The Slippery Slope
THE SLIPPERY SLOPE
MERCEDES
You know the nearer your destination the more you’re slip slidin’ away.
—PAUL SIMON
1981
For New Year’s Eve 1981, Mercedes had planned a beautifully catered dinner on the terrace of their newly decorated pied-à-terre . The twinkling lights from the Hollywood Hills would be the backdrop to their future. But Stapleton, who was scheduled to arrive on December 29, sent a telegram saying that he had to pop over to Geneva to deal with banking issues and would be there by the first.
Initially frustrated, she rationalized, what’s a day when you’re planning a life? This was their time, and if they had to begin it a few days into the new year, so be it.
But by the third of January when Stapleton still hadn’t shown or sent word, Mercedes began to worry. What if something had happened? Now the conundrum was hers. Who to call?
She started with Graham Leeder, who certainly knew Stapleton and Elaine well enough to reach out. But Leeder was on holiday with his married lover. Then she tried a few of the Gingers to see if they’d heard anything, and even left a message with Santorini’s answering service.
Finally, she thought she’d just call Elaine. They were adults, after all. But again, she had no way to reach her.
Graham finally called her back with the news on the fifth of January: Shay Stapleton, while skiing in Gstaad, had hit a tree, and broken his neck. He had been in a coma for six days on life support. On the seventh day, Elaine had him unplugged.
“He’s gone,” Graham told her.
She hung up the phone and stared at the twinkling lights, which now seemed to mock her. Halfway across the world, with only a flat in London and a paltry nest egg that hadn’t been feathered in years, Mercedes Baxter, at twenty-six, felt quite alone.
She looked at the picture of Stapleton. Smiling. Hopeful.
Dead. Fuck. Dead.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not before she was installed or inducted or whatever ceremony one needs to do to become a Lady.
“Make sure he puts the apartment in California in your name,” the Ginger had told her. But he didn’t. It hadn’t seemed necessary. Perhaps Elaine would let her keep it. As a token.
She didn’t cry.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to—it was just, what’s the point? Crying was for people who had the luxury of time. And she had run out.
Most people in this situation would panic, but not Mercedes. When her back was to the wall, she stood straighter.
She needed a new blueprint.
And she needed it quickly.
She walked over to the desk and found her little black Filofax and pulled out a business card, which read: OLIVER BURNS, THE SYLVAN LIGHT AGENCY .