Marrying Up - Part VIII
“Marrying Up” is a fictional story set in 1950s Manhattan revolving around Frances Riley, a difficult and ruthlessly ambitious young woman who moved from one social class to another—Irish immigrant off the boat to high WASP— when she married into the aristocratic Woolsey family.
THIS IS PART 8 of a FOURTEEN-PART STORY
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14
Image: Maksim Istomin
Upstairs Frances was trying to decide what to wear that evening. She had brought three different dresses, two of them dowdy enough to please her mother-in-law, the third a soft blue wool that showed off her pretty legs but hid some of the weight that had stayed with her since her pregnancy with Caroline. In the end she decided on the blue. Her children would eat in the kitchen with the maids, so it didn't matter what they wore. She took a nap, and when she awoke it was dark and she heard the sound of cars pulling up, guests arriving. Jack must have taken his clothes and dressed in a separate room so as not to disturb her. She had a quick bath, slid the dress over her shoulders, put on makeup and jewelry. At thirty-six, she still had the coloring of her youth, dark hair worn in a smart chignon, and light blue eyes that sparkled when she needed them to. Her heavy breasts were definitely closer to her waist than when she had first met Jack, but all in all she thought, screwing a large diamond earring into place, she looked pretty good.
She went downstairs. In the living room smoke hung thick in the air, and a maid was clearing glasses and ashtrays. Everyone had already gone in to dinner. Except for one of Helen's large Labradors who followed her down the hall, Frances walked into the dining room unaccompanied, stung to the quick that Jack hadn't come to get her. Two maids circled the table with serving dishes and a butler poured wine. There must have been twenty people there and all seemed to stare at her as Helen said, "Ah, Frances. We thought you were sick, so we didn't set a place for you."
She was put between Jack's cousin, Daisy, and a man named Hitchins who sprayed saliva when he talked and had a laugh like the creak of a rusty hinge. Hitchins sold horse insurance, which was not something Frances particularly wanted to hear about. Nor did she want to hear about Daisy's two daughters, both sick with flu. Further down the table, Jack was deep in conversation with a pale young woman who kept nervously pushing up the baggy sleeves of her sweater to expose strong, smooth-skinned arms and a man's silver watch. "Who's that?" Frances asked Daisy. The woman wore no rings, no jewelry besides the watch.
"Helen's new horse vet."
"Really? She's a little young, isn't she?"
"Yes, but incredibly smart and talented."
On Jack's other side sat an elegant, dark-haired woman in a low-cut suit and tortoise shell glasses pushed to the top of her head. She wore ruby nail polish at the ends of her long fingers and thick gold, ancient Greek rings. Frances had seen her before and it came to her that this was Jack's ex-fiancee, Nancy, who'd been married and divorced and now lived in Paris.
"Looks terrific, doesn't she?" Daisy said, following her gaze.
Frances toyed with an earring. She was the only woman at the table in serious jewelry. "I don't know. Maybe a little thin."
But if Nancy looked thin it was a thinness that men such as Jack liked, the high pretty breasts and narrow waist of a woman who'd never had children, who could move around as she pleased. As Frances secretly watched, Jack slid his hand over Nancy's, gave the long, ruby-nailed fingers a squeeze. Nancy inclined her head toward him, sex and mischief in her face, dark eyes so warm and intimate that for a second Frances's breath caught in her throat. She gulped at her wine, suddenly aware of the fact that no one was speaking to her. The horse insurance man was busy with the person on his other side and so was Daisy, and while laughter and conversation coursed up and down the table, Frances sat high and dry in the midst of it all, utterly isolated and alone.
Cover Image: Nicole Michalou (Pexels)