The Black Marble by Joseph Wambaugh

Philharmonic.”
    â€œYes, that’s what I’d recommend,” the woman said.
    â€œYes, I think so. Yes,” Madeline said, stumbling out of the office, forgetting her meticulously typed résumé.

    Madeline looked at her watch and realized that she had to pull herself together. Chester would arrive in forty-five minutes to work with Vickie, and Madeline didn’t want to be there for the session today. The anticipation was debilitating.
    It was not good to let one’s fantasies fly unchecked to New York and Madison Square Garden. To the prospect of owning a national champion.
    The exclusive Beverly Hills Kennel Club had only twenty-three members. Well, there’d be twenty-four come this spring. How could they refuse to invite her to join? How could anyone in the dog world refuse her anything if … Westminster! Madison Square Garden! Lord!
    Madeline scalded her lip with the coffee and decided to get dressed and assuage the tenseness by window-shopping on the west side, to stroll through the boutiques and shops like Theodore’s. Not that she was young or brave or slim enough to shop there. Or rich enough, since their styles were faddish and you had to be ready to change each season. But it was fun to watch the platoons of voyeurs ogling the nubile young salesgirls who were pantyless and braless, and wore see-through cotton pants and T-shirts.
    There was no such shopping in Old Pasadena. In Old Pasadena one shopped for “sensible” clothes, comfortable loafers with low stacked heels in colors to match wool-knit pants and jackets. Scottish plaid skirts would never be out of fashion, nor would cardigans and V-neck sweaters over cream-colored blouses. Sensible.
    But if voyeurs went to shops like Theodore’s to ogle the salesgirls, most Pasadena Junior Leaguers went there for similar reasons: They squandered money in overpriced west side restaurants, because of (Dare one admit it?) movie stars. “Last night at the Ma Maison, I dined next to Barbra Streisand …”
    Though Old Pasadena deplored the libertine life-style over the hill—the star worship, the “A” tables at Chasen’s, the parties upstairs at the Bistro. Though they would never live among them: the celebrities, the Jews, the nouveau riche— they were insatiable celebrity watchers. A proper Pasadena matron might never so much as glance toward the booth in the Palm Restaurant where Jack Nicholson was sitting, but her pulse was racing. And if in the Polo Lounge Warren Beatty said, “Pardon me, you dropped your napkin,” to a Junior Leaguer from Old Pasadena, she would look at him blandly in non recognition, and say, “Thank you very much,” grinding the Neil McCarthy salad thoroughly, with disciplined jaws that wanted to tremble!
    A maître d’ from the Huntington Sheraton Hotel commented wryly that Old Pasadena would dine and drink and dance from seven until midnight, and grumble if the check was more than twelve dollars per person. Yet they would gladly tip that much over the hill at Matteo’s for an “A” table. A restaurateur could get rich off Old Pasadena, they said, if only he could bus in movie stars on Saturday night.
    Madeline Dills Whitfield happened to pass the Brown Derby while driving in Beverly Hills that afternoon. She was fantasizing with delicious abandon. She and Vickie would be photographed at the Sign of the Dove in New York. (Did they let dogs in there? Well, how could they refuse a champion who had just won at Madison Square Garden?) There was a man with them at lunch. He was a well-known exhibitor from Long Island. He changed variously with her mood. Right now he looked like Paul Newman. Madeline would be pictured with Vickie in Time magazine, and the Los Angeles Times would do a feature article about the Pasadena dog who conquered New York. Madeline Dills Whitfield would be … well … famous.
    In Old Pasadena, family, money, even