apparently, he’s all ‘Endless Love’ with her, ‘My Only Love,’ or so she says, but believe me it’s a different story behind her back. Because—” he paused, in frustration—“the way he strung her along—leeched money constantly, went around with other girls and lied about it—it made me sick, Mommy and Daddy too. Because, basically, she’s a meal ticket to him. That’s how he sees her. But—don’t ask me why, she was crazy for him. Completely off her head.”
“Still is, it seems.”
Platt made a face. “Oh, come on. It’s you she’s marrying.”
“Cable doesn’t strike me as the marrying type.”
“Well—” he took a big slug of his drink—“whoever Tom does marry, I feel sorry for them. Kits may be impulsive but she’s not stupid.”
“Nope.” Kitsey was far from stupid. Not only had she arranged for the marriage that would most please her mother; she was sleeping with the person she really loved.
“It would never have panned out. Like Mommy said. ‘Utter infatuation.’ ‘A rope of sand.’ ”
“She told me she loved him.”
“Well, girls always love assholes,” said Platt, not bothering to dispute this. “Haven’t you noticed?”
No, I thought bleakly, untrue. Else why didn’t Pippa love me?
“Say, you need a drink, pal. Actually—” knocking the rest of his back—“I could use another myself.”
“Look, I just have to go and speak to someone. Also, your mother—” I turned and pointed in the direction where I’d seated her—“she needs a drink too and something to eat.”
“Mommy,” said Platt, looking like I’d just reminded him of a kettle he’d left boiling on the stove, and hurried off.
xxxiii.
“HOBIE?”
He seemed startled at the touch of my hand on his sleeve, turned quickly. “Everything all right?” he said immediately.
I felt better just standing next to him—just to breathe in the clean air of Hobie. “Listen,” I said, glancing round nervously, “if we could just have a quick—”
“Ah, and is this the groom?” interjected a woman in his eagerly hovering group.
“Yes, congratulations!” More strangers, pressing forward.
“How young he looks! How very young you look.” Blonde lady, mid fifties, pressing my hand. “And how handsome!” turning to her friend. “Prince Charming! Can he be a moment over twenty-two?”
Courteously, Hobie introduced me around the circle—gentle, tactful, unhurried, a social lion of the mildest sort.
“Um,” I said, looking around the room, “sorry to drag you away, Hobie, I hope you won’t think me rude if—”
“Word in private? Certainly. You’ll excuse me?”
“Hobie,” I said, as soon as we were in a relatively quiet corner. The hair at my temples was damp with sweat. “Do you know a man named Havistock Irving?”
The pale brows came down. “Who?” he said, and then, looking at me more closely, “Are you sure you’re all right?”
His tone, and his expression, made me realize that he knew more about my mental state than he’d been letting on. “Sure,” I said, pushing my glasses up on the bridge of my nose. “I’m fine. But—listen, Havistock Irving, does that name ring a bell?”
“No. Should it?”
Somewhat erratically—I was dying for a drink; it had been foolish of me not to stop at the bar on the way over—I explained. As I spoke, Hobie’s face grew blanker and blanker.
“What,” he said, scanning over the heads of the crowd. “Do you see him?”
“Um—” throngs milling by the buffet, beds of cracked ice, gloved servers shucking oysters by the bucketful—“there.”
Hobie—shortsighted without his glasses—blinked twice and squinted. “What,” he said shortly, “him with the—” he brought his hands up to the sides of his head to simulate the two puffs of hair.
“Yes that’s him.”
“Well.” He folded his arms, with a rough, unpracticed ease that made me see for a flash the alternate Hobie: not the tailor-fitted antiquaire but the cop or tough priest he might have been in his old Albany life.
“You know him? Who is he?”
“Ah.” Hobie, uncomfortably, patted his breast pocket for a cigarette he wasn’t allowed to smoke.
“Do you know him?” I repeated more urgently, unable to stop myself glancing over at the bar in Havistock’s direction. Sometimes it was hard to get information out of Hobie on touchy matters—he tended to change the subject, clam up, drift into vagueness, and the worst possible place to ask him anything was a crowded room where some genial party was apt to wander up and interrupt.
“Wouldn’t say know. We’ve had dealings. What’s he doing here?”
“Friend of the bride,” I said—and received a startled look at the tone in which I’d said this. “How do you know him?”
Rapidly he blinked. “Well,” he said, somewhat reluctantly, “don’t know