The Right Address

Written by Carrie Karasyov and Jill Kargman, childhood friends who met at one of New York's most elite prep schools, The Right Address seeks to expose the cruel and wicked ways of the top echelon of the Park Avenue crowd. Peppered with seemingly unbelievable accounts of social-climbing at its worst, the characters in this novel glide from party to party, relishing every possible chance to destroy each other's reputation while simultaneously air-kissing one another. The story revolves around Melanie Sartomsky, a former airline stewardess who is thrust into the world of shatoosh parties ("they make cashmere feel like emery boards") and Narcolepsy benefits after she marries Arthur Korn, a billionaire who found his fortune in funeral homes. As Melanie tries to adjust to her new life, the authors expose us to the darker side of high society--steamy affairs between CEOs and their custodial staff, salacious scandals in Harlem flophouses, and a discreet arrangement between a kleptomaniac's husband and Tiffany, where this pedigreed socialite enjoys pocketing the wares. A prime example of the Gossip Lit genre, which began its ascent after The Nanny Diaries and The Devil Wears Prada hit the scene, The Right Address could have been an amusing, albeit extreme, expose of the lives of the rich and well, rich. However, the unsteady cadence of the novel, coupled with the absence of any real human emotion, turn this effort into simply one nasty gossip session after another. The reader never feels invested in any of the many characters, and even when our heroine comes to her senses, there's no real sense of relief or delight. So while the tell-all nature of the book may make it hard to put down, the only real joy lies in the fact it ends quickly. --Gisele Toueg From Publishers Weekly Money can't buy style, learns the social climber protagonist of this novel. Nor can money write an interesting book. Despite their claims to an insider's view, authors Karasyov and Kargman, who met at the Upper East Side's elite Spence School, have written an achingly dull novel about a nouveau riche heroine with trailer park origins who aspires to the New York jet set. Melanie Korn, neé Sartomsky, approaches the social world of the superrich upon her marriage to billionaire Arthur Korn, who's cornered the market on caskets, funeral homes and retirement homes-but true acceptance eludes her. Although she lives with her husband at "741 Park Avenue, the most coveted building in all of New York City," the old money crowd refuses to warm to the former stewardess. Melanie kisses up to one stereotype after another, including the catty town gossips, the "grande dame of Park Avenue," her philandering husband and the beautiful heiress. As they hand McDonald's applications to the homeless, attend charity balls and angle for attention from the society papers, these Upper East Siders reveal their true lives: they shop, they lunch, they bitch. With its awkward prose, unsympathetic heroine and clichéd supporting cast, this attempt at a scathing social critique doesn't measure up to its predecessors in the skewer-the-socialite genre, though undoubtedly there will be some well-heeled readers seeking to ferret out the characters' true identities. Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. “Offers playful insight into a world … as catty as it is rarefied.” – Vogue“A winning novel … If you love soiety, scandal, and stories about the rich and the richer, look no further.” – Bookreporter.com“It’s impossible to resist the charms of this modern Manhattan fairy tale.” – People From the Inside Flap The Right Address sears through the upper crust of New York?s glittering Park Avenue scene to dish the dirt on the ladies who lunch, the gents who club, and the desperate climbers who will stop at nothing to join the backstabbing, champagne-sipping, socialite-eat-socialite stratosphere. When Melanie Sartomsky, wily Floridian flight attendant, snares billionaire divorcée Arthur ?the coffin king? Korn, she is catapulted into the crème de la crème of Park Avenue society, where hiring the wrong decorator is tantamount to social suicide, and where, if you?re anyone, your personal assistant has a personal assistant. But Melanie quickly discovers that in the world of the rich and idle, malicious gossip is as de rigeur as owning twenty pairs of Manolo Blahniks. And despite her frenzied plunge into the charity circuit and the right dinner reservations, her neighbors are Givenchy-clad vultures who see her as nothing more than a reinvented trailer trollop. To make matters worse, when a snide society-rag journalist rakes her over the coals, Melanie?s reputation is toast. Meanwhile, Melanie is not the only billionaire in the neighborhood coming unhinged. Kleptomania, adultery, plagiarism, and a grisly Harlem sex murder are just a few of the secrets swirling under the pedigreed patina of furs and emeralds on Park Avenue. Authors Jill Kargman and Carrie Karasyov know a thing or two about their subject matter. They met at the Upper East Side?s chic Spence School and claim that The Right Address is inspired by ?the insane socialites we?ve eavesdropped on our entire lives.? Meow. So kick off your Jimmy Choos, crack open the Veuve Clicquot, and get ready for a rollicking, unforgettable tour of the richer-and-bitchier-than-thou set. Carrie Karasyov and Jill Kargman wrote and produced the film Intern . Carrie lives in Santa Monica, while Jill still makes her home on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1"She has zero taste." "Zilch." "What's that outfit all about? One-way ticket on the Tacky Express." "Like Roberto Cavalli threw up on her." "And her apartment . . ." "You've been?" "No. But the Kincaids have." "And?" "Constance said it looks as if it was decorated by Charles and Wonder." "Oh, right, the cheesy firm that just did that new Architectural Digest cover from Hades?" "No. I'm talking Ray Charles and Stevie Wonder. Only a blind person could select those horrendous fabrics." "Oh, Joan, you're too much!" As Wendy Marshall and Joan Coddington reapplied their lipstick and skewered their fellow guests at the Bateses' cocktail party at the Union Club, Melanie Korn sat paralyzed, in earshot but out of view. She had been unlocking the door to her stall in the powder room when she heard her name in the same sentence as the words "cheap," "classless," and "fried hair." She froze. At first she thought they must have been speaking of someone else. But as the duo continued, sharpening their swords and tongues, rendering her a decimated Melanie-kebab before her very ears, the blood slowly crept to her face. With stealth moves, she relocked the door to the stall and crept back to the toilet, where she sat down on the lid and pulled her legs up to her chest so no one would know she was there. She felt like the little boy in Witness , only she was the murder victim. "I mean, did you see those hideous metal cranes that she gave the Bates as an anniversary gift?" asked Wendy, incredulous. "Ugh! It was like Bangkok exploded in the foyer." "Tell me about it," said Joan. "The worst." "Admit it: they look shipped over from some Thai junk shop. You've got to be certifiably insane to buy those." "Regina said they went right in the trash." "I'm sure." "She couldn't even give them to Goodwill. It would be bad will to rewrap those." "Poor Arthur. He totally downgraded wives. I don't think he has a clue that Melanie is so déclassé and malelevé . Most men trade up with their second wives." Trying to avoid Oksana Baiul-style waterfalls of Max Factor, Melanie lifted a quivering finger to her eye. She had thought those cranes were so chic. She'd seen something similar in the Powells' apartment in House Beautiful . And hell, they were expensive. "Diandra Korn, she was another level entirely." "A class act." "I heard Arty was devastated when she bailed." "Destroyed." "I mean, she was the embodiment of refinement. This one will never have it." "You wouldn't think it would be possible for one person to get everything so wrong. Her nails? The red is like secretary red . So much orange in it." "Like I said, what do you expect from a pageant queen-turned-stewardess?" As their laughter mixed with the sound of compacts snapping shut and Judith Lieber bags being reclasped, the two women exited to the dining room in a flurry of silks, gold, and perfume. As Melanie's knees were shaking both from squatting in a full-on Ashtanga yoga position and from sheer humiliation, she rose unsteadily to her feet. She listened again to make extra sure that her pummelers were gone, then walked out to look at herself in the mirror. What was wrong with her outfit? Roberto Cavalli was on Madison! Maybe it was a little tight, but hell, she had the figure for it, didn't she? Her jewelry seemed right--Catherine Zeta Jones had worn this very necklace to the Oscars. Arthur had told her just minutes ago that her hair looked very pretty. No one could accuse her of having roots. Until her spill of tears, her makeup had been perfect. She didn't understand--what was so wrong with her? Why were people snickering behind her back? As she rinsed her hands, she felt her sorrow morph into fury. That there had been no welcome mat put out when she married Arthur was enough to deal with. She had assumed it was because this social set preferred the status quo. But what had seemed at first to be a few idle comments about how wonderful Arthur's first wife was had cascaded into a tidal wave of glowing superlatives. Everyone--from the ladies who lunch down to the waiter at Payard and even her own butler, Mr. Guffey--seemed to belong to the Diandra Korn Fan Club. The stiletto shoes Melanie had to fill just kept getting bigger. How could she compete? Even Arthur had once said there was "no comparison" between the two. Melanie finally pulled herself together enough to leave the bathroom with her head held high, but when she saw Joan and Wendy passing before her, she ducked behind a sweeping Brunchwig & Fils patterned curtain. They fluttered by with gale-force velocity, blind to their cowering, shattered eavesdropper. It seemed so harsh that they could be so happy-go-lucky after savaging her evening. In the car home, Arthur Korn put a comforting hand on his wife's knee. "Are you okay, sweetie? You've been pretty quiet. Which is not like you, my little chatterbox." "I'm fine," she said. Somehow she just couldn't bring herself to confide in Arthur and tell him about the Melanie-in-Cuisinart remarks she had overheard. "Boy, that party was like a casting call for Night of the Living Dead . Boring zombies at every turn. I was dying for an ejector seat. That snob Philip Coddington talking my ear off, with his family crest blazer. Doesn't let anyone else say a word. What was that crest, anyway? It's like Bambi and a tree or something." "I'm not sure . . ." murmured Melanie. "It's ridiculous, whatever it was. Looks like the stupid deer is taking a piss in the woods. What's so fancy about that? He's so proud of his moron ancestry." Melanie was barely listening. She stared out the drizzle-splattered window, lost in her thoughts. She was motionless except for her right thumb furiously moving over her index finger, chipping away the "secretary red" nail polish. And as the Korns' Bentley glided up Park Avenue, piece after piece of fire-engine-colored lacquer fell to the floor. Chapter 2 Shiitake happens. The phrase was emblazoned on the apron that Madge, the Vances' housekeeper, wore as she made the final preparations for dinner on a breezy Wednesday night in early September. Drew and John, the Vance boys, had given the apron to her last Christmas after being immediately attracted to the lopsided drawing of an almost psychedelic-looking mushroom. Madge sprinkled sprigs of parsley on the pummeled veal, scooped some Uncle Ben's onto each plate, and added the buttered haricots verts before bringing the tray of food into the dining room. "So there we are, in this house in Middle-of-Nowhere, Vermont, baked out of our minds," continued Drew, ripping off a piece of his dinner roll. He nodded thanks to Madge as she placed his meal before him. His father, Morgan, frowned. "You know that marijuana is not only illegal but also very bad for you--kills the brain cells," he said sternly. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. But, hey, it's nothing our last president didn't do. Anyway, don't be judgmental. It's a really great story," said Drew. "So then what?" asked John, his younger brother. "So we're, like, so out of it. The heater is blasting and no one can figure out how to turn it down, so Cynthia and Whitney just take off their shirts. They're just sitting there in their bras--" "Who are these young ladies?" interrupted their mother, Cordelia. "You know them--Cynthia Whitaker and Whitney Coddington," said Drew. "I can't believe they'd be so promiscuous," said Cordelia disdainfully. Madge put a plate in front of Cordelia, who stared at it with surprise, as if astonished that she would be expected to actually consume something. "Oh, you'd be amazed, Mom. Anyway, can I finish?" asked Drew. "Yes, get to the end, for chrissakes," said John, shoving rice and string beans into his mouth. "We don't have all night." "So, finally there's a knock on the door, and we're like, 'Who the hell is that?' and it's a cop! A female one. And she comes in and looks around, she sees all the bongs and empty beer cans and shit like that--" "Drew!" "Such language!" "Sorry. And she's like, 'Mr. Lewis asked me to check in on you. He was worried about you guys being out here alone. What I see here is a disaster. It's all illegal, you guys are in big trouble, blah blah blah.' " "Why didn't you tell us about this? You'll need an attorney!" said Morgan with concern. "I should call Sy Hammerman right now--" "Wait--hold your horses before you spaz! So then some of the girls start crying. They're totally freaking out, we're so screwed. And Carl is, like, shitting, cause he's on probation for that open can of beer in Martha's Vineyard, and suddenly the cop flips on the stereo and starts taking off her clothes!" "Heavens!" said Cordelia, raising a hand to her chest. "She was a goddamn stripper!" Drew said, laughing. "Awesome! Who hired her?" asked John. "Well, that's the best part--Carl hired her. He wanted to scare the girls into thinking we'd be busted, but he was too stoned to even remember, so he was freaking out more than anyone a... Read more