always had the idea from him, even when he’s being formal, that somehow, maybe somewhere else in his mind, he’s having fun. Of course his wife, Marion, is a bit tipsy. Never could hold

“Joan is in a difficult position, between her father and her husband.” Amelia Shurcliffe took a hairpin from her desk drawer and applied it arbitrarily. “Perhaps that’s why I think she’s never having much fun.”

“She has to be hostess for both of them.”

“Yes. Instead of being herself, she has to have one hand working for Jack, the other for Alan.”

“Reading through your clips, Amelia, on the Stanwyks, it appears Joan Stanwyk has been doing less and less in recent months, making fewer and fewer appearances.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“At least her name appears in your column less and less frequently.”

“Now that you mention it, I’m sure you’re right. She has been fading from the scene.”

“Why?”

“It could mean many things. She has a child, a little daughter. She could be spending time with her. Joan could be pregnant. She could be worried about her husband. Seeing I have this idea that she doesn’t enjoy herself, she could just be bored with the whole round. It has no novelty for her. She’s been doing it since she came out, you know, with her father—unofficially acting as his hostess.”

“You said she could be worried about her husband. What did you mean?”

“Oh, gracious. What did I mean? Well, her husband, Alan Stanwyk, is running an enormous company, and at an early age. That’s an enormous responsibility, you know. He must work very hard and very long. And you know some of these fellows who always show a cool, pleasant face to the world are only able to do so because they fuss and fume at their wives in the privacy of their homes. If anything is wrong with him, she would know it.”

“You mean if he were sick?”

“Physically sick?”

“Yes.”

“I hardly think so. He looks the picture of health. Always.”

“A possible explanation of her withdrawing from society in recent months is that she knows he is very sick.”

“I suppose so. Is he?”

“How would I know?”

“Of course. You could speculate endlessly. Maybe she loves him and hates his risking his life in those airplanes all the time. His flying must be a worry to her.”

“Amelia, do you think the Stanwyks love each other?”

“I always think so unless I know differently. Why shouldn’t they?”

“Well, she seems to be half-married to her father, the wonderfully attractive Jack Collins. It looks to me as if Jack Collins picked Alan Stanwyk to be his daughter’s husband. Alan Stanwyk married Collins Aviation instead of a girl named Joan Collins.”

Amelia’s eyes were the sort one told the truth to; simultaneously they appeared concerned and skeptical.

“Fletch, let me tell you something remarkable. In fact, the most remarkable thing I know. Are you ready for it?”

“All ears.”

“I’ve been a society writer and professional busybody almost all my adult years, and the most remarkable thing I have learned is that people love each other when they have the least reason to, and when you least expect them to. Love-matches, marriages made in heaven, work no better than marriages made in board rooms. Obviously, the Stanwyks’ marriage was made by Alan Stanwyk and Jack Collins. Joan just sort of got dragged along. Yet it is entirely possible that she is very much in love with Alan Stanwyk. Do you believe that?”

“If you say so.”

“I’m not saying it’s true, Fletch. I’m just saying it’s possible. Joan and Alan might be terrifically in love with each other.”

“Could Alan have a mistress?”

“Of course.”

“Would John Collins understand?”

“Of course. I expect neither one of them feels confined to the marital bed. Not in this day and age.”

“And you say John Collins would understand.”

“Darling: the things I could tell you about John Collins. He didn’t spend all his time in that garage twisting propellers.”

“Sometimes men feel differently where their daughters are concerned. I had a father-in-law once.”

“He wasn’t Jack Collins.”

“One more question, Amelia: why didn’t Stanwyk’s parents come for Alan’s wedding?”

“My gracious, darling, you young folks do do your research, don’t you? I have no idea. I suppose they felt they would have gotten eaten alive.”

“Eaten alive?”

“Socially, darling. I suppose they’re nobodies from Middle America and would have felt dreadfully out of place.”

“Do people still feel that way?”

“Older people do, darling. You’ll see.”

“I wouldn’t miss the wedding of my only child.”

“Perhaps our young protagonist, Alan Stanwyk, kept them away for fear they would embarrass him. Maybe their grammar ain’t no good. I don’t have answers, Fletcher, to all of your questions. I remember at the wedding, whenever it was, six or seven years ago, there was a vague interest in meeting the Stanwyks, but it was explained, if you can call it an explanation, that the Stanwyks couldn’t make it. End of vague interest. Maybe they had dentists’ appointments that day.”

“Amelia, you’re a peach. Thank you very much.”

“I do have a bone to pick with you, young Fletcher, despite my otherwise unrestrained approval of you.”

“Oh oh.”

“Has to do with that piece you wrote a couple of months ago, a little ditty called something fresh and original like ‘Society is Dead.’”

“I’m not any more responsible for headlines than you are, Amelia.”

“You are partly responsible, however, for the unadulterated rubbish that dribbles down from your by-line.”

“Yes. Partly.”

“That piece was rubbish, Fletcher.”

“Oh?”

“Society, as you see, is not dead. There is plenty of it about. Just because you found a few grandnieces and nephews of prominent people hanging about the street corners sniffing pot, or whatever you do with it, saying too loudly and too frequently that they don’t care anymore proves nothing. You haven’t been reading me.”

“Amelia, I’ve read every word of yours.”

“Society changes, Fletcher, but not much. It does not die. It moves. It oozes. It changes its shape, its structure, its leaders and its entertainments. There is always a Society. As long as the instinct for power beats in the breasts of men and women, there will be a restricted clawing called Society.”

“And there will always be a society columnist called Amelia Shurcliffe.”

“Go off to bed with someone nice, darling, and be sure to tell her how I envy her.”