Ardie Beebe

Harry Steinberg found himself sitting one evening on the terrace of his recently decorated midtown Toronto mansion listening to Essie—pardon me, Esther as she now liked to be called—talk about cinema and film with that feygele decorator, Ardie Beebe. The film festival had launched and le tout Toronto was buzzing with breathless stories about what celebrity had lunch at what cafe. Harry couldn't have cared less; watching tv at home was far more comfortable than shlepping to some over-priced cinema to eat stale popcorn.

Essie sat curled at the foot of his chaise lounge, one leg underneath her, laughing at something Ardie said. She had lost weight recently, he noticed, and her hair-do had changed. Lighter, shorter, and with a few highlights that made her look years younger. Harry smiled contentedly to himself, and again noted how Essie's diet had not caused her to lose too much heft "up top."

Ardie had introduced Essie to the luxury of a cocktail, and she had since become enamored of vodka and tonic water, with lots of lime wedges. Supper was now always preceeded by drinks a deux, and they were entertaining guests a few times a week. Her new slim figure required a new slim wardrobe and Essie bubbled with energy as she showed off her gams in well-tailored capri pants, chic sandals and a perfect pedicure.

Harry shouted and Essie cried when the bill for the decoration exceeded a quarter of a million dollars, but he did have to admit that Essie had never been happier. Only last week she had climbed into bed after her morning shower and surprised him with sponataneous oral sex and called him “Firecracker” as he left for the office.

Harry suspected Ardie was behind Essie’s new oral skills, so he couldn’t be all bad. Besides, sipping a gin martini and having a few laughs wasn’t exactly a hardship, he reasoned. Ardie’s favourite tipple was vodka on ice, but tonight he was drinking red wine—another new interest of Essie’s—and charming the guests. Essie bounced up to check on the “kitchen” and promised to tell everyone about her new Pilates class when she returned.

Life, Harry Steinberg decided, was okay. Besides, a man's home really was his castle.

Ardie was accompanied by his sister, Beebe Grade, who was something of an institution in the city. Married to the publisher of a national newspaper, Mrs Grade--called Beebe as an homage to her own illustrious parentage--was a social lioness who appeared unwilling to play her part. With her brittle tone and tight smile she made Harry somewhat nervous. You never could tell what these waspy women were thinking, he thought, while watching Beebe finish her drink with obvious relish.

"Can I get you another?" sang Essie, as she darted into the house.

Beebe responded by turning her rictus of a smile toward Mrs Harry Steinberg--all teeth and bright shining eyes, with red lipstick just starting to bleed into her lips--and replied that she would enjoy this one being "freshened up" but she certainly did not want another drink.

From that moment forward Essie would never again offer anyone more of anything.

Adelaide Cousins had arrived and left early; she had knocked back three drinks and twice as many cigarettes--using a potted plant as an ashtray--and Harry observed that goys really did drink a lot. Even the women.

Even the women.