Cordelia Collymore and the Case of the Absent Earl

The knocking is persistent, but Cordelia Collymore doesn’t want to see anyone just now. Beneath her flawless dress sense and cool one-liners, Cordelia is beginning to come apart at the seams.

In just a few hours she and her so-called better half are due at the Black-and-White Hallowe’en Ball. The invitation is as strict as it is glamorous: no colors allowed. Yet Cordelia’s closet reveals only aubergine, cyan, and scarlet gowns; pantsuits in puce, turquoise, and pink. Not a single black or white dress in sight.

The knocking turns into ringing, then back to knocking again — a rhythm both urgent and ladylike. Cordelia knows precisely who it must be and wishes she’d go away.

Janet Bickleby.

Her neighbor, busybody, and eternal pot-stirrer. Janet has a habit of appearing at “happy hour” to swill Cordelia’s champagne and gossip until the bubbles die.

Cordelia fingers the mask she has selected for the ball — black, speckled with pearls, laced in silver thread. She takes a long pull from a freshly-popped bottle of Clicquot, letting the fizz restore her poise. Then, shedding her malaise like a “satan sheath,” she strides to the door.

Janet swishes inside the Collymore living room without waiting for an invitation.

“I would love a flute-full, thank you, Cordy,” she says. “And may I borrow your puce pantsuit?”

“Puce is not a problem, darling,” Cordelia replies smoothly. “But black or white seems impossible.”

Janet gasps, eyes wide with mock horror. “Cordy! What will you wear to the ball? If it were me, I’d be crying my eyes out. You know me—I wear my heart on my sleeve.”

“Cardiac on the cardigan, Janet? What an extremely unattractive prospect.”

“Oh, Cordy, how can you be so serene about everything?”

“Champagne, Bickleby, champagne.” Cordelia downs another flute, her famous composure returning one bubble at a time.

But Janet hasn’t come only for bubbly. She leans close, lowering her voice.

“Cordy, I heard today the Earl was spotted on the A-Train. To Mimico.”

Cordelia sets her glass down. “I heard that too. And I haven’t a clue what he’d be doing on the A-Train, never mind to Mimico.”

In truth, she has an inkling.

“Oh!” Janet gushes. “Isn’t that just like the Earl? So unpredictable. You know, he and I are alike in that respect.”

“What respect is that, Janet?”

“Our… unleashed, unplugged, unbridled passion!”

“Don’t mince with verbiage, Janet. If you’re trying to tell me something, spit it out.”

Janet falters, then blurts: “I think we’re like two peas in a pod, the Earl and I.”

Cordelia’s lip curls. “Another unattractive prospect. You and the Earl as vegetables.”

“Honestly, Cordy,” Janet presses on, pouring herself more champagne. “If the Earl belonged to me, anytime he disappeared like this, I’d throw something—and I don’t mean a party!” She guffaws. “You are my best friend, Cord! I just think… sometimes you should dash a sherry glass against the wall. Show the world you’re not so calm.”

Cordelia narrows her eyes. “Darling, don’t you know I’ve been there before you? Smashing Ming vases, shattering crystal, bleeding all over piazzas.”

Janet blinks, surprised.

“Don’t tell me I’m too serene, Bickleby. I’ve earned it, after years of walking on eggshells—and walking out altogether. The world could never have too much serenity. But it could have far too much of you. You’re all over the daytime talk shows.”

“Je protest…”

“Protest away, you little snipe. Don’t you know I’m more complex than your nutshell analyses, your neat little packages tied with malignant string?”

Janet’s face crumples; tears spring forth.

“Stop it, Bickleby. Cease this pretence of helping me. Why don’t you go hop the A-Train to Mimico and meet your paramour, the Earl of Nowhere and Nothing?”

Janet gasps. “But—”

“You’re right,” Cordelia cuts her off, “you and the Earl are two peas in a pod. And I have never liked peas.”

Janet sniffles. “Can I still borrow your pantsuit?”

“I like my pantsuit too much. And you look terrible in puce. Now get out.”

Janet skulks off, leaving Cordelia alone in the quiet hum of her champagne glass.

Then, with a sudden smile, Cordelia marches to her auxiliary closet — the one Janet has never seen. From its depths she pulls a stunning ink-black gown, its hem dripping with snow-white pearls.

Within the hour she is at the ball, mask in place, coupe in hand, dazzling the room with her serenity and sparkle. By midnight she is gone, slipping onto the express for Paris — never to be seen again by Janet Bickleby, nor the Earl of Nowhere and Nothing.