We explored her set of rooms, roving from her marble bathroom with solid gold fixtures and a mirror tinted a nostalgic copper, to the small sitting room with a silk robe edged with peacock feathers hanging off a hook waiting for her. In the bedroom was a four-poster bed draped with blue velvet and she lay back on it as I went to explore her generous cedar-paneled closet.
I expected something remarkable and gauche. I had visited the Park Avenue apartments of the expensive boys and girls who were lavishly entertained by their old men, and they kept their real clothes in trunks under the bed. The closets were marvels of marabou feathers, sequins, leather, and lace, everything from clothes that were two straps and a patch away from being illusory to what I was told was a full Elizabethan ball gown kitted out with corset and farthingale.
Instead, the first thing that met my eyes was a rack of dresses not unlike what Mrs. Fay would have back in Louisville, updated of course because New York was not Missouri, but all longer hems, high as hell necklines, and conservative lines. I saw camel and charcoal and navy, and I made a face, pushing them aside.
“Come on, Jay,” I muttered. “Surely you can dream a bit grander, can’t you?”
Behind that first rack was one of presentation gowns, fewer because the skirts were so thick and full. I guessed that they were for fantasies of White House visits and balls of the kind that only the older set ever seemed to have anymore. I knew that Gatsby had never consulted anyone for this wardrobe, because anyone clever would have told him that Daisy would never do off the rack for such a thing, even if that rack was enchanted and made to fit her to the very shadow.
Finally, at the back was a rack of dresses I could at least imagine Daisy wearing, both the lightly boned dresses in seemingly ephemeral blue silk to the more dashing things in orchid, fuchsia, and jonquil that would be pronounced fast.
“Can I borrow this one?” I asked wryly, coming out with a number in soft pink crossed with a geometric design of diamonds.
“Oh take whatever you like, my dear,” she said, waving her hand grandly. “I’m sure I won’t miss it.”
“So generous of you.”
The white drawers built into the far wall opened to reveal layers and layers of underwear, camisoles, stockings, jeweled garters, French knickers with real lace insets, all stacked neatly between pale sheets of perfumed tissue paper, all as tempting as marzipan on Christmas. My hair was a disaster, but the clothes suited me just fine, and soon enough I was in bed with Daisy, hands clasped together and counting the stars on the night-sky canopy over her bed.
“Are you happy?” I asked.
“Happiness must come later, don’t you think?” she said in wonder. “When you want something so very much, and then you have it?”
I almost asked her if she was talking about herself or Gatsby, but then the door opened and Gatsby and Nick entered. Daisy stayed where she was while I propped myself up on one elbow to look at them.
Gatsby had the self-satisfied swagger of an overgrown tomcat, and he pulled Nick behind him by the elbow. Nick was taller and thinner than Gatsby, but he did surprisingly well in a dove-gray suit with the most discreet green stripe over a matching green shirt. The entire thing, I was certain, cost as much as Nick’s rent for the summer did, and he wore it awkwardly, all angles and reticence.
They came to stand on either side of the bed, and I reached up to twine my arms around Nick’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss. I guessed that we both still had a hint of the Sound on us, but we had been baptized with some better scents, lemony Emeraude by Coty for me, and the fantastically popular L’Ambre de Carthage for him. He hardly smelled like himself as he dipped down to brush his lips against mine.
“This is utterly mad,” he whispered against my mouth, and I smiled.
“It’s a dream,” I said, kissing him back. “Why not enjoy it for a little while?”
We turned our heads and felt a little shabby at the fact that Gatsby and Daisy were barely touching at all. Instead, he was simply bent over her, ravishing her, worshiping her, and adoring her with just his eyes. Daisy herself looked like Sleeping Beauty awakened, a delicate flush on her cheeks and her lips slightly parted, if unkissed.